#ban bullfighting

[devoted1989]

Bullfighting is still legal in many areas of Mexico, in France, Portugal, Colombia, Venezuela, Peru, Ecuador and some cities in Spain.

- BBC.

Image with kind permission from Vegan for the Animals.

@vegan.f.t.a

[thepastisalreadywritten]

Ferdinand (2017)

[athleticbilbao]

man. one day i'd love to write a thesis on how benfica was not, contrary to popular belief, a "estado novo club" (quite the opposite actually)

[jackredfieldwasmyjacob]

i think it's so unfair that people associate the bull with spain because of bullfighting when it's been a symbol of community and religion and other cool stuff here since at least prerroman times.

[indizombie]

Bullfights are reviewed in the arts rather than the sports sections of Spanish newspapers and fall under the purview of the Ministry of Culture. Declared illegal by the Spanish constitutional court in 2016, the Catalan ban was as much about political grandstanding as protecting animal rights. In the wake of the 2017 illegal independence referendum, the xenophobic and anti-immigration Vox party exploited anti-Catalan and pro-bullfighting sentiment in its campaigning and has become the third-biggest force in Spanish politics. Star matador Morante de la Puebla often joins party leader Santiago Abascal on the campaign trail. But Vox has more to gain from the relationship than bullfighters, especially in rural areas where Abascal’s party has successfully attracted single-issue pro-bullfighting and hunting voters. The far-right has provided some protection for the profession, but it has also turned it into a more highly prized target. An increasing number of progressive citizens have a visceral dislike of bullfighting because it is seen as the last bastion for reactionaries with no place in a 21st-century European democracy.

Duncan Wheeler, ‘Coronavirus and culture wars: Spain’s bullfighting industry faces a crunch point in 2022’, Conversation

[idkinsertfanreferencehere]

Vivas To Those Who Have Failed: The Paterson Silk Strike, 1913

Vivas to those who have fail'd! And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea! And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known! —Walt Whitman

I. The Red Flag

The newspapers said the strikers would hoist

the red flag of anarchy over the silk mills

of Paterson. At the strike meeting, a dyers' helper

from Naples rose as if from the steam of his labor,

lifted up  his hand and said here is the red flag:

brightly stained with dye for the silk of bow ties

and scarves, the skin and fingernails boiled away

for six dollars a week in the dye house.

He sat down without another word, sank back

into the fumes, name and face rubbed off

by oblivion's thumb like a Roman coin

from the earth of his birthplace dug up

after a thousand years, as the strikers

shouted the only praise he would ever hear. 

II. The River Floods the Avenue

He was the other Valentino, not the romantic sheik

and bullfighter of silent movie palaces who died too young,

but the Valentino standing on his stoop to watch detectives

hired by the company bully strikebreakers onto a trolley

and a chorus of strikers bellowing the banned word scab.

He was not a striker or a scab, but the bullet fired to scatter

the crowd pulled the cork in the wine barrel of Valentino's back.

His body, pale as the wings of a moth, lay beside his big-bellied wife.

Two white-veiled horses pulled the carriage to the cemetery.

Twenty thousand strikers walked behind the hearse, flooding

the avenue like the river that lit up the mills, surging around

the tombstones. Blood for blood, cried Tresca: at this signal,

thousands of hands dropped red carnations and ribbons

into the grave, till the coffin evaporated in a red sea.

III. The Insects in the Soup

Reed was a Harvard man. He wrote for the New York magazines.

Big Bill, the organizer, fixed his good eye on Reed and told him

of the strike. He stood on a tenement porch across from the mill

to escape the rain and listen to the weavers. The bluecoats

told him to move on. The Harvard man asked for a name to go

with the number on the badge, and the cops tried to unscrew

his arms from their sockets. When the judge asked his business,

Reed said: Poet. The judge said: Twenty days in the county jail.

Reed was a Harvard man. He taught the strikers Harvard songs,

the tunes to sing with rebel words at the gates of the mill. The strikers

taught him how to spot the insects in the soup, speaking in tongues

the gospel of One Big Union and the eight-hour day, cramming the jail

till the weary jailers had to unlock the doors. Reed would write:

There's war in Paterson. After it was over, he rode with Pancho Villa.

IV. The Little Agitator

The cops on horseback charged into the picket line.

The weavers raised their hands across their faces,

hands that knew the loom as their fathers' hands

knew the loom, and the billy clubs broke their fingers.

