Pilgrim in the Trailer Park

“ It’s been a long time since I rock and roll…” And by that I mean take a drink. It’s been two and a half years (sometimes it is quantity over quality), I will proudly  admit at the cost of sinning — if you can’t celebrate your own sobriety, who will? I prefer it over my birthday, it means much more, though I guess if I hadn’t been born I wouldn’t have been an alcoholic who got sober and bragged about it…ah, coming full circle.  This is what I love about writing. The death of one thing leading to the birth of another: trading addiction for the creative arts (which is still technically an addiction). Can you do that? Can you bargain with the devil? (Bob Dylan said all these years he’s been holding up his end of the deal) Can something good bloom from the seeds of the worst things? (Im ripping off a quote I read years ago, can’t take credit for that line). Jesus said you will know a tree by its fruit… Ive come to this conclusion: God is  listening (and angels ARE among us...

 It’s true. I can’t get drunk anywhere.  Ah, the complacency of sobriety. Giving up the ghost at last.  John surprised me by booking us a dinner date on the riverboat the Lady Dolphin of Daytona (I think it looks prettier in italics). All he told me was “we’re leaving at quarter to five. Dinner is at six. Wear something warm.” I just figured we were going out to eat like normal. But I had to ask “are we going someplace ‘nice?’ I’m only asking because I want to know if I need to dress up.” And that’s my logic. Any reason to wear a dress is a worthy cause to me, because they hang in the closet so desperate and full of potential. Just like the alcoholic raging inside of me, let me out! (I’m sorry ma’am but you’re doomed to hang in that closet indefinitely, and hopefully perish).   So to my dismay, most of the women waiting in line were clad in their best summer dress, and here I was in bell bottoms. John thinks dressing up is overrated, which is why he habitually wears...

 I have a memory of being very young and speaking gibberish to my grandparents. I told them I was “speaking Spanish” (hablando espanol would be the proper term). I’m sure they thought it was cute and funny. That was my attempt early on to fit in with the half of my family that hailed from Argentina. My grandparents immigrated from Buenos Aires in the late fifties and they made a comfortable life for themselves and raised three boys (my dad is their middle child). They’re not of typical “Spanish” blood: my Papu is Danish, while my Nana is full blooded Italian.  Argentina is a melting pot like America, mostly infused with European heritage and culture (Argentina has its own unique culture, and it’s romantic and beautiful). My grandparents looked “white” by all means, but they speak the language, so to me they are “Spanish” people.  This means that, yes, they danced the Tango, listened to Tango music, drank mate, and ate homemade milanessa with chimichurri made from scratch....

 This is a flashback to the Satan Stories. And it is so Florida.  I don’t know why or what entity is forcing me to write this stuff. I’ll just go with it.  So this goes back three years ago (wow) to 2023. The Year of Magical Drinking (Sure).  I was by now definitely living with John, the guy up the street with all the cats. The cat part was lovely. It was like the house was the church of the holy feline and here were all these little black monks. There was statistically more black cats than non— I guess the gene is dominant. If you were superstitious you would take this as a bad OMEN. The only bad omen was me and all the beer I was consuming (slowly but surely all the cats disappeared and I feared I really had brought bad juju here…). So I was drinking ALOT of beer, not the quickest or best way to get drunk, but the fastest way to fill up your trashcan. I wouldn’t eat all day, but then I would get very hungry at night and binge on burritos that John bought. One plate...

 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 ...

 Help! The internet is taking over my life. I just realized how much time I spend on my iPad, and phone, every day. And it’s too much. From texting, to checking email, to blogging, to asking Google questions. It’s insane.  I was never like this. I was somewhat old fashioned for a millennial. I had a flip phone. I journaled in an actual journal. I read real books and solved paper crosswords. I could idly smoke a cigarette without “electronic stimulation”.  But John bought me an iPad so I could work on my blog (and not use his). And I have to be grateful for that. It has really come in handy, so I can work on Job applications (so where’s my job?). So I can have a “life.” Okay. And with this new phone — the big fancy kind that needs a case— I spend hours before bed scrolling you tube and playing solitaire. I had no problem with the solitaire on my old phone, but John says this way (the smart way) is better. Well, it’s nice, but it’s not necessary. It doesn’t help me sleep an...

 As much as I write, you would think I read a lot. That is not the case (unless you count me reading my old journals. Shame on me). I have a hard time finding books i wanna read. I used to go to the library frequently and I was reading much then, but it was hard to find the books. There’s a certain genre I’m into, like autobiography/memoir/ addiction and recovery/humor/basically anything creative nonfiction. It does exist. Like Love Warrior or Pour Me a Life or Sex Cult Nun (yeah I had to read that, the title was too intriguing). However, I could spend a good hour browsing spines and still leave empty handed.  Other good titles are Drinking: A Love Story and My Lovely Wife in the Psych Ward and When Breath Becomes Air ( that book made me cry). Give me the hard stuff. For a while I was really into my religious and spiritual books.  I found all of them at thrift stores, and I had a nice collection, but after I absorbed their wisdom I donated them (except for Love Wins . Im ...

