Ruminations Upon Yonder Laundro-Mat
Apologies for the scarcity of regular material lately. I've been engaged in working on a rather sizeable product for the benefit of nerd-kind (read: some gamer-oriented writing) and thus, have not had as much time to come up with generally public literary comestibles.
Ruminations Upon Yonder Laundro-mat
I am not the type to keep regular hours, nor anything remotely resembling a regular schedule. My life tends to be a chaotic array of productive explosions where I do what I have to do. As such, my laundering habits are not regular at all. Or you might say that theyr'e regularly non-existent. I wash clothes and linens about once a month. There is a coin operated machine in my apartment complex, but occupying it exclusively for the three days it would take to do my laundry one load at a time is a major disservice to the ten other people in the complex that might need clean underpants post-haste.
Instead, I opt to patronize (in both senses of the word) the local laundro-mat in Gulfport. It's the only place where you can do five loads of laundry in the span of one hour.
When I use the term "laundro-mat", I'm sure that an image doubtless springs to your mind. It is a grubby image with clanky washers, dingy floors, and even dingier people. The laundro-mat of your mind is poorly lit and oddly smelling. Your mental nose can't help but think of ham, and your body shudders in response. It's the sort of mental-laundro-mat that would move one to go and seek out their own washer and dryer.
I assure you that the Gulfport laundro-mat does not match the laundro-mat in your mind. Not even slightly, absent the inevitable presence of machines that wash and/or dry. The Gulfport laundro-mat is sparkling and clean. When I stopped in earlier this morning, a woman actually had a cloth and spray-cleaner and was wiping down the laundry machines. Even the soda machine's time-ravaged Coca-Cola picture reeks of glass-cleaner. The tiled floors are impeccably clean. There's even a mosaic of a dolphin and a bottle of rum on the floor where you enter. Nothing could be more a propos of Gulfport.
It's geographical location is a bit strange. Situated in the bustling metropolis of downtown Gulfport, it sits across from the local liquor store and down the street from a number of bars. As such, there is a steady tide of tye-dye-clad drunks who go in there to wash yesterday's Jim Beam off of today's dilapidated tee-shirt. Or perhaps it's just because, absent the bleach smell, the warm repetitive environment of the laundro-mat reminds them of the womb. A big, coin operated womb with a soda machine.
Speaking of warm, dark places, the Laundro-mat sits in the shadow of a huge retirement home which I've lovingly dubbed "the Dark Tower". Residents escape the dark tower and scurry (slowly) across the street to do their final few loads of laundry before they meet their maker. I suppose its considered bad form to meet God in an odd-smelling flannel shirt, though that is an offense I will doubtless commit. An old medicine man told me that my own death will involve a flannel shirt, a moose, Jack Daniel's whiskey, two labradors, a gun, and no small amount of explosives. I told him, "It figures."
It goes without saying that a few of these fine elder residents are not entirely with their mind. Take today, of example. An elderly gentleman with his laundry stuffed into a potato sack came in and demanded that the laundro-governess explain to him the mechanics of bleach.
Bleach.
After she managed to wrangle his laundry into a couple of the machines, he paced back and forth, glancing at the whirring machines and occasionally shouting, "Mamma mia!"
In the past, I might have been pushed to remain in the confines of my book and pretend like he wasn't there. This atheistic attitude is many peoples' default for dealing with the sanity-challenged. However, given my flippant mood, neigh my flippant existence, I did the only thing that seemed appropriate. I shouted, "Mamma mia!" right back at him. Surprized that someone spoke his language, he shouted it again. I followed suit.
Laundro-governess looked like she wanted to kill us both. Snuffing my life out would have taken her some doing, but if she waited for dinner time, her other murder-work would probably have taken care of itself. Come to think of it, she probably could have just flashed him and hastened the process. Of course, had she done so, word of my being in the same room as a topless woman would doubtless find its way back to my girlfriend, at which time I could use the single greatest excuse for non-girlfriendial nudity in the history of existence: "But honey, she was using them to murder an old man!"
Mercifully, my laundry finished drying shortly afterwards. I shovelled the loads of warm, spring-rain clothing into one of their rolling bins and reported to the equally spotless folding station. On my way, I noticed that the washing machines had a label warning of the foul dangers of oversudsing. I made a mental note to use that word in my writing today, and have just pitched that note in the trash.
Oversudsing. I love this word with a tender passion.
The folding station is a great equalizer. At the mall and the grocery store, you can be haughty. You can stare down your nose at people. You can construct in your mind a dizzying spire of superiority to stand on top of. Such is not the case when you are a grown man folding your Spiderman boxers into a neat little square. The knowledge that you cover your nether bits with brightly colored cartoon characters forces you into a lowly, humble wretch-dom. I looked over to the next folding station to see a lady of middle years folding a pair of underwear that seems so small that folding seems an exercise in futility. I shuddered a bit and reminded myself that guns aren't the only things that ought to have stricter licensing procedures.
