Coffee with a Lot Lizard and a Sapp Brother

Jumbo art silos caught me off guard on my return from Boys Town. Vinyl condoms printed with digital farmland images clung to the side of the shaft exposed to freeway bound commuters. The other side of these abandoned grain bins have been transformed into an extreme climbing wall for prairie dwellers. A fun fact to those of you traveling in my footsteps, recreating your own version of this adventure: don't slow down to 35mph on this particular stretch of highway - other drivers will honk at you, ride your ass and make ghastly hand motions. I'm still trying to figure out what it means when someone grabs their right wrist with their left hand, sliding it up and down their forearm while hanging out their window screaming, "I ruin your hole!"

After drowning in Olive Garden slop courtesy Leo, I rolled my chub into the ATM and headed out for one last photo-op before my time at the Compound came to an end. Being that I love me some coffee, the Sapp Brothers' water tower turned percolating coffee pot became my final destination. You can smell the 24 million cups of piping hot java from I-80 Exit 440. As sun hits horizon the percolator flashes red letting all passing semitrailers and motorists know that they are approaching a world of wonderment.

The Sapp brothers operate hundreds of truck stops throughout the Midwest. It just so happens that truck stops are the natural habitat for the elusive Lot Lizard. What is a Lot Lizard you may ask? Well friends, a Lot Lizard is a special type of woman who trolls parking lots looking to make a buck. A nocturnal bunch that communicate with truckers via window knocks; 1 tap for handies, 2 for a mouthful and 3 for anything goes. After an encounter with a Lizard one usually ends up at either a health clinic or 24 hour cafe, those below the Sapp Brothers' coffee pot don't have far to walk.

You have had some lovin' and some grub but there seems to be something missing that you can't quite put you finger on - then it hits you, the good Lord Jesus Christ. Sapp Brothers have you covered there too. No more than a Lot Lizard's panty toss from the cab of your truck is the Mobile Chapel.

To bid me a fond farewell Rooster and Hen pulled together a swell sendoff parade that started in their wing of the Compound and ended in my guest room. You should have seen old Hen wrapped in chicken wire stuffed with red, white and blue napkins. She looked like a glorious Ms. 4th of July with sparklers in each hand. Rooster's head was topped off with one of those fuzzy tubes found on members of the Irish Guard while humming Steam's Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye. The next morning I packed the ATM once more for what I thought would be the longest leg of the race, but ended up being second - right behind my 14 hour ass burner from Wyoming to Leo's place in Griswold, IA.

A Black Italian Angel with a Goiter Made of Stamps

Before I get started a gratuitous plug for my NEW website BACKOFFMUSTACHE.com 


Now on with the show already.

My last post was not convoluted due to subject matter, rather it clogged the pipeline with lack of thought flow. This load of travel memories is geared toward those of you who prefer pictures in their reading, pretty pictures to chop the endless rambling into digestible chunks.

Two black angels can be found in Iowa, both of which reside in bone yards wrapped in lore stoked by school children like Cousin Sara's sweet daughter Ellie. As a chubby high school shit my friends and I would sneak up to the Iowa City black angel in hopes of seeing the slightest bit of movement. Sadly the only movement was in our bowels as we ran screaming back to our car. Iowa City's angel is creepy both in sun and moonlight, Council Bluffs' black angel can be found on the opposite end of the spectrum. Little Ellie's nine year old smile grew when I said that the black angel was on my list of stops. She told me, "The lady under the angel saw it in three dreams and died after the last time. At night the angel flies around and goes into other people's dreams. If you see her fly you are going to die." Ellie's account of a swooping angel of death provided as much research as I needed. Her story left a macabre image in my gullible brain nugget, when in reality the Council Bluffs' black angel was an elegant turn of the century fountain built as an ode to a loving mother.

While soaking the black angel in from one of the handful of granite benches I popped open my treasured sketchbook to select my next stop. The closest oddity was home to presidential golf clubs, the Gerald Ford Mini Museum. I need not remind you that my only research into each attraction is by word of mouth or google maps as not to taint my initial reaction. My blackened mind imagined a shack with a Plexiglas enclosure protecting Mr. Ford's golf clubs from the greasy grasp of all ten annual visitors. The ATM never truly stopped at the museum, rather cruised by in disappointment that this was not a lame layover. Presidential grandeur screamed at me from the Young Republican sponsored rose garden. 

In need of bronzed tackiness I made like a fat lady on Black Friday and waddled as fast as my kankles could carry me to Omaha. There I discovered a Franco-American god, Chef Boyardee. He stands watch over the intersection of south 10th and Farnam. After lighting a candle fashioned from an old SpaghettiOs can I swung by the insane asylum grotto.

Why not end the day with a belly full of warm dryer lint? I mean fuzzies, with warm fuzzies in the form of Father Flanagan. He was a swell priest who swam against the grain of Catholic pedorasses. This fella founded a home for boys in 1912 that prepared its residents for the real world rather than turning them out into the cold after becoming of age. The home quickly grew into a 900 acre village with its own zip code, police force, self sustaining farm, schools and loads of dormitories known as Boys Town.

Without television or pads of i the inhabitants of Boys Town kept busy with wholesome fun like stamp collecting. So much so that an entire hall has been dedicated to the adhesive little slips of paper. Consuming the center of the hall are 4.65 million canceled stamps. 

Weighing in at 600 pounds this solid jumbo sphere is the World's Largest Ball of Stamps.

The Hall of History at the end of Flanagan Drive contains a chronological self guided tour of all things Boys Town. What may very well be the most impressive artifact is Spencer Tracy's Academy Award for portraying Father Flanagan in the 1938 movie Boys Town.

Be sure to bring your travel mug, tomorrow we will visit a percolating coffee pot big enough to brew 24 million cups of joe.