Sham in the Bullring

Can spring be far behind? I mean, we’re damned near into summer, now, the grass is riz, the birdies biz, and us poor kiddies in Madrid is all but friz.

It’s the 25th of May. The orgy of bull-killing scheduled for the Feria de San Isidro is about midcarnage through. And it drizzles. It hails. A Lower Slob-bovian wind sweeps off the snow-crusted Guadarrama mountains. Plus ça change from miserable weather to worse, plus c’est la même merde in Las Ventas Plaza. That is, what parade for matadors in Spain today are bull-slingers, and the no-no they sling is that mechanical, unvarying and ritualized bore— faenas as imaginative as an Eastern Airlines meal. The animals are fumblefooted Ferdinands. The fiesta is a mockery, a national disgrace, a stomachturning, utterly indefensible spectacle.

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F. Reid Buckley

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Can spring be far behind? I mean, we’re damned near into summer, now, the grass is riz, the birdies biz, and us poor kiddies in Madrid is all but friz.

It’s the 25th of May. The orgy of bull-killing scheduled for the Feria de San Isidro is about midcarnage through. And it drizzles. It hails. A Lower Slob-bovian wind sweeps off the snow-crusted Guadarrama mountains. Plus ça change from miserable weather to worse, plus c’est la même merde in Las Ventas Plaza. That is, what parade for matadors in Spain today are bull-slingers, and the no-no they sling is that mechanical, unvarying and ritualized bore— faenas as imaginative as an Eastern Airlines meal. The animals are fumblefooted Ferdinands. The fiesta is a mockery, a national disgrace, a stomachturning, utterly indefensible spectacle.