George W. Kush and a wash

I’ve heard there’s a sign outside of the Rothko Chapel in Houston that reads: “This Is A Sacred Place Where All Are Welcome.” What a concept! That even a grimy heathen such as myself is allowed to enter a sacred place, pull up a pew and contemplate the complexities of the flesh-covered contraptions known as humans, and yet it isn’t a unique establishment in that regard, for the Rothko Chapel shares some similarities with my favorite laundromat.

My laundromat is housed within Iroquois Manor, the same place that was featured in Bryson Tiller’s music video “Sorry Not Sorry,” making it the most-famous and important shopping center in all of Louisville, and, for sure, it is a sacred place where all are welcome. I love going to my laundromat — it’s a lively, popular place with the locals and impossibly-cool and chilled joint, which is always popping and bustling with people from all over the world who now call Louisville home.

See, I’m vehemently against the idea of having anyone other than myself wash my clothes. They’re my clothes, I fucked ‘em up and got ‘em stankin’ to high heaven, and I sure as shit can correct the situation all on my own. I mean the very idea of having someone else dig through my dirty particulars sends a chill of disgust through my system… it’s not good on my constitution, so I see to handling my own dirt. Plus I got a process that makes the whole endeavor fun and that, from step three, screams out “Fuck You Jeff Sessions!”

Here’s how it went down last Saturday and how it usually plays out. I woke up, threw on some Big K.R.I.T, sparked the Edgar Allan Dro, went “damn, that’s loud” and then I hit the cold water, got dressed, emptied the hamper into a bag and gathered up enough articles that had been thrown around the lab over the last couple of days that I ended up with around three loads of filthy garments to scrub up (I’m a slob, so sue me), took another puff of the piff and ran out the door.

I bounce into the mat, and it’s slammed, leggings and high-end sneakers everywhere… There’s a mob of kids pulling vampire fangs, slime and Super Balls out of the bubble machines, there’s a group of women in hijabs over by the Magnum Loader, the most popular of the washers in the joint, there’s a guy with puke-green hair reading a book, and the security guard is watching “M*A*S*H” and loudly talking on his cell: “You know me baby girl, I hate ‘em all, I hate the president, I hate the senators, I hate the ministers, and I hate this piss-poor excuse of winter weather we’re having, this shit is tryin’ to kill me!” I make my way to a row of machines that ends at a large folding bench against the wall. It’s all clear, and I stake my claim.


With my Styrofoam cup full of quarters I get three loads rolling, then I walk next door to Vietnam Kitchen and get a coffee, (the single best coffee in all of town, and you can feel free to fight me if you disagree!) I step out and hear what sounds exactly like “Once Again (Here to Kick One for You” by Handsome Boy Modeling School blaring out of the Peppermint Lounge… to hell with this arctic blast, I’m feeling damn good!

By the time I get my laundry switched over to the dryer, Jimmie, who’s from Sudan walks in, and we immediately begin chatting about his favorite TV show “Jeopardy!” and how if given the chance, Jimmie would crush the game to such a degree he would bankrupt Alex Trebek completely. “Uh, what is a Dragoon, for $800, Alex?” he declares with a cool confidence.

I get my shit neatly folded and packed, and then I hit the corner where I bought a new Jackie Chan flick off of DV-Daryl, I get home, smoke some of that “George W. Kush” (that shit that makes you feel super stupid!) and cooked up enough Guinness stew to last us for three nights.

Maybe if old, gross dummies like Jeff Sessions sparked an owl from time to time they’d understand what “All Are Welcome” means, instead of trying to crush us all within a hateful vice.