Tremont Laundromat Take n

Thursday, 2 March 2006

Recently I’ve been do­ing my laun­dry in the evenings, and there is al­ways a very old lady play­ing lot­tery with scratch off tick­ets the en­tire time I’m there. It doesn’t mat­ter which day, or what time, she’s there. She only scratches off one ticket at a time, then leaves the ta­ble in the laun­dro­mat, goes out­side, walks next door to the fake Dairy Mart, buys one more lot­tery ticket, comes back into the laun­dro­mat, sits down at the ta­ble and starts scratch­ing again. For God knows how long. She mum­bles to her­self as she does this, and scratches off every sin­gle par­ti­cle of scratch-offi­ness that is present on the card.

She has a friend who doesn’t talk to any­one but her. This friend talks ap­prox­i­mately 73 gril­lion miles a min­ute to Lottery Lady about any­one and every­one who is sick and dy­ing, and oh how ter­ri­ble it is and did you know what kind of head­stone he had and he was buried two weeks ago to­day and so and so’s sis­ter is in hos­pice and he has “Altheimer’s” and starts to scream and the bills they have are so ex­pen­sive did you know that his lungs are filled with this yel­low fluid…

The Tremont Laundromat is a never-end­ing source of sur­re­al­ity. It is al­most worth the $2.75 I pay for each load of laun­dry.

I Found Your Pink Thong

Monday, 21 November 2005

I posted this at Craigslist:

I was at the Tremont Laundromat, which in­ci­den­tally, didn’t have raw sewage flood­ing out the front door to­day, and af­ter I brought my clothes back to my apart­ment I found it. Yes, it. At first I thought I’d in­herited a raggedy piece of pink dryer lint, but upon closer in­spec­tion I dis­cov­ered that it was, in fact, your thong. Not just any thong, though. Your thong. This one is also, ap­par­ently, made of cheese­cloth. The lit­tle bits of fab­ric that ap­prox­i­mate cov­er­ing are only dis­tin­guish­able by be­ing slightly wider than the ac­tual thong, and a lesser shade of pink. Also, com­pletely sheer.

Wearing see-through un­der­wear [if one could be said to ac­tu­ally “wear” this item, and if a thong counts as “un­der­wear”] is some­thing of a co­nun­drum. Roland Barthes’s es­say Strip-tease may of­fer some in­sight into the para­dox­i­cal na­ture of cov­er­ing that is, in fact, not cov­er­ing; but I think it is rather ob­vi­ous that this thong serves as lit­tle more than gar­nish for a care­fully or­ches­trated rap­proche­ment be­tween var­i­ous and sundry gen­i­talia.

Stealing a page from Duchamp, I have taken to wear­ing your thong on my head, with the lit­tle tri­an­gle doohicky act­ing as a nose-guard. Thankfully this un­der­gar­ment had been washed be­fore I at­tempted this ex­per­i­ment. As a nose-warmer, the thong lacks a cer­tain ef­fi­cacy that I can only at­trib­ute to its screen-door like con­sis­tency.

Currently, your thong is pinned to my bul­letin board, be­tween a pic­ture of my first dog and a po­lit­i­cal flyer from the Ward 13 Councilman.

In any case, Miss, if you would like me to fa­cil­i­tate the re­turn of this sex­u­ally charged un­der­gar­ment you may send me an email and I am sure that an agree­ment can be reached.

Stranger than Fiction

Sunday, 28 August 2005

When I went to get my laun­dry out of the dryer at the laun­dro­mat, raw sewage was float­ing out of the main doors. And the guy that man­ages the places what squeegee­ing shit down a drain. Bonus.