Watching The Clothes Go Round

Doing laundry on Memorial Day. Sounds pathetic because it is pathetic, but I was not alone today in the Land of the Lame-o. Far from it. The World O’ Laundry here in Glendale was so crowded that I had to park three blocks away. I dragged my sorry hamper into the laundromat only to find that the place was packed to the gills with harried mothers, wild children, and scruffy-looking men, all of whom were probably, like me, down to their last pair of clean knickers. Not an encouraging or particularly hygienic thought.

So, apart from the imminent underwear problem, why was I doing laundry on a holiday? Because it’s cold, and rainy, and overcast here in California. Who wants to go to the beach just to freeze her ass off? Also, I like watching the clothes go round. Yes! I admit it! I like doing laundry! The colors sloshing back and forth, the soap bubbles, the high speed spin cycle – I find all of it strangely relaxing. I find it hypnotic. And, at $2.50 for a three-and-a-half load washer, it’s cheap therapy.

The World O’ Laundry is especially nice because it has a mechanical massage chair. A five-dollar bill buys you 25 minutes of rolling, kneading, buzzing happiness. I try not to think about how many other people have sat in that vibrating naugahyde recliner – maybe not in their last pair of clean knickers but in a desperate pair of dirty drawers. I also ignore the small kids who look at me with big, moist eyes, silently begging me to get out of the chair and let them have a try. Too bad, kids – it’s my five bucks, damn it! You can make do with the video games or the 50-cent mechanical pig.

I will sit in this bizarre bliss, oblivious to my fellow washers, and watch the clothes go round. Maybe, I’ll listen to The Pretenders on my iPod. No, it’s not a holiday at the beach, but damn! It is good. Go figure.

Will Work For Food – In Hollywood, That’s A Job Description

Los Angeles takes some getting used to. I like the sun, I like being close to the beach, and I love having sushi delivered right to my door. In Idaho, I couldn’t even get pizza. I lived too far outside the delivery zone, i.e., way out in Ass End, Egypt.

There’s a lot to love about L.A. I’d heard horror stories about the crime and the smog, but so far, neither has been a problem. I go out for a jog every evening, and I come back safe and asthma-free. Okay, that could be because I’m staying in sweet, tame, Armenian Glendale, but why be fussy? Los Angeles officially begins two blocks from here, just past the Chevron station, so cut me some slack. This ain’t Compton, but then I’m not Snoop Dogg – a tragedy for the both of us. I’m sure he dreams of being a 41-year-old white woman from Raleigh, N. C. Then he – I mean she – could rap about Krispy Kreme doughnuts. That would give new meaning to Drop It Like It’s Hot.

What’s not so cool about L.A.? This is without question the most self-regarding, self-congratulatory city I’ve ever visited. Nowhere else even comes close. London? Too old and too gritty to take itself seriously. Paris? Too jaded. New York? Surprisingly friendly – a collection of small villages that comprise an appealing whole.

Washington, D.C. comes close. There is no self-love like political onanism, but politicians are regularly and publicly brought low. One day, you’re spouting off about morality and family values; the next, a prostitute is discussing your little bitty penis in Hustler. When you’re caught with a hooker in Los Angeles, you go into rehab for 17 days, and bang! You’re back on the A-list. Out here, rehab is like penicillin or the Salk vaccine. It’s a miracle cure for whatever ails you, everything from drunk driving to a video of your bare butt on BustedCelebrity.com.

But the most amazing thing to me about Los Angeles is the television and movie industry job listings. I’m a writer. I’m not Stephen King or Anne Rice, so I don’t make a hell of a lot of money, but I do all right – well enough that when I’m paging through a site like Mandy.com, I’m astonished by the number of listings that offer the thrill of working for no, low, or deferred pay. Where I come from, homeless people stand on street corners and under highway overpasses holding signs that say “Will work for food.” In Hollywood, people apply for those positions.

Go on! Have a look! Click on the links for production assistants and see how many producers, directors, and other industry folk offer you, dear college graduate – preferably with 1-3 years of relevant experience – the opportunity to work long hours for self-important assholes while earning nothing more than the promise of a shrimp cocktail and some pineapple chunks. And that’s if you’re lucky. On an indie production, you might just get an In-and-Out burger. One of the small, cheap ones. No French fries.

Before anyone writes to tell me that “this is how you get experience,” or “this is how you make connections,” or “this is how you build your resume,” I’d like to say that this is how you get exploited. This is how you learn to suck up. This is the beginning of the self-important assholery that plagues this city. You start as the omega dog, and you learn to aspire to be alpha bitch.

