LAUNDRY DAY

It’s laundry day, but that’s okay, since it only comes once every six months or so, and it has to be done. It’s early Friday morning, and it’s apocalyptically windy outside, it’s going to thunderstorm, maybe hail, like the last two days. When it’s this warm the wind makes you think of tornadoes. No one is on the street. I am the only one walking, though about 700 cars pass me as I walk the six blocks or so to the laundromat. There was one guy out on the street, but actually walking ON the street, not the sidewalk, which is usually a bad sign. He had flipped out. He is holding one fist in the air and chanting in an otherworldly voice that kind of sounds like a Canadian goose.

“This is the world I live in,” I think, but it’s not. I’m just experiencing a small amount of pain as my heavy laundry bag cuts into my neck. Even a small amount of pain will make you have thoughts like, “this is the world I live in,” when it’s not, not at all. The world I live in is much, much more, and maybe less, even, but not so simple and not worth trying to summarize, or make a proclamation about, ever—it’s just a crybaby expression. I say crybaby because it’s just a small thing this carrying laundry—and anyway, I like doing laundry, and there is no time constraint, and the laundromat is empty—it’s all very pleasant except for the weight of the bag. People are walking around with REAL pain, intense pain—and it is affecting their thoughts, to say the least. The guy with his fist in the air isn’t just flipping out on a lark. There’s something bothering him, to say the least.

Having breakfast at the Brady Street Pharmacy while my laundry washes, I’m eavesdropping on the Italians as usual. It’s really easy because we’re all in the same spot and they’re loud enough. There are usually a dozen or so older Italian guys from the neighborhood, I assume. Usually all men—an occasional woman. Some guys never say a thing. Usually it’s a few guys doing all the talking. There’s a guy telling about his trip to Venice. The one woman says, “You’ve got to write all this down, or you’ll forget it.” I immediately notice that sentiment, I like this woman. Later, she says, “Why do guys always come back from Italy with chains?” I’m not sure exactly what she’s referring to, I wasn’t paying attention. I think they were talking about younger guys. Anyway, I think it’s not that often that people use metaphors at all anymore, is it? Maybe there are some common ones all the time? I’m going to think about it. I’m going to pay attention for metaphors for a couple of days and see if I hear any... then get back to you. I’m going to listen to conversations for a few days.

Back at the laundromat, I happy to get away from the smooth jazz of the pharmacy, only to be immediately depressed by the classic rock of the laundromat. I remember how Huck Haines was just saying that every time he’s been at this particular laundromat he’s had to suffer through “A Horse With No Name,” and it makes me realize that if I hear that terrible ode today, it will neutralize it, but now with that thought in mind I realize that I won’t hear it at all. Instead, it gets stuck in my head, worse than if I’d actually heard it. I keep trying to figure out what that one line is: “In the desert, you don’t remember your name, cuz there ain’t no one for to give you no pain.” I don’t care if it’s name or pain or rain or fame or Spain, it’s the “for to give you” part that drive me nuts, what the hell kind of language is that? It reminds me of that one song? What is it? NO! I don’t WANT to remember.

There is a guy in the laundromat with running shorts and a t-shirt and flip-flops. Men think going to the laundromat means that they can wear ANYTHING, the excuse being that it’s laundry day. But that’s not really true anymore, men think they can wear anything anytime anymore, and I’m not excepting myself from this criticism. And especially in the summer. I’m so happy when summer is over so you don’t see men wearing flip-flops out in public anymore. Anyway, this guy is okay, even though he’s wearing the kind of shorts men wear so their dicks will “accidentally” fall out at some point. But the worst thing is that he’s got on a t-shirt that says something on the front as well as the back. On the back there is simple text, two short sentences, the first says: “Juicy stories? Or Juicy steaks.” I can’t tell for sure which. Right after that it says, “Set to music.” Which is it, juicy stories, or juicy steaks? I’m trying to look closely to see, but the guy gets all self-conscious and looks over at me suspiciously, so I look away. Hey, if you’re going to wear a t-shirt that says something on it, you’ve got to expect people are going to try to read it, right?

Then I hear a Fleetwood Mac songs and I go into a depressive tailspin. This is the moment that Fleetwood Mac has finally put me over the edge. It’s not always the same song, but always one from the “Rumors” album, or the one before. I still own both of those, but I’m going to do something symbolically cleansing with them or something. I can’t take it anymore, hearing one of these songs again. But how many times in my life will I hear these songs again. Maybe I should count, keep track from this moment on, how many times I hear a song from one of these albums in public. Maybe I should do some heinous act every time I hear one. Not some bad, destructive, or hurtful thing. I don’t believe in that, but something else. It can’t be an act of good will or generosity, though, because that would be like rewarding Fleetwood Mac. Really, it’s nothing against them, it’s the people who keep playing the fucking things. Anyway, that’s a good question. What act could I commit, that had some significance, some good even, but be an act of protest and defiance? I’ll figure something out.

I’ve got all that going through my mind, well actually the angry version, as I push the buttons for the dryers, walk away, and then after going for a few seconds they inexplicably STOP. Is this planned into their operation? Is there a convention where laundromat owners go to buy dryers, and some sweaty leisure suited slimy dryer salesman explains how profits are increased by these dryers that sometimes just turn off for no reason and you have to go push the button again. It’s not just my imagination, either, because it happens EVERY TIME I’m at the laundromat, and with many of the dryers.

I’m seething with anger at this point, but still try to enjoy the experience at the laundromat, by reading whatever there is there to read, which I usually do. There is only ONE thing today, it’s a glossy magazine that says: “The Connection” on the cover, very strange. Okay this is a whole new subject, I’ll get to this later.

I’m carefully folding shit, when “Running On Empty” comes on through the inescapable ceiling speakers, and I flip out. I quickly shove all my laundry in my bag, wet still even, wrinkled, unsorted, maybe missing sock mates, and rush out the door, having been effectively pushed to the brink.

I'm Moving!

I spent the last week thinking that I was going to move, for sure. I haven’t moved for five years, and the longer you go without moving the worse it is when you finally do. More stuff, more stuff you didn’t even know you had, more stuff that someone apparently moved into your house when you were gone, or in the middle of the night, because you sure have never seen it.

The reason I’m thinking of moving is because the Landlord (not technically, but I’ll just use that word) came pounding on my door at midnight (I was asleep, but some lights were still on) and I didn't know who it was, so I didn't answer, I thought it was some drunk person. Then he came around to a window, and I saw it was him, so I went out and he said I was making noise and woke him up, but of course I wasn't. He looked totally insane, but I guess he had been sleeping. Maybe he was drunk. The next day I went out on my porch and noticed that the flower pots with plants were kicked off my porch, and I don’t know for sure who did that, but they were lying down in the weeds. That really kind of made me mad. Poor old spider plants, they’re always getting abused.

Anyway, I still haven’t talked to him. I was fully expecting some kind of apology letter the next day, or a note at least, or a phone call, or something. I’ve been afraid to sleep there, because I have my bed in my front room where there is the best breeze, but my head is right next to the screen, and anyone could look in. I normally feel safe, knowing the neighbors and all, but if one of the neighbors happens to be schitzing out, and has power tools, I don’t know. So I’ve been sleeping at the office, and only going home enough to visit the cat. He’s a little unhappy about that, but on the other hand he doesn’t want me there bugging him all day anyway.