Love At the Landromat

Actually there was no love at the laundromat. None at all. I spent a good hour and a half at the scuzziest laundromat I've ever been to this afternoon. Crazy. And not in the 70s retro-scuzz kind of way. Nope. It was of the shabby, 40% of the machines are broken and the whole place smells of...thankfully unidentifiable ick, scuzzy variety. But it was kind of fun I guess. I like the sound of the washers and driers. It's comforting. And the coin slots on all the machines were fucked up so I had to smack them everytime I put a coin in which lent the whole experience a twisted kind of insiders quality. Like the Fonz and his juke box. But less hip. And they don't mind if you sit on the counters which I always enjoy. What's the point of going to the laundromat if you can't sit slouched over a magazine with one leg curled under you, reading a trashy magazine while you laundry launders away? I do have a problem with the non-stop country music though. New country. I mean seriously. Why? Luckily they slipped a lone Johnny Cash in there along with some Garth Brooks who I have a super secret weakness for (now that I've told you, I'll have to kill you). I should open a laundromat. I would paint it pea soup green with crazy lino with fleck of gold in it. And heaps of flouresent lighting. Preferrably of the humming variety. With maybe a token fake wood wall. Because everybody loves that. Gives it that nice rumpus room circa 1972 kind of feel. Not that I would really know having been born in '74. But hey, I watch a whole lot of movies so I'm pretty comfortable with my interpretation of the whole era. And I'd play really off the wall, random music. A little disco here, a little Depeche Mode there. You'd just never know. It'll be sweet. You'll see.