That’s why I prefer New York. Sure, Andrea Sachs gets kicked around by Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada, but she also gets a paycheck. Correct me if I’m wrong, but have you ever met a publishing assistant who got paid in cheese logs?

Everyone in the Post Office Hates the Woman in Purple.

The woman in purple has been standing at the counter for 20 minutes. The line behind her has backed up out the door and into the parking lot. What is she doing? I’m third in line, so I can hear what she’s saying to the sales associate.  

Did you know that Post Office counter workers were called sales associates? Me, neither. The only reason I know now is because I’ve been standing in line for so long that I’ve read everything on the walls. I’ve read the addresses on other people’s packages, the tags on their jeans, the brands on their shoes, the mottos on their tattoos, and the name badge on the poor damned sales associate who’s having to deal with the woman in purple.  

What’s holding us all up? The woman in purple — who’s carrying a Louis Vuitton pocketbook — can’t decide if she wants to pay the extra twenty cents for Priority Mail. She’s got an oversized manila envelope, and the sales associate has just demonstrated the magic power of folding. If the woman in purple turns down the top and sides of her oversized manila envelope, she can shove it into a Flat Rate Envelope. Bang! Bob’s your uncle. She can drop it in the mail, pronto, easy as you please.

But the woman in purple doesn’t like the way the envelope looks when it’s folded. It looks sloppy. It looks cheap. I say, “You know what would look sharp and crisp and expensive, woman in purple? If you were to leave this busy Post Office, book yourself an airline ticket, and take your freaking oversized manila right to its destination. Why? Because nothing says ‘I care’ like hand delivery.”

And, because I have situational Tourette’s, I say this aloud. The people around me laugh. The sales associate looks nervous. The woman in purple? She pays me absolutely no mind. She’s busy digging around in her Louis Vuitton for twenty pennies.

I have no truck with the Puritans, but damned if we didn’t throw the baby out with the bath water when we got rid of those wooden stocks in the town square.

Hey y’all!

Welcome to my blog! Who am I? Joan Opyr: writer, editor, parent, Democrat, ex-patriate Southerner, baseball lover, softball player, alumna of North Carolina State University, and an Old English scholar with half a PhD. I haven’t gotten around to writing that dissertation just yet. It’s been 15 years since I finished my coursework, but who’s counting? Besides, plotting murder mysteries is so much more fun, as you’ll discover if you check out my books, Idaho Code and From Hell to Breakfast.  I am also a humor columnist for Stonewall News Northwest and an occasional op-ed writer for New West Magazine. I’m a busy woman. Too bad I’m not a rich one, but you can’t have everything. As my mother always says, you’ll never see a Brinks truck following a hearse. What’s on my mind these days? The Democratic primary. I find myself wondering why the poobahs and pundits in the media are so eager for the whole thing to be over. Are they really afraid that John McCain will prevail? Have they listened to him talk? He’s a babbling brook of ill-informed, ill-tempered, and ill-timed remarks. Singing bomb, bomb, bomb — bomb, bomb Iran. Calling his wife Cindy the C-word. Hugging the homophobic Rod Parsley and the anti-Catholic, anti-Semitic John Hagee. As soon as the press gets up off its lazy ass, he’ll pop like a mylar balloon. Too old, too crabby, too bad. Goodbye. Far from being worried about the length of the Democratic primary, I think we should be glad. Yeah, you read that right. I’ve been talking with friends and family in North Carolina, some of whom voted for Senator Obama, others who voted for Senator Clinton. Do they think this past Tuesday’s mixed results — Obama winning the Tarheel State and Clinton winning Indiana — are a bad thing? No. Will they vote for John McCain if their favorite doesn’t win the nomination? Not on your Nelly. What the media fail to see is that this is the first real 50-state primary we’ve had in living memory. The Democratic candidates have fought over forgotten states like Idaho, Wyoming, and Montana. For heaven’s sake, they’ve fought over Guam. And now the fight moves on to West Virginia. When was the last time a Democrat (or any Presidential candidate) gave a damn about West Virginia? The idea that drawing this contest out until the convention will harm the eventual Democratic nominee is founded on the flawed premise that we all want to know right this minute who that nominee will be; that we’re all ready to anoint the winner. I’m calling bullshit.  Let the process play out, and maybe the voters in those forgotten states will once again feel that they matter. Isn’t that what democracy is all about?