As I leave the chaotic, yet orderly insanity of the Gulfport laundromat, I realize that this hour I spend so that I can exist nudity-free is perhaps one of the most enjoyable "chore hours" of my entire month.
- Ken
Ruminations Upon Yonder Laundro-mat
I am not the type to keep regular hours, nor anything remotely resembling a regular schedule. My life tends to be a chaotic array of productive explosions where I do what I have to do. As such, my laundering habits are not regular at all. Or you might say that theyr'e regularly non-existent. I wash clothes and linens about once a month. There is a coin operated machine in my apartment complex, but occupying it exclusively for the three days it would take to do my laundry one load at a time is a major disservice to the ten other people in the complex that might need clean underpants post-haste.
Instead, I opt to patronize (in both senses of the word) the local laundro-mat in Gulfport. It's the only place where you can do five loads of laundry in the span of one hour.
When I use the term "laundro-mat", I'm sure that an image doubtless springs to your mind. It is a grubby image with clanky washers, dingy floors, and even dingier people. The laundro-mat of your mind is poorly lit and oddly smelling. Your mental nose can't help but think of ham, and your body shudders in response. It's the sort of mental-laundro-mat that would move one to go and seek out their own washer and dryer.
I assure you that the Gulfport laundro-mat does not match the laundro-mat in your mind. Not even slightly, absent the inevitable presence of machines that wash and/or dry. The Gulfport laundro-mat is sparkling and clean. When I stopped in earlier this morning, a woman actually had a cloth and spray-cleaner and was wiping down the laundry machines. Even the soda machine's time-ravaged Coca-Cola picture reeks of glass-cleaner. The tiled floors are impeccably clean. There's even a mosaic of a dolphin and a bottle of rum on the floor where you enter. Nothing could be more a propos of Gulfport.
It's geographical location is a bit strange. Situated in the bustling metropolis of downtown Gulfport, it sits across from the local liquor store and down the street from a number of bars. As such, there is a steady tide of tye-dye-clad drunks who go in there to wash yesterday's Jim Beam off of today's dilapidated tee-shirt. Or perhaps it's just because, absent the bleach smell, the warm repetitive environment of the laundro-mat reminds them of the womb. A big, coin operated womb with a soda machine.
Speaking of warm, dark places, the Laundro-mat sits in the shadow of a huge retirement home which I've lovingly dubbed "the Dark Tower". Residents escape the dark tower and scurry (slowly) across the street to do their final few loads of laundry before they meet their maker. I suppose its considered bad form to meet God in an odd-smelling flannel shirt, though that is an offense I will doubtless commit. An old medicine man told me that my own death will involve a flannel shirt, a moose, Jack Daniel's whiskey, two labradors, a gun, and no small amount of explosives. I told him, "It figures."
It goes without saying that a few of these fine elder residents are not entirely with their mind. Take today, of example. An elderly gentleman with his laundry stuffed into a potato sack came in and demanded that the laundro-governess explain to him the mechanics of bleach.
Bleach.
After she managed to wrangle his laundry into a couple of the machines, he paced back and forth, glancing at the whirring machines and occasionally shouting, "Mamma mia!"
In the past, I might have been pushed to remain in the confines of my book and pretend like he wasn't there. This atheistic attitude is many peoples' default for dealing with the sanity-challenged. However, given my flippant mood, neigh my flippant existence, I did the only thing that seemed appropriate. I shouted, "Mamma mia!" right back at him. Surprized that someone spoke his language, he shouted it again. I followed suit.
Laundro-governess looked like she wanted to kill us both. Snuffing my life out would have taken her some doing, but if she waited for dinner time, her other murder-work would probably have taken care of itself. Come to think of it, she probably could have just flashed him and hastened the process. Of course, had she done so, word of my being in the same room as a topless woman would doubtless find its way back to my girlfriend, at which time I could use the single greatest excuse for non-girlfriendial nudity in the history of existence: "But honey, she was using them to murder an old man!"
Mercifully, my laundry finished drying shortly afterwards. I shovelled the loads of warm, spring-rain clothing into one of their rolling bins and reported to the equally spotless folding station. On my way, I noticed that the washing machines had a label warning of the foul dangers of oversudsing. I made a mental note to use that word in my writing today, and have just pitched that note in the trash.
Oversudsing. I love this word with a tender passion.
The folding station is a great equalizer. At the mall and the grocery store, you can be haughty. You can stare down your nose at people. You can construct in your mind a dizzying spire of superiority to stand on top of. Such is not the case when you are a grown man folding your Spiderman boxers into a neat little square. The knowledge that you cover your nether bits with brightly colored cartoon characters forces you into a lowly, humble wretch-dom. I looked over to the next folding station to see a lady of middle years folding a pair of underwear that seems so small that folding seems an exercise in futility. I shuddered a bit and reminded myself that guns aren't the only things that ought to have stricter licensing procedures.
As I leave the chaotic, yet orderly insanity of the Gulfport laundromat, I realize that this hour I spend so that I can exist nudity-free is perhaps one of the most enjoyable "chore hours" of my entire month.
- Ken