My wife is at home feeding the baby. I’m sitting at the laundromat down the block from our apartment, white MacBook open on my lap like the dozen SpeedQueen top loaders lined up in front of me. At 9pm on a Tuesday night, the place is pretty dead. Two weeks worth of my clothes are dancing hypnotically in the dryers. Easy listening rock drifts from the tiny speakers in the water-stained ceiling panels and the place smells like one giant, warm, dryer sheet. If the seats were actually comfortable, this could be heaven.