Hannah was seventeen, the captain of the picket line,

the Joan of Arc of the Silk Strike. The prosecutor called her

a little agitator. Shame, said the judge; if she picketed again,

he would ship her to the State Home for Girls in Trenton.

Hannah left the courthouse to picket the mill. She chased

a strikebreaker down the street, yelling in Yidish the word

for shame. Back in court, she hissed at the judge's sentence

of another striker. Hannah got twenty days in jail for hissing.

She sang all the way to jail. After the strike came the blacklist,

the counter at her husband's candy store, the words for shame.

V. Vivas to Those Who Have Failed

Strikers without shoes lose strikes. Twenty years after the weavers

and dyers' helpers returned hollow-eyed to the loom and the steam,

Mazziotti led the other silk mill workers marching down the avenue

in Paterson, singing the old union songs for five cents more an hour.

Once again the nightsticks cracked cheekbones like teacups.

Mazziotti pressed both hands to his head, squeezing red ribbons

from his scalp. There would be no buffalo nickel for an hour's work

at the mill, for the silk of bow ties and scarves. Skull remembered wood.

The brain thrown against the wall of the skull remembered too:

the Sons of Italy, the Workmen's Circle, Local 152, Industrial

Workers of the World, one-eyed Big Bill and Flynn the Rebel Girl

speaking in tongues to thousands the prophecy of an eight-hour day.

Mazziotti's son would become a doctor, his daughter a poet.

Vivas to those who have failed: for they become the river.

-Martín Espada, copyright 2015

[hahahax30]

Worst thing is, this man's political party isn't even competent nor do they yk work hard in their campaigns. They copy what they promise to do in xyz autonomous community and they paste it in the programa electoral of every other autonomous community. They promise to clean the beaches in Madrid.

MADRID

LITERALLY THE MOST LANDLOCKED PART OF THE COUNTRY

Seems like Spain is going to join Italy in the dubious prime minister club yay...

[allthegeopolitics]

Colombia's congress voted on Tuesday to ban bullfights in the South American nation, delivering a serious blow to a centuries old tradition that has inspired famous songs and novels but has become increasingly controversial in the countries where it is still practiced. The bill approved by Colombia's congress calls for the banning of bullfights in a three year span, making the tradition illegal by the start of 2028. The new law now needs to be signed by President Gustavo Petro, who has been a long time opponent of these events. Bullfighting originated in the Iberian peninsula and is still legal in Spain, France, Portugal, Peru, Ecuador and Mexico, among other countries.

Continue Reading

[sashayed]

Vivas To Those Who Have Failed: The Paterson Silk Strike, 1913

Vivas to those who have fail'd! And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea! And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known! —Walt Whitman

I. The Red Flag

The newspapers said the strikers would hoist the red flag of anarchy over the silk mills of Paterson. At the strike meeting, a dyers' helper from Naples rose as if from the steam of his labor, lifted up  his hand and said here is the red flag: brightly stained with dye for the silk of bow ties and scarves, the skin and fingernails boiled away for six dollars a week in the dye house.

He sat down without another word, sank back into the fumes, name and face rubbed off by oblivion's thumb like a Roman coin from the earth of his birthplace dug up after a thousand years, as the strikers shouted the only praise he would ever hear. 

II. The River Floods the Avenue

He was the other Valentino, not the romantic sheik and bullfighter of silent movie palaces who died too young, but the Valentino standing on his stoop to watch detectives hired by the company bully strikebreakers onto a trolley and a chorus of strikers bellowing the banned word scab. He was not a striker or a scab, but the bullet fired to scatter the crowd pulled the cork in the wine barrel of Valentino's back. His body, pale as the wings of a moth, lay beside his big-bellied wife.

Two white-veiled horses pulled the carriage to the cemetery. Twenty thousand strikers walked behind the hearse, flooding the avenue like the river that lit up the mills, surging around the tombstones. Blood for blood, cried Tresca: at this signal, thousands of hands dropped red carnations and ribbons into the grave, till the coffin evaporated in a red sea.

III. The Insects in the Soup

Reed was a Harvard man. He wrote for the New York magazines. Big Bill, the organizer, fixed his good eye on Reed and told him of the strike. He stood on a tenement porch across from the mill to escape the rain and listen to the weavers. The bluecoats told him to move on. The Harvard man asked for a name to go with the number on the badge, and the cops tried to unscrew his arms from their sockets. When the judge asked his business, Reed said: Poet. The judge said: Twenty days in the county jail.

