I was reading yet another news item about the ongoing furor over bathroom safety for women when a neuron way back there … probably in a dusty corner of the hippocampus … woke up and made a contribution.
When the Minnesota Twins came to town, they did so at the new stadium in Bloomington, which quickly became noted for having inadequate bathroom facilities for women. There was always a continuous line of patrons stretching from the bathroom itself, out the facility door, and down the corridor. Women might miss entire innings or multiples of the same before their needs could be met due to this situation.
When that stadium was eventually torn down the mistake was at least partially rectified in its replacement. But while the old structure was still there, my brother and I took our father to a game. I was taking advantage of the seventh-inning stretch when I went to ease the pressure that drinking a couple of cups of beer had produced.
I was standing at one of a line of perhaps a dozen urinals attending to matters when a young woman came through the door, walked past that line of twelve men who now were leaning dangerously forward and trying their best to become invisible, and entered one of the stalls with a competent door on it. A minute or two later she came out and without a word left the room.
Now this was when I was still at a Neanderthal stage where women’s issues were concerned, but as she passed the line, I thought to myself – Brava! You go, girl! Such chutzpah! Problem solved!
As I washed up, I felt privileged to have been present at that little blow struck for equality.
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When Robin and I were living in Yankton, South Dakota, which is a smallish town of about 15,000 souls, we were fortunate enough to see the musical group Brulé, a Native American band of musicians. They played several times at local summer celebrations, and also put on wonderful Christmas concerts.
The origin story of the group is really interesting, in that its founder Paul LaRoche grew up in a southern Minnesota town as an adopted son of a farm family. When his parents were asked about where he came from, they said, “Well, he’s darker skinned because he’s Canadian.” Once his parents had both passed away, Paul was going through their papers, trying to put things in order, and discovered that he was not Canadian at all, but Lakota, and that he’d been born on the Brule Reservation in western South Dakota.
Paul then went out to the reservation town of Brule, South Dakota, where he found that he had living relatives. It wasn’t long before he moved his family there. He had been a rock musician up until this point, but now he began to incorporate Native American themes and rhythms into his music, and thus the group Brulé was born.
Robin and I became fans long ago, and I’ve chosen this video to exemplify the kind of music that they played, which often incorporated native dancers and could be quite thrilling. Paul plays keyboard, and two of Paul’s children are in the video as well, Nicole on flute and Shane on guitar. The drummer with the group in this video is Moses Brings Plenty, who has since made acting a career. Recently he was seen on Netflix in the two-part series, “Sitting Bull,” playing the title role.
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There are a few of the Tesla cybertrucks here in Paradise, perhaps three or four. Both Robin and I find them ridiculous looking and actually offensive to the eye. Like finding an automotive turd at the curb. So when I came across a piece on Substack I was interested enough to read it.
Most of the piece was describing the chicanery Elon Musk has been guilty of in trying to mask the failure of the truck in terms of sales, but it was the line below that made me chuckle. Robin and I have always wondered who buys this ugly thing, and now we have some clues.
Considering its only target market is sci-fi-illiterate, emasculated, deeply sexually frustrated, doomsday-prepping divorced dads, its sales have been utterly woeful.
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You may have looked at the very cool header photograph (which is not my own) and thought … WTF … this guy probably never got on a skateboard in his entire life … and you’d be right. And I am not trying to do some underhanded cultural appropriation, either. But there was an article in the June 1 issue of the Times on a skateboarding location in London that was so interesting that I had to share it. It’s about an area called the “undercroft” which is a sort of skaters Mecca, inviting pilgrims from around the world.
It’s of no matter that I haven’t been on a board and never will be. If I were to start out now I am certain it would bring on the dreaded Humpty Dumpty Syndrome, where no one could put me together again. But I possess a very special facility. I can daydream blissfully about a past that I never had.
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Little Home In The Valley 