It was tough to do laundry on the road. You couldn’t trust the hotels with anything you cared about: they would just dump things in an industrial washer, turn the latch, walk away, smoke, send money orders. For delicates, a guiding hand was required.
Look at the fringes, the fraying innocence-white threads crowning Bobby’s thighs–an accident? As surely as the angle of a young ruffian’s hat or a teen goth queen’s rip in her stocking: so, not at all. A good pair of cut-offs needs to be well-tended. Jean shorts are like the modern art museums: well-curated and you only see white people in them.
So tossing his precious jorts into the laundry sack that whoever the road manager was that week would carry around twice a week was out. (This is true. The road manager would walk up and down the halls with a big sack, knocking on doors and collecting everybody’s smellies. Then he would hand out letters from home and have everyone stand by his (or Mrs. Donna Jean’s) bed for inspection.)
A laundromat was completely out. Billy always insisted on tagging along and he would start a fight at the laundromat every single time. And with the same guy: you know the guy that’s always there? Maybe he works there, maybe not, maybe he’s racing orphans in the back: who knows, but every laundromat has that guy and Billy would just lunge for him on first sight and–here’s the weird thing–the guy would always be ready. Like, maybe these fuckers have some sort of weirdo laundromat grapevine or maybe they all get wind of Billy’s pheromones a block away or maybe they’re fucked-up zen masters/existentialists who decided that, since the howling void couldn’t give two shits about us and there was neither plan nor judge, life was pointless save for the meaning we give it so the best way to celebrate this was to wait in a laundromat for the drummer of a psychedelic boogie outfit and beat the shit out him.
Phil’s hair looks good.