The washing machine started screaming at me last weekend. Not entirely certain what's wrong with it, but maybe the pump or the belt (oh yeah like I know what the hell I'm talking about-- sounds good, though, huh?) needs replacing. After 3 house guests, all of them big hairy mens, I had mucho towels, sheets and blankets to wash in addition to our usual weekly work wear.

We took our five (5 very full) laundry baskets to the local "Speed Queen," which is a really appropriate name for that neighborhood.
It was nice & clean & empty, so we monopolized all the big double load washers.

S sat reading his Spanish Civil War history book while I looked at all the five-year old Newsweeks and Reader's Digests, read the bulletins, watched the clothes go tumbling. The local country western station was playing oldies, like Hank Williams Sr., Patsy Cline, Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, some old Randy Travis. I don't prefer country music but some of the old stuff is cool.

At six o'clock the "new country" dj came on with her trying-to-be-sexy voice, all Ooooh and Aaahhhh and fakey fake giggles like some lousy porn star, and she commenced to play the most godawful dreck I have heard in years.

Country western music has not improved in the past ten years.

At one point I asked an eye-rolling S how he was doing while we were folding the umpteenth sheet & he said, "Fine, other than this splitting headache I'm getting from the music. People actually listen to this stuff?"

We folded socks in silence & he leaned towards me & said, "My mind is going..."
I snorted.

The best part was when some super cheesey repetitive song came on & we started making up words for it.
"Let me take you back home to my rv
we can sit on the couch and watch tv"

He even got poetic or something on me & busted out with,
"Dontcha bitch at me even though you should
I know I ain't no good
Rap your knuckles, bust my knee
But honeysuckle don't you bitch at me"

An evening at the Speed Queen.
Gotta get my washer fixed.