Reed was a Harvard man. He taught the strikers Harvard songs, the tunes to sing with rebel words at the gates of the mill. The strikers taught him how to spot the insects in the soup, speaking in tongues the gospel of One Big Union and the eight-hour day, cramming the jail till the weary jailers had to unlock the doors. Reed would write: There's war in Paterson. After it was over, he rode with Pancho Villa.

IV. The Little Agitator

The cops on horseback charged into the picket line. The weavers raised their hands across their faces, hands that knew the loom as their fathers' hands knew the loom, and the billy clubs broke their fingers. Hannah was seventeen, the captain of the picket line, the Joan of Arc of the Silk Strike. The prosecutor called her a little agitator. Shame, said the judge; if she picketed again, he would ship her to the State Home for Girls in Trenton.

Hannah left the courthouse to picket the mill. She chased a strikebreaker down the street, yelling in Yidish the word for shame. Back in court, she hissed at the judge's sentence of another striker. Hannah got twenty days in jail for hissing. She sang all the way to jail. After the strike came the blacklist, the counter at her husband's candy store, the words for shame.

V. Vivas to Those Who Have Failed

Strikers without shoes lose strikes. Twenty years after the weavers and dyers' helpers returned hollow-eyed to the loom and the steam, Mazziotti led the other silk mill workers marching down the avenue in Paterson, singing the old union songs for five cents more an hour. Once again the nightsticks cracked cheekbones like teacups. Mazziotti pressed both hands to his head, squeezing red ribbons from his scalp. There would be no buffalo nickel for an hour's work at the mill, for the silk of bow ties and scarves. Skull remembered wood.

The brain thrown against the wall of the skull remembered too: the Sons of Italy, the Workmen's Circle, Local 152, Industrial Workers of the World, one-eyed Big Bill and Flynn the Rebel Girl speaking in tongues to thousands the prophecy of an eight-hour day. Mazziotti's son would become a doctor, his daughter a poet. Vivas to those who have failed: for they become the river.

Martín Espada from Vivas to Those Who Have Failed, 2015

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Hell, I suppose if you stick around long enough they have to say something nice about you.

- Ava Gardner, Ava: My Story

Ava Gardner was a hard-drinking, wisecracking, libidinous vamp, a liberated woman before it was even invented.

It's an extraordinary life of an extraordinary woman. She swore like a drunken sailor, slept with anything that moved, drove Frank Sinatra to such heights of passion and torment that he attempted suicide, and entirely failed to care what anybody thought of her.

Ava Gardner was an actress who starred in some good films and some not very good films; but more than that she was the great iconic beauty of her day. She wafted around the screen and was featured on the front covers of magazines looking untouchable in pearls and mink. And yet she behaved like a man or, at least, like a certain kind of man - one with pots of cash, a taste for hard liquor and a higher-than-average libido.

She was, in essence, a liberated woman, a good two decades before women's liberation was invented. Her success and status made it possible for her to make the kind of choices - and mistakes - that other women couldn't. And, even now, there's really nobody who can match her combination of carnality, glamour and a potty-mouth.

Sixty years on, people claim that Sex and the City's Samantha Jones is the figment of a gay, male scriptwriter's imagination, but compare it to this story from Murray Garrett, a press photographer, recounting a backstage photo-call: 'This one idiot guy ... says to her, "Hey Ava, Sinatra's career is over, he can't sing any more ... what do you see in this guy? He's just a 119-pound has-been." And Ava says, very demurely, no venom, just very cool, in the most perfect ladylike diction, "Well I'll tell you - 19 pounds is cock."'

She married three times - to Mickey Rooney (a serial cheater), the musician Artie Shaw (who belittled her) and finally and most tumultuously to Frank Sinatra. She lured him away from his wife, sinking his career in the process, married him, divorced him, but never got over him. Nor he her. It was a life-long relationship between two people who loved each other but couldn't be together. Their rows, she said, 'started on the way to the bidet'.

Instead, Gardner had affairs. They litter her life. She slept with David Niven, Robert Mitchum, John F Kennedy. She had flings with Spanish bullfighters and Mexican beach boys and rejected Howard Hughes, the multi-millionaire aviator and womaniser.

What made Gardner who she was? It's the great, unanswered question of her life and career. There is nothing in the early years to suggest her character to come. Not the tomboyish childhood spent with her family among the ordinary rural poor of north Carolina; nor the moment when an MGM studio exec spotted her portrait in the window of a photographer's shop; nor even when she married Mickey Rooney, the studio's biggest star.

