Here I am, at an LA laundromat. I haven't done laundry in a laundromat in a million or two years but the only machine at my daughter's apartment is broken. I've always thought that the next great American novel would be written about what goes on at a place like this, but it won't happen today. The only thing happening is that an old man (that means my age) is singing along to American Pie on the radio.
That and my apparent inability to count to seven. I must have only put six quarters in the machine and when it wouldn't start, I went to the worker to get help. Needed one more quarter.
If I'm not smart enough to count to seven all by myself, I am probably not smart enough to write the next great American novel.
Posts
