washing machine

There are alot of things you experience for the first time when you´re on tour.
The most obvious that comes to mind are of course the new food, personal people and the locally brewed beers.
But, there are also new experiences facing you when practical issues occur.
Like, when you´re halfway through the tour and you´re dragging along a suitcase full of dirty clothes from city to city,
stinking up your act and keeping you on the i-can-use-this-tshirt-one-more-day path.
Very, hobo on the highway,get your motor bumming.
You need to see lady-laundrette, man!

There´s something esthetically broad-shouldered and nostalgically timeless to a public laundry.
The smell of fabric softener, the dirty vinyl floors(hey! don´t drop your wet clothes when you are moving them over to the dryer)
not to mention the queen of the cleandom, the loveable yet inaccessible lady with the crown of even change.
She has washed it all, seen it all, touched it all and gotten it all spotless and clean.
Her hands are smooth as an alley-cat and her nose is forever corrupted by the smell of the washing powder.
If you ask her she probably have stories about
dirty alligator hats, red soccer-socks mixed with grandpas white mafia-suit, ball-dresses with dazzle and
the thousands nasty sexy jeans that had to be cleaned in no-time.

Now, picture yourself in there:
Stacks of empty baskets waiting to be filled, the wooden benches waiting to be sat on, the hypnotic humming sounds of tumbling clothes wrestling
the empty blabber of mundane daytime radio, with the ticking of the clock emphasizing the waiting, on top of it all.
And then there´s the star of the show, the germ infected gossip-magazines.
Laying voyeurishly in sloppy piles next to the line of the shiny no-bullshit steel-momentums that are industrial washing-machines, they
make everyone into a total gossip-whore in no time!
Hey gang!, its time we got updated on the royale.