Photo Gallery: Trashapalooza is back in Iowa City

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I wholeheartedly promise no one is checking your six-year-old Swiffer Wet Jet you just dropped on the side of the road next to the off-putting beige chair with three legs missing. Look me in the eye: We’re not interested.

The season has begun: Summer is over and there are 33 couches lined up on Iowa Avenue with your name on them. Alas, Trashapalooza, U-Haulocalypse Now Couchella is here and it’s junkier than ever. It’s couch mound season! A safari of discarded socks! Mountains of XL twin beds stacked up to the skies! Abandoned memories that stretch from river to river – these streets belong to microwaves, bed frames and cat climbing posts.

Where are the cats? What happened to all the cats?

The week of July 18, just days before the city turned into this couchastrophe, I posted on my Instagram story an assortment of items left in someone’s yard: a pair of dirty Adidas, a deluxe party-sized coffin of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, two boxes of ramen, three mats and a pencil holder – all convincingly arranged on the bright green grass amidst a near-perfect golden hour of ending summer in Iowa.

Sid Peterson, Small village‘s one and only, commented on the story and offered a series of photos: “there’s crazy stuff all over town, on the sidewalks… but crispy cinnamon toast and ramen noodles? I was inspired, captivated and energized! Because Sid Peterson was right, for better or (mostly) for worse, there’s a glimmer of character attached to the remaining memories scattered around this town. It’s a time we all know is coming, and when it does return, it’s so alarming, frustrating, but inevitably comforting to know that the leaves will soon start to change and you can finally find the coffee table you need. for five months. , right here in Trashapalooza.

This depiction of Trashapalooza does not suggest indifference or romanticism towards litter. However, this photo essay serves as an acknowledgment and documentation of how absolutely insane this show is, and moreover, how accustomed we have become to the pageantry of junk food: the half-full liter of cheese balls, a solitary sandal, the desk chair you pass every morning on your commute as you plan to walk half a mile home, only to conclude that you already have a chair from Trashapalooza 2018, and get on with your day.

Let me be clear, though, there are some gems – the benchmark wooden chairs and cabinets offered on the sidewalk – but we have to be careful enough to figure out the difference between sliding the aforementioned furniture and an empty box of Q-tips, a broken mirror or a rusty razor left on the sidewalk. Like, let’s have some decorum.

Good hunt.

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