#010 : FROM CODE TO DIRTY LAUNDRY AND THE QUIET POWER OF COMMUNITY

It started with an Instagram post. One lazy afternoon, while scrolling through my feed, I stumbled upon a post titled “5 Profitable Boomer Businesses.” Number two on the list: Laundromats.

I paused. Laundromats? Really?

Something about it caught my attention. Maybe it was the simplicity, maybe the predictability, or maybe after years in tech and corporate environments, I just needed something real. Something I could touch, fix, and see working.

So I clicked. Then I read. Then I fell into a rabbit hole.

For weeks, I consumed every piece of content I could find . YouTube channels run by laundromat owners, blog posts breaking down utilities and lease structures, forums where people debated the ROI of coin-op versus card systems. I spoke to brokers, financiers, repair technicians, and owners who’d been running these businesses for decades. The more I learned, the more fascinated I became. Here was a decades-old business model, steady and quietly profitable, thriving in the background while the world obsessed over apps and AI.

Six months later, after multiple site visits, late-night spreadsheets, broken deals, and a bidding war or two, we were the proud, slightly terrified owners of a laundromat. Absolutely bananas.

Like most neighborhood laundromats, ours was coin-operated and a little rough around the edges. But it had great bones ,solid machines, good foot traffic, and loyal customers. We renamed it Crazy Bubbles, rolled up our sleeves, and started rebuilding from the inside out.

The next six months were an education in everything they don’t teach you in business school. Plumbing, electrical work, HVAC, local marketing, lease negotiations, customer relations - you name it. I was fixing dryers one hour and designing local flyers the next. It was humbling and exhilarating at the same time.

I’ve always loved problem-solving, but this was a different kind of problem-solving, tactile, immediate, unforgiving. If something broke, it wasn’t a metaphor. It was leaking water onto the floor. You couldn’t just escalate it to “engineering.” You were engineering.

Slowly, the place began to transform. We fixed what was broken, modernized what we could, improved lighting, added vending, set up wash-and-fold services, and rebuilt local relationships. Every improvement felt personal. And along the way, I realized something unexpected - this business, so far removed from my digital ventures, was teaching me about leadership, resilience, and community in a way nothing else had.

It’s hard to describe the contrast between my two worlds.

On one side, I have The Rift, a digital publication and learning platform about AI, automation, and the future of work. It’s abstract, global, and intellectually thrilling.

On the other, I have Crazy Bubbles, a small corner laundromat where neighbors chat while folding clothes, and where success depends on whether a dryer works on a Sunday morning.

They couldn’t be more different - yet somehow, they feed each other.

At The Rift, I explore how technology transforms industries. At Crazy Bubbles, I live the reality of one that hasn’t and maybe shouldn’t be fully automated.

At The Rift, I talk about AI agents. At Crazy Bubbles, I talk about lost socks and fabric softeners. Both conversations matter, just in different frequencies.

Owning this laundromat has reminded me of something simple and profound: every business, no matter how digital, ultimately serves people. In New York City, not everyone has a washer or dryer at home. Some customers are families juggling two jobs, some are students, some are elderly, and some just don’t have the time or space to do laundry themselves. But everyone shares that same small moment of trust, handing over their clothes, their most personal belongings, believing you’ll take care of them.

It’s oddly intimate. You start to recognize faces, routines, and stories. You know who comes in on Tuesday nights, who brings their own detergent, who folds perfectly, and who’s always running late. Some of our regulars have become friends. They ask how business is going, how the tech startup is doing. Sometimes they even give advice — and it’s often better than what you’d hear in a boardroom. There’s an honesty in small business that you rarely find elsewhere. People don’t sugarcoat things. They tell you what’s broken, what’s working, and what they appreciate. And every compliment feels earned, not engineered.

Now, nine months in, I can say this with full certainty: I love it.

Not because it’s easy, or glamorous, but because it’s real.

Running Crazy Bubbles has grounded me in ways I didn’t expect. It’s a reminder that progress isn’t always measured in lines of code or growth charts. Sometimes it’s in a working spin cycle, a smile from a customer, or the quiet pride of keeping something running that serves real people every single day. It has also reshaped how I think about the future I write about at The Rift. The best technology, I’ve realized, doesn’t replace human connection but it amplifies it. The future might be digital, but it still needs people who care, communities that trust, and builders who get their hands dirty. When I walk into the laundromat now, I still smell detergent and warm metal. The machines hum in rhythm, quarters clink in trays, and neighbors greet each other as if it’s a local café.

And I smile - because while I spend my days imagining the world of tomorrow, this small, unassuming place keeps me anchored in what matters today.

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