Author: Mark van de Walle

Publisher:

Published: 2000

Total Pages: 150

ISBN-13: 9781890451080

Neither city nor country nor suburb, the trailer park is a mad mixture of all the most decadent parts of all of the above. A fabulous nightmare about a dream of a man and a plot of land, and the freedom all that brings. The freedom to blow yourself to kingdom come while making crystal meth; the freedom to have affairs with your neighbor's underage daughter; the freedom to have sex with her in the middle of the day on the old couch that marks the place where your porch should be; and the neighbor's freedom to shoot at the two of you with the service 45 he brought back from 'Nam. With all this freedom going on, the trailer park, of course, has style for miles: black-velvet Elvis paintings and John Wayne bourbon decanter; "Drop Kick Me through the Goal Posts of Life, Lord Jesus; " and refrigerators that manifest the face of Christ. Which is why the trailer park is the place the UFO visits, the place where all the conspiracies come to roost, where all the gun nuts and religious kooks and drug runners and Angels, Hell's and otherwise, turn up. In America, all our disasters happen in trailer parks. That's how you know they're disasters -- because of the little bits of trailer scattered everywhere. Somewhere along the line, through a gradual process of accretion, through years of accident piled on mishap piled on dumb tragedy, trailer homes have been transformed from cheap, efficient, ready-made housing into something that is practically synonymous with every imaginable kind of disaster. So whenever there's a flood, a hurricane, a twister, there's a string of massacred trailers left behind to mark its passage. Where trouble goes, footage of some poor bastard standing in front of the holewhere his double-wide used to be is soon to follow. In short, trailer parks have becom