Hot off the Press: No news edition

It’s hard, but not impossible, to keep abreast of current events when you’re on vacation. However, I failed miserably, opting to let the world spin without my knowledge. Up north I browsed the San Francisco Chronicle (which is once again one of the best designed papers I’ve seen), but didn’t absorb any news. People died, hoaxes were exposed, and I enjoyed myself, unconcerned.

But just as I feel guilty about drinking beer and not chronicling it, I feel uncomfortable about not providing my readers with interesting news. So I’ve decided to offer some rather pathetic news concerning The Quiet Man.

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When I got back to Huntington I found three birthday cards from relatives in my pile of mail. Usually that equates to a $30 profit for doing nothing but staying alive for another year. But this time all I found inside were personal notes and birthday wishes. No checks. No greenbacks. Frankly, it had gotten embarrassing to receive money for my birthday, and I’m far from disappointed, but after having received a little moola every birthday of my life — or at least as long as I’ve been able to use money — it was surprising and odd to open up the funny Hallmarks and not find a single cent.

My mom said she once asked her mom (I think it was) when relatives would stop sending her birthday money. The answer was when she got married. My mom decided she’d never get married so people would always send her money. Well, she married my dad when she was 28, so I guess she was cut-off from then on. Apparently, though, my cut-off was 27 — married or not.

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From now on I’m doing my laundry at the local laundromat instead of at my apartment building.

I’m fucking done with the two shit driers in the laundry room here at 311. They work, but only when they don’t eat a buck worth of quarters. For whatever reason, the machines don’t turn on. I’ll insert the coins in the sliding feed, push it into the collection tray, and hear the unproductive jangle of wasted money.

I heard just that last night. I had two loads and needed to use both driers. However, one gobbled my money (WHY GOD?!) so I had to throw everything in one dryer and let it run for two cycles, wasting another buck. Only my socks came out unwrinkled. I was out of quarters, so I had to deal with it.

I could knock on the manager’s door and get my money back, or even let them know the machines are acting up. But no. I’d rather write a note to let the laundry operators (which are apparently unrelated to the property management company) know I’m taking my money to Surfside Coin Laundry and tape it to one of the driers. The surf hicks can deal with that shit from now on.