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. 

Forgive Me for this Convoluted Turd of a Post

A waft of what turned out to be a swell shrimp Étouffée lured us from the ATM and into the Compound's kitchen. Catching up with Rooster and Hen made for a nice breather and wind down from being on the road for over eight hours. A night cap of Millstream root beer around a fire that was built from the Rooster's blood and sweat soaked timber made for a splendid second pyrotechnic dream. My near cosmic twin Cousin Sara (birth date of 17 AUG 82 vs. my 17 AUG 80) long her current lover / future husband Mike rounded out the brigade. Not seeing a near cosmic twin for nearly two years only to pick up exactly where you left off is a grand gift. So grand that they may request that you be an usher in their spring 2012 wedding and you respond with, "Am I able to pinch asses? If so, may I be assigned to the groom's family?"    

While in the greater Omaha region I was invited to attend a fete in which all in attendance were to celebrate a live telecast of a football match. Rather than sitting on my hands in anticipation of the off kicking of swine hyde - Cousin Sara, her lover and I decided to search for the Golden Spike Monument. We found the fifty-six foot tall obelisk across the street from a trailer park that had definitely seen better days. This promotional gimmick for the 1939 film Union Pacific is 533 miles northeast from the true Transcontinental Railroad splice in Strasburg, Colorado.

Later that afternoon I added Vlasic dill pickle halves and a jumbo box of strawberry Pop-Tarts to the already bountiful game day smorgasbord. Cousins, aunts and uncles that I have not seen in years were all hugged with proper crotch proximity. Stories of times past were swapped with plans of the future. Before my sliding out the front door I noticed something that just wasn't right with Uncle Stan's hat, it was then that the white polka dots on the underside of its bill shouted, "I'm a lady hat!" I announced this to the group then crawled on top of old Stanley to give him a good dry hump goodbye.


I promise that tomorrow will be filled with vulgar anecdotes and loads of pics. Hang in there Sally.

A Rooster, a Fat Man and Two Hounds Walk into a Brothel

I broke my two-lane pact with the EPA to ensure a timely arrival at the Rooster and Hen's Compound. As I pulled into the gated bluff top fortress I spotted the nearly seven foot tall graying Ginger chopping wood faster than any Chattahoochee River beaver. The second my clod hit the pavement Rooster shot out a hoot, a holler and a big, "Chaddy Baby!" Hugs with proper crotch proximity were exchanged before we headed toward the first of five Rooster approved attractions. To offset my carbon footprint I hitched the old ATM to the hounds and had them pull us through the bluffs.

Not only is Rooster one of the funniest some bitches that ever shot shit, he has a gunny sack filled with historical gems specialized in Lewis and Clark mixed with the West. Just a hare under four miles from the safety of the Compound is the Lewis and Clark Monument Park. Nestled at the end of a winding hilltop lane are two semicircular monoliths etched with crisp text on the front and a swell relief on the reverse depicting Louie and Clarkster's introduction to the Otoe and Missouria Indians.

Are you still looking at those chunks of rock? Turn around Sally and fix those peepers on the Missouri River technicolor panorama behind you. I suggest standing next to the Rooster and having him describe points of interest: remnants of ravaging flood waters, a still submerged Lakeview Park, Eppley Airfield, Omaha's skyline, Union Pacific (UP) Rail Yard and a few horned owls.

Council Bluffs' love affair with UP is so steamy that they have conceived a museum with one another in an old Carnegie library. Two stories crammed full of goods that would make the Ames' brothers happier than the foreman of a freshly completed rail tunnel through the Rockies. More on the Ames' brothers and their pyramid in the middle of a Wyoming wasteland next week.

I only snapped two pics at the UP Museum, both of which would make the curator a bit pissy. Image UPM no.1 is of a ticket window with a sign taped to the security grate, "OUR TICKET AGENT WAS STRUCK BY LIGHTNING AND IS HOSPITALIZED, WE HOPE TO GET HIM BACK SOON." Image UPM no.2 is of Bob Hope having a white ribbon pulled from his ass by a Hollywood starlet. Both items made the UP Museum well worth the free admission. Well, Rooster's commentary made every hilarious minute worth the price.

Image UPM no.1

Image UPM no.2

Council Bluffs' decommissioned rotary county jail with the killer moniker of Squirrel Cage is an acorn toss away from the UPM. The three story cylinder would rotate until the needed cell lined up with the jailer's platform. When the Rooster and I peaked our heads through the door a nice woman leaned from her office chair and asked if we would like to tour the jail. We gave an enthusiastic YES. She replied with, "That will be $14." After pushing my eyes back into their sockets and picking up my jaw we returned with a, "No thank you," while exiting the building. The Rooster and I agreed that for the $14 admission we surely would have received at the very least a handjob.

As we tooled around the bluffs four terrible images tore their way into the Rooster's brain and luckily for us all of them reside on the 24th Street Bridge above I-80. Odyssey is a $3.5 million tetraptych which was designed under the guise of welcoming travelers to Council Bluffs.

The only thing that these four atrocities succeed at is creating a sense of confusion, an air of negativity and misleading Midwesterners into thinking that all public art is shit.

Our final stop was at Omaha's famed Lauritzen Gardens to experience a magical land filled with model trains that zip between miniature specimen trees. Sadly this attraction forced me to break my one and only Operation Decompression rule; I PAID $7.

Each of the 100 acres are as manicured as the finest of a green thumbed OCD sufferer. A low flying crop duster must have been loaded with work by Omaha based artist Jun Kaneko, the remnants of a Berlin style airlift were left throughout in the form of bronze heads and Dangos (jumbo ceramic pieces). The sculptures compliment their surroundings in a wonderful "One of these these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong" type of way.

