It happened. My dream moment arrived. Just as I had I wanted it to.

As I was sitting there in The Worst Laundrymat in San Francisco, reading how every columnist in the SF Bay Guardian somehow managed to mention that they got laid last week (I'm so happy for them), the owner walked in. It was go time.

Here was the moment I was waiting for. The moment I could ask for all the money back that I've spent because the machine's were either not working or barely working, the kvetching I could do about all the time I had lost having to constantly put money in the dryers because they barely dried anything, and the pointing of my recently ruined cool-ass, totally blue, Skeecher sneaks. I had even consulted with a laywerly type about the possibility of going to small claims court to get my quarters back and about whether I should sue the Laundrymat owner, the washing machine makers or the Bleach makers over my cool-ass, totally blue, Skeecher sneaks.

But I, of course, didn't do anything.

He walked in, jovially said hi to me, asked me how I was doing, and all I could say was "fine" and left it at that.

Yes, I'm a puss. What can I say? The owner's actually a really nice guy and when he's in there, always tries to help out. He's an immigrant too, and a small business owner, trying to carve out his piece of the American Dream and I'm sure that running a laundrymat on 16th & Valencia is not the easiest thing in the world to do.

Still not going back.