It is as if her character wasn't so much revealed over time, as forged in the furnaces of Hollywood's industrial complex.There are countless testimonies from other Hollywood stars to Gardner's beauty, but almost no sense of her as a person. She gradually turns from object to subject, her beauty her defining characteristic and the key to her power and freedom but also, as her favourite director, John Huston, says, a curse from the gods. 'Ava,' he said, 'has well and truly paid for her beauty.'

Her high spirits descend into alcoholic abuse; her wanton behaviour into episodes such as the one when she is banned from the Ritz in Madrid for urinating in the lobby; when she moves to live out her days in the relative anonymity of a London flat it is with a sinking heart that you realise that the woman who charmed Ernest Hemingway and Robert Graves should become so isolated.

She made some truly terrible choices, including turning down the role of Mrs Robinson in The Graduate and ending her days making schlock TV. She was careless of her art, under-confident about her talent and tended to be taken at her own measure. But ultimately, it's besides the point. Gardner's genius was not her work, but, as her own autobiographical book proves, her life.

[daisylovesrumble]

petition: Colombia Finally Banned Bullfighting. Venezuela Must Do The Same!

[drstonetrivia]

Chapter 202 Trivia (Part 2)

(Previous part)

The cows that the KoS find vary in color & horn shape quite a lot, indicating that they could have found several different breeds.

My guess for the one Ryusui fights is one of the auroch-like breeds, e.g. tudanca or limia, possibly crossbred with the pyrenean variety.

Bullfighting is considered by some as part of the national culture of Spain, however due to the death of the bull and risk of death for the matador, it's highly controversial and banned in Catalonia.

The tradition of waving a bright red flag in front of the bull is just that: tradition. Bulls are colorblind, and are only charging towards the annoying moving object.

Ryusui also runs the bull into an olive tree, knocking several olives off of it.

This isn't the first time Ryusui's pro-gamer training has come in handy!

Churro doughs these days can include many ingredients, but traditional ones only needed milk/water, flour, salt, and oil. The dough is extruded through a star-shaped nozzle to get the traditional shape and fried in oil.

If you'd like to know more, see here.

The coins are made of iron-based alloys, with Ni & Cr being used in circulating coins, and Mo & Nb being used in non-circulating and commemorative coins. The rarity of the alloy components increases with the drago value.

(500$ should have featured Chrome rather than Kaseki…)

Flamenco dancing is another one of Spain's national symbols. It's a rhythm-heavy style that depends on the dancers to play an "instrument" by tapping their feet to the rhythm.

It's also very popular in Japan: Japan has more flamenco academies than Spain!

I'm guessing that next chapter will continue in Spain with the acquisition of fluorite (and maybe they'll acquire tomatoes too? Though that might be left for if they visit Italy…)

[look-sharp-notes]

В 1974 году испанская новильера Анжела Эрнандес (начинающая торера, выступающая против молодых быков), выиграла в Верховном суде Испании дело за отмену запрета на участие женщин в корриде. Она заявила: «Женщины водят самолеты, участвуют в военных операциях, охотятся во время сафари. Что такого особенного в битве с быком?». Тогда испанское правительство разрешило девушкам и женщинам выбирать себе любую профессию. И по сегодняшний день женщины-торерас имеют те же права на арене, что и мужчины.

In 1974, Spanish novillera Angela Hernandez (an aspiring bullfighter who competes against young bulls) won a case in the Spanish Supreme Court to overturn the ban on women participating in bullfighting. She said: “Women fly airplanes, take part in military operations, hunt on safaris. What's so special about fighting a bull? Then the Spanish government allowed girls and women to choose any profession. To this day, female bullfighters have the same rights in the arena as men.

[follow-up-news]

Colombia’s congress voted Tuesday to ban bullfights in the South American nation, delivering a serious blow to a centuries-old tradition that has inspired famous songs and novels but has become increasingly controversial in the countries where it is still practiced. The bill calls for the banning of bullfights in a three-year span, making the tradition illegal by the start of 2028. The new law now needs to be signed by President Gustavo Petro, who has been a longtime opponent of these events. Bullfighting originated in the Iberian Peninsula and is still legal in a handful of countries, including Spain, France, Portugal, Peru, Ecuador and Mexico. It was once a popular event, broadcast live by multiple television networks. But the tradition has come under increased scrutiny as views change about animal welfare, and many find it unacceptable to see an animal suffer for entertainment’s sake.