Pilgrim in the Trailer Park

 Betty Guadagno says it’s a dumpster fire down here on earth. She might be right. I have a story about an actual dumpster fire, believe it or not. This story takes place in the good old days of the early 2000s, which will always be the backdrop of my teen years. And a trailer in a mobile home park in Virginia will always be the setting of my childhood. For all the “dysfunction” and hilarity, I wouldn’t have it any other way. People always claim the time period when they grew up were characteristically  the “best” years. News flash: no decade owns childhood (and everything is happening NOW, whether you realize that or not), and I think everybody has great stories and memories from when they grew up whatever decade it happens to be. It’s a magical time and a date can’t change that. This story is not very magical, unless you’re a pyro.  So we had a dumpster in the trailer park, which was called Griffith Court, out on highway 211, out of town limits, and named such because of...

Okay, it’s official: I’m lazy. I’m trying to take old writing and post it, as if I had my own “archives.” I don’t have that kind of status, sadly. But I am kind of manic lately (that old bipolar is coming back to haunt me), and I think some of this old writing is worth sharing. It should have made it into the blog. This is from a strange day in 2025.   I took my neighbor to court this morning…okay, that didn’t sound right. I drove my neighbor to the courthouse for his jury duty appointment. He was anxious. I gave him a cigarette. He asked how he could get out of it. I said “tell them you’re a bipolar schizophrenic.” He laughed. “I’m gonna tell em there’s a little green man at my house, made all my furniture disappear.” I thought that was creative.  Since the courthouse is near Beach Street I decided to go to Copperline Coffee after I dropped him off. I got a small hot coffee (at most places now you have to specify if you want hot or cold. I don’t get it). It was three dollars...

 Hey guys,  I am on Substack now. Don’t worry, I’m not leaving the blog. I wanted to share my Substack with you, but I’m not sure of the exact link. It’s called Trailer Park Cat. So I guess you could search that.  Or try @trailerparkcat. Edit: I think it’s trailerparkcat.substack.com

 Tonight we traveled back in time to see Pink Floyd. Well, sort of — we saw their cover band, Wall of Echoes.  I thought my last post about the bandshell wasn’t very good, and I love Chicago, so I’m trying to redeem myself ( again (I keep doing that on this blog, redeeming myself, as if writing were a mark of character. Interesting). While we were getting in the car we ran into our neighbor and told him where we were going. “Do you guys want any psychedelic chocolates?” he offered (no thanks we’ve got our own ( I’m kidding ). That was nice. But we decided to enjoy it the old fashioned way (maybe drugs would actually be the old fashioned way), or rather the sober way, with a couple cigarette breaks sprinkled in.  And it was packed . We’ve been to a handful of concerts this year, which they call the Star Spangled Summer Concert Series, and I swear this was the most people I’ve seen. Wall to wall, pun very much intended. People dig Pink Floyd. And dogs; the boardwalk was fil...

  One day I broke an ashtray. I didn’t just knock it off a table and accidentally break it. I smashed it into many pieces. As you can assume, I was not having a very good day. It was a Wednesday in May and my dad had just died on Saturday, and my emotions were all over the place.  I had just got back from a thrift store in New Smyrna Beach. On the way I stopped at circle k for a candy bar and a coffee, because I had been ignoring my hunger but I needed something junky to soothe it. I ate a butterfinger. They always get stuck in my teeth. The hot coffee washed it away. It was all I had eaten all day and it wasn’t enough at all. I just needed to do something with myself so I went to the thrift, one I knew and liked but didn’t always frequent. And I’m glad I went because I found a Van Halen t shirt, which dad loves, and I bought it for him even tho he was not here anymore (is that crazy?). But I was also mad at John for not letting me take my car; it was blocked in in the dri...

  I work on the modest porch of a Florida trailer. They’re big porches, properly called Florida rooms. It’s split in two parts: the front part with the metal door, which no longer works— it got smashed in by a hurricane; and the back part which stores all John’s tools and paint stuff on shelves and tables. His bike is back there, plus a pressure washer and the washing machine.  I sit in the front part, at a small repurposed kitchen table with a chair. With a lamp and a radio, which I cannot plug in at the same time. If I want the radio I have to use a flashlight with a hook for light. I light a candle too. We’re nearing the end of September and it’s very windy right now but the temperature is perfect at 78 degrees. I love it.   My writing doesn’t necessarily happen at night, but I’m a bonafide night owl, so it’s bound to occur then. If I’m not “working on a piece” (I’ve heard that phrase has a different meaning), then I’m editing another piece or waiting for inspiration ...