Fairy Tells ran as a newspaper column for five years. It is the story of one proudly queer man navigating love, belonging and cheap cañas in a city that was almost home. Think Sex and the City with a Spanish twist and a lower budget.
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L.A. Zombie (2009) Directed by Bruce La Bruce
I sprang out of bed, opened my laptop and checked the news before I even lit a cigarette. His beaming face appeared in my browser; Obama had been elected President of the United States of America, and the world felt a little safer.
Reena interrupted my nicotine addiction. “Did you hear? It’s a travesty! We’re going backward”
I listened to her rant about what morons Americans were then muttered a shy “talk later” and hung up. What was that? How could she be a Republican? Her, of all people? Is the all-night-partying, the piercings and the tattoos just a front? Could someone who wears leopard stilettos with torn tights to work be a capitalist pig?
That night, Bruce LaBruce exclusively premiered his latest film at the GBLT* film festival and I—drum roll, please—had a date. I was half an hour late and he was half my size. Note to self: read profiles more carefully in the future. He beamed: “¡Qué alto eres!” I sighed.
Art festivals are always a must for cultured, in-the-know homosexuals and gay Madrid was no different. In the block-long queue, we were surrounded by all sorts but mainly by the beautiful sort. We patiently stood in line and in between cigarettes, I bent down to hear his comments about the weather—a pain in the neck, literally.
Reena spotted me, waved, cried out “sweetie” and strutted her way through the queue to grab my arm. Salvation had arrived wearing a Sharpied No to Prop 8 T-shirt—and that’s when it clicked. While America had voted for their first ever black president, they’d also revoked the right to marry to gay Californians. This was why she’d been so upset, and clearly still was.
“I’ve been to every single show in this festival. Loads of fascinating documentaries about the state of the world, of your world” She pushed her perfectly manicured finger deep into my shoulder blade. “The killings in Yemen” in again with her finger. “The bashings in Russia” once more. “The Worldwide Bible brainwashing…and you know what?” I lit another fag and leaned away. “Empty fucking screenings. Your kind didn’t show! But to see a fucking movie about a gay zombie, they’re lining up round the block?” She raised her voice on purpose. People were looking and eyes were rolled.
What was I supposed to say? Was I supposed to say that indeed my people didn’t care? That we did fight, at some point. But now that we were comfortable, wrapped in privilege, we wanted to rest and reap the benefits of our labour. I mean Yemen is pretty far off, I never go to church and I fled Russia. Granted, I left in pursuit of a decent husband but, if tonight was anything to go by, I was falling short. How was I going to fix anything? I couldn’t even read measurements on a profile properly.
Finally noticing my smurf, she redid her whole speech in Spanish. That longer, uncut Iberian version lasted until we found our seats. The lights came down and the gay zombies started to devour each other’s entrails. As the movie unfolded, I couldn’t help but wonder: were we the zombies? Had we joined a mass of lobotomised, privileged undead and were ready to swarm whoever didn’t look like us? Had we forgotten to lift up all the people that helped us get to safety? And if America was going backward, were we next?
Aren’t we always?
November 2008
*Then the letters were not quite in the right order yet.
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