I was in Sacramento. It was a Saturday night.

I had to do laundry.

Now, unlike most people it seems, I LIKE doing laundry.

There's something comforting in carrying out a simple task that allows me to go on auto-pilot.

Plus, I realized that I do some pretty good thinking while folding my chonies.

I wasn't bummed out at all that the weekend's highlight would be laundry; as a matter or fact, I was looking forward to it.

That's how much I like doing laundry.

So I wasn't bummed… that is, until I got to the Laundromat.

Maybe I've been spoiled. All those years living in the south bay must have turned me into a laundro-snob.

I used to hit a place out there called HARVEY WASHBANGERS.

Aaah… those were the days.

That joint had a bar and grille adjacent to the laundry room, and you could chill out in a loft upstairs to watch the sunset on the ocean.

This Sacramento place, however, looked like it was abandoned during some sort of civil uprising.

I knew it was bad news once I walked in and was greeted by a trio of vending machines that must have been used to barricade a door.

I ignored them and proceeded in to get to work.

I figured once I got going, I could put on my mp3 player and ignore my surroundings.

Yeah, right.

First problem – change machine didn't work.

After spending five minutes cursing the owner of place (a Laundromat without a working change machine is like a bar without beer taps) I left and hit up the car wash down the street for some coin.

Got my change, came back - ran into problem number two.

It took a couple of wasted quarters to figure out that the graffiti on the machines wasn't graffiti – they were warnings to schmucks like me about which machines did and did not work.

Sheesh! This was too hard!

Got my wash going and noticed that the only other mutants in the place was a guy in a green shirt immersed in a book that kept his head from straightening itself and a pair of heavy set women who preferred to sit in their car while their stuff was drying.

An occasional thug or two would pass by outside the Laundromat's doors.

At that point, all signs indicated putting my mp3 player away and be on alert.

Who knows what else would amble in!

That meant listening to problem number 3; a constant beeping coming from somewhere inside the place.

Bored, annoyed and scared of a cannibal attack, I looked around the place some more and noticed magazines strewn/abandoned/stored for fire on a folding table.

Little did I know these magazines would be my saving grace.

They were mailers from a company called DR. LEONARDS HEALTHCARE CATALOG.

My parents used to get these – usually they'd end up being stuffed underneath the sink in the john.

So now, allow me to show you what made me ignore the social ills of my surroundings that Saturday night:

Aaaaw yeah... poplin', baby.

The sign of every good Fantastic Sam's - the Haircutting Umbrella.

You should get this only if your cool with Tolkien dorks hanging out in your yard.

Builds their confidence.

Dress-A-Vac...

...no words.

Speaking of chonies...

 Dr. Leonard didn't sell smut when I was a kid.

The times, I tell ya' - they are a changin'.

copyright,  © 2007 Paul Silva 

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