Tremont Laundromat Take n

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

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.