I’m not sure if anyone reading this column remembers the jovial, booze-soaked sitcom “Cheers,”… I’m not sure if anyone reading this column remembers the jovial, booze-soaked sitcom “Cheers,” but I sure do. How could you not? Norm, Cliffy, all those drunks – it was a different time, I suppose. A glorious, drunken 1980s sort of time, the kind of moment in history that has now happily faded into cherished memories of leg warmers and an omnipresent threat of nuclear war. Good times, good times.

What I enjoyed the most about “Cheers” – and let me tell you, I enjoyed a lot about “Cheers” – was the special, wonderful feeling that everyone on the show had for the bar. It wasn’t just because the bar was the place where they could go to get their life-nourishing/liver-destroying sustenance, but because it was their place. I suppose in the finely honed semantics of today’s sociologist, it would be referred to as their “third place,” with their other two places being their home and their work, but they just thought of it as their place because it was the one they really enjoyed.

And that’s nice. Having a place is totally rad. Who doesn’t want a place, the sort of place you can go and know people’s names, and they know yours, and things are comfortable, and nobody tries to hit you or call you names or stuff like that? I don’t know anyone who doesn’t want that. And that’s why I love my place – the laundry-mat.

It isn’t that I don’t have a bar I go to, absolutely not. I love my local dive bar – which, by the way, won third place in City Paper’s best dive category – but I don’t want to be as comfortable in a bar as the fictional drunks of “Cheers” were. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy drinking in poorly ventilated, dank rooms as much as the next guy, but being recognized in a drinking establishment tends to make one feel like he has a problem. And since I am recognized in my local dive bar, I just try to pretend that the laundry-mat is my place.

There is, however, a lot in my laundry-mat that can win me over. For instance, I would like to mention that anyone who uses the words “stark” or “austere” to describe home decor should definitely acquaint themselves with the very stark, very austere appearance of my ‘mat, because this place gives “stripped down” an entirely new meaning – particularly since the change machine was recently ripped out of the wall by forces unknown. That one bold move has totally re-imagined its space, creating a bold, sleek appearance, kind of like a dolphin’s back.

The seating is also inventive. Imagine a few chairs, all nailed to the floor, and then long folding tables. This is where I’ll usually be found on Sunday mornings, reading the Arts and Leisure section of the New York Times as the dryer makes a half-dead, rattling noise and then efficiently steals my quarters.

And the people! The wonderful, horrible people that crowd the small room, smoking as I wash my sheets; how can one not love the people? Particularly the old crazy man I chit-chat with, the guy who wears a fur Russian hat in the summer and lines his cart with a plastic bag from Urban Outfitters. He’s good stuff.

I don’t mean to make fun of the crazy man, because I honestly like him, just like I honestly like the ugly, dirty laundry-mat. I have grown to sincerely love the experience of washing my clothing in public.

People go to the laundry-mat because they have to, not because they want to, and it is in this sort of sad, resigned company I find myself weekly. None of us wants to be there. All of us wish that we had washers and dryers in our basements, but we don’t. Instead, we drag our laundry from our crappy apartments to the crappy laundry-mat and sit there and wait for it to be done.

And that’s nice, in a circle-of-life kind of way. We’re just a bunch of strangers, after all, but we’re all trying to not make the day suck for the other strangers, which is something one usually doesn’t see. It’s almost as if by going to the laundry-mat together, we’re accepting the other people as temporary fixtures in our life and being nice because we should be, not because we have to. Now that’s what I call egalitarianism, ladies and gentlemen.

To keep Kevin company next Sunday, e-mail him at [email protected].