35.
So here goes one of the world’s bloodiest sports. The first bull races in and right away gets in three good licks to the matador’s body. The killer is down, but his assistants haul him back onto his feet, dust him off and send him back for more. Two more licks and the matador is down and out! I think I’m seeing my first bullfight where the bull wins, but the next killer in line comes out and takes over. This second matador looks to be about seventeen years old. He has little bells sewn down the sides of his pants and flaunts his crotch in a very macho sexual way at the bleeding, tired bull. The bull charges a few times while the killer plays with him before he stabbing the animal to death with the shiny sword he carries concealed behind his cape.
As the defunct bull is being dragged out of the arena by an old horse, the victorious butcher parades around the arena while the enthusiastic crowd throws everything handy to him; shirts, hats, leather wine bottles, (the killer and his assistants cool their throats) scarves and flowers. The matador keeps only one red rose, placing it in his bosom as the crowd goes berserk. The people around me pass me their bottles and soon I am feeling too drunk to care.
After the bullfight I mosey along to the nearby city art museum where an eye freak has hung his huge paintings of eyes—bodiless eyes the size of kitchen tables—floating in space. It is bizarre but since I am sort of an eye freak myself the show suits me. (As I write this, for example, my own eyes register some lovely sunset colors glowing on my diary page.)
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