I know it's laundry day when...

It’s laundry day, which comes only once every year or so, so what am I complaining about? It’s early Friday morning, and it’s apocalyptically windy outside, it’s going to thunderstorm, the world is going to end. The sky is dark, and it's very depressing. No one is on the street. I am the only one walking, though about 7000 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. While my wash is going, I stop in the pharmacy for some bananas and milk. I’m eavesdropping on the Italians as usual. It’s really easy because we’re all at the same, big round table. 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 Doug 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 song today, at least, his comments 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 lien is: “In the desert, you don’t remember no pain, cuz there ain’t no one for to give you no pain.” What the fuck?!? 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 either: “Juicy stories.” OR "Juicy Steaks." I can't be sure which it is. 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 song 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, like throw them violently against the wall. I can’t take it anymore. But still, how many times in my life will I have to 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’s can’t be an act of good will or generously, though, because that would 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. No I won't. 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 slime 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: LEADERSHIP SUMMIT on the cover, very strange. Okay this is a whole new subject, I’ll get to this later. Yeah, right, 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 over the edge, over the edge, over the edge.