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Trailer Park Lounge serves as a tribute to midcentury roadside junk. Twenty-third Street doesn’t exactly scream “Americana,” but its being out of place is, in a lot of ways, the point. A row of bowling alley seats faces a wall plastered with Elvis memorabilia and there are mannequins posed in compromised states. The bar is trash-themed. Not literally garbage, but kitsch, camp; the tragically ludicrous/ludicrously tragic. The unique American pride in being low-rent. It’s a glorious mess. The garage sale aesthetic doesn't distract from the core objective: inexpensive, unfussy drinks and greasy-spoon eats. The kitchen pumps out burgers and tater tots and the like while bartenders pour oversized pitchers of frozen margaritas laced with cheap tequila. The diner booth seating, the smell of hot fryer oil, the rockabilly soundtrack–it all makes good sense after a few. It gets busy on weekends for amateur hour, but that’s the nature of going out in Chelsea. The salty bartenders have seen it all and know exactly how to handle it–a comfort in these trying times. If you’re in the neighborhood and don’t feel like shelling out big bucks for an evening, park yourself at Trailer Park.