 I’d like to impart some hospital wisdom. I have a sheet of paper from one of my hospital says. It’s just a bunch of bullet points and sentences, but I’ve always liked the sentiment of its advice. This list is meant to help you take yourself less seriously, see past the negative experiences, and preserver. No doubt it is aimed at people who think that life is no longer worth living.  We got handouts in the activity room, which was a small common area where we ate our meals and had group therapy. There was a tv. You could go in there to color or do word searches, especially if you didn’t want to be in your room (I took advantage of leftover breakfast coffee). Most people stayed in their rooms to sleep. I keep this handout stashed in a recovery workbook called Living With Your Higher Power (it’s an AA thing), with other rehab and hospital papers I’ve decided to keep for some reason or other. It’s just a small stack now; I used to have a collection of folders from my inpatient st...

  I may actually be onto something. Five years ago I was having a little vacay at a local hospital. I was ending up in, as Lemony Snicket would say, in a series of unfortunate events. It wasn’t all horrible, but it was…damn freaky.  While I was there I met a guy in the activities room and we started chatting and doing crafts together. We were making collages; I think they were supposed to be “dream boards” (is that still a thing?). Anyways, he was nice and friendly, so when I got to rehab I decided to write him a letter. I hope I’m not breaking any rules by mentioning his name (I doubt you could identify him). Dear Randy, Well, I’ll write a letter to Randy, that guy from Mexico. It’s cold here and hard not to smoke but it’s ok maybe not for me, but we’ll see. Apprehensive and tense— always new faces after I get done with the last — I never know what I really like; I’m so middle road. I hope you’re okay and at the Days Inn until you find your Air b&b. I don’t know how...

 Let’s take a trip back in time… I kept a journal when I was working as a pool monitor over the summer of 2017, as you may know. To my amazement, that was almost ten years ago now. I started the entries as letters to my mother, even though I never mailed them. I’d like to share one such letter. I wrote it in particularly nice cursive for some reason (my handwriting is always changing, to this day). Dear Mom, It is Friday June 9, 2017. I am here at Cypress Head pool. No one is here except for two young guys cleaning the pool. They come in a white truck. The landscaping guys were here earlier, with their leaf blowers and weed wackers. A man named Tim McDaniel introduced himself to me. Nice gentleman — did Navy Reserves. Told me to dip my feet in the pool. Good idea. One of these days I’m going to take a quick dip. Sometimes I wear my bathing suit under my clothes, just for the hell of it.  I packed a lunch today in the Rubbermaid lunchbox nana gave me: peanut butter sandwich, ap...

  A morning cigarette is still legal and honestly one of the best pick me ups. Hours of sleep create a short withdrawal which makes the nicotine go straight to your head. Ask anyone: it’s a rush. But it’s not for me anymore. Sometimes I choke and gag on the thing. It starts a wet cough which turns into gagging. I don’t know why this is occurring. Ive enjoyed one too many morning drags without repercussions. It’s time to face the music I guess.  It seems worse with regulars. I prefer a menthol in the morning. In my opinion, Newports are the best morning smokes. They’re clean and smooth, and the menthol relaxes the throat (I sound like an old doctor). As unhealthy as it is, it can be a slice of bliss. Take my word for it.  The morning puff is hardly unique, out of the 40 cigarettes I smoke a day (now where’s an old doctor when I need one?). I’m accustomed to waking up and lighting up once the coffee is brewing. However with the ill effects of this, I like to wait til I’...

  Why am I so sure that life goes on after we die?  For one, I listen to a lot of near death experiences on you tube (Although I don’t think getting your learning from you tube can make you a master of anything, unless it’s makeup. It’s not a reputable source). I used to listen to them daily. It fascinated me. Most were positive experiences, resulting of course from tragic circumstances. I was hooked, of course, because they gave me hope that “all is not lost” and there is a realm called heaven, and no, it is not all in your head. It’s very much real. This much I can believe. There’s people that like to say that when you die your brain releases this DMT stuff that gives you funky visions. Why chalk it up to chemicals? Why wouldn’t people want to think it’s real? Do they want to be dead when they die? Or are they so stubbornly realistic? What is so bad about heaven?…is it that its existence would also prove the very real existence of hell? (As my friend likes to say, hell co...

 Tonight Ray and I watched The Birds , the old movie about rabid birds attacking the citizens of the California town Bodega Bay (somehow I always thought the movie took place in New England. Maybe because it’s another fishing town). It did not disappoint and we stayed glued to the plot line the whole time, ingesting all the dialogue. It gave me a break from the blog (yet here I am again…). I ate a piece of vanilla cake with blue icing, snacked on a bowl of popcorn, and drank a sweet red fruit punch, the powered kind from a packet. We paused the movie twice to go outside for a smoke. We made it three quarters through the movie. You could call it a perfect night. I’ve got a soft spot for old movies and snacks and cigarettes. Call me old fashioned.  You may not believe this, but this morning I actually found a dead bird on our porch. The blackbird variety, with a shiny purple, green sheen on its tail. I got John to come retrieve it. He placed it in the river. What are the odds of...