UP loves to create attractions with their logos plastered on every surface. If they didn't pour wheelbarrows of cash into them it would be annoying. In comparison the immense size of the gardens this postage stamp attraction was by far the most amazing. The Rooster and I could have spent the rest of the day watching the trains and trolleys zip through the trees past replicas of famous Omahanian landmarks of past and present.

Every structure is constructed of sticks, twigs, branches, twist ties and other natural materials.

If you were to say that these amazing models weren't amazing you would be a damn liar. The only thing missing was my blue and white striped conductor hat. Rooster let me sit on his shoulders to get this shot up in the trees.

Our final vignette contained a replica of the Japanese Sunpu Castle Gate and of Mt. Fuji. Since my rotund chub will likely never climb the real Fuji, I scurried up this mound of earth while the Rooster stood guard at its foot to keep watch and make a crow call when the fuzz approached.

This will be the last post for this week since the two-lanes are calling. I plan on returning next week with more goods for your pleasure.

Shacking at the Compound with Rooster and the Hen

As I popped the ATM's trunk to load my matching orange luggage a burst of gravel dust billowed out and revealed just enough rocks to fill a chubby toddler paw. The seal of the trunk had been compromised in one of the two major accidents a couple years back allowing easy access to the rocks from my previous day's gravel road travel. If I would have had more time I would have driven to a quarter carwash and vacuumed the mess before loading, but my schedule did not afford me such luxuries. Hell, time was never a consideration - it was the fact that Leo was on his way to meet me at the Farmer's Kitchen for a farewell lunch.

One would think that the morsels to be absorbed first in the morning should have some semblance of a balanced meal like those Total cereal commercials in the 90s. Thinking that way is a load of horse shit.

I ordered and enjoyed an open face meatloaf sandwich smothered in what can only be described as salted liquid lard, a cup of thick coffee and a slice of the finest apple pie with a side of cheddar cheese. Leo ordered half of a chef salad.

One thing that caught my eye on my waddle back to the ATM was the fact that several handicap spots were assigned to specific citizens. Barb had a spacious corner spot with a dandy view of a mural funded by the National Endowment for the Arts.

Before the motley caravan of two hounds and my chubby self were to arrive at Uncle Rooster and Aunt Hen's compound located high above Council Bluffs, IA, there were two must sees.

Elk Horn, IA is home to the United States' only authentic functioning Danish Windmill. This fine replica of windmills seen throughout elderly women's gardens was built in 1848 over in the land of Danes, brought to Elk Horn in 1975 and opened to the public in 1976. I snapped pics of this mill of wind from afar, adhering to my promise of not paying for access.

A tourist attraction the folks of Elk Horn did make. No more than a pillagers leap away was this swell home of a viking smithy circa 900CE. Who knew that vikings designed LEED structures with green roofs and repurposed materials?

My last stop was the front yard of a swell couple in the town of Avoca, IA to see their VW Bug turned arachnid at the intersection of Chestnut and Washington. This masterpiece is the perfect keeper of the property, waking at dusk to patrol the property and ward off evil doers. I especially love the shadows that this beast throws off.

Forty minutes later I pulled into the driveway of the Compound to begin my adventures with uncle Rooster. NOTE: the Compound is not in anyway involved in a sect or does it house lunatics preparing for the end of days, rather it is the quirky home of my aunt and uncle who have housed numerous family members at the same time making it more of a commune than a compound - but compound is so much less of a hippy term.

Since I have been promising you the insane asylum grotto I will skip ahead a half dozen attractions and dive into the creepy cavern, returning to the previously scheduled program tomorrow. The thirteen or so Omahanians that I queried regarding the grotto had absolutely no clue what I was talking about, although they were aware of the old St. Joseph's Hospital.

Post shoot I poked around Creighton University's online library and stumbled upon a detail of an early 20th century St. Joseph addition complete with the Grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes. Vines now choke out the structure located on the edge of a parking whose entrance is on Dorcus St. between 8th and 9th.

I am quite certain that it did not look nearly as disturbing during its dedication ceremony in the summer of 1910. A screen door straight out of Deliverance is permanently ajar and hard to locate amongst the foliage. Chunks of calcite and reclaimed stones from decommissioned buildings frame the portal.

Only the tiniest patch of light is able to fight its way though the muddy film covered windows, making for a dank and eerie room. Once my catlike eyes adjusted they focused in on the intricately placed stones forming arches, altars and columns. An empty niche flanked by two yellow slits of stained glass pressed into the stone wall anchored the room. A relatively new prayer bar and railing cordoned off the area as if the Lady of Lourdes' reliquary was on display.

Long exposure photos turned what looked like an abandoned dungeon into a peaceful hidden sanctuary peppered with tea lights to allow for prayer and vigil. A lighter, pen, paper and a vessel in which to deposit your prayers and requests all rest on a stone table built into the wall. I lit one of the candles and was surprised at the amount of light that it cast through the darkness.

I am sorry to report that there wasn't a sociopath escapee from the asylum seeking shelter in the grotto. It was nothing more than a structure at first glance was engulfed by the stigma of the word asylum combined with a sense of neglect. I made a completely off base judgement of what turned out to be a location that was just as amazing as my previous stop at the Grotto of the Redemption in West Bend, IA.

Fear not - tomorrow I will start at the beginning of my two days spent with a seven foot tall ginger named uncle Rooster.

Au Revoir, Au Revoir Pee-Wee. Au Revoir Central Iowa

Sweet Moses, I misjudged the number of photos that I captured between Central and Western Iowa. Now you have to wait until tomorrow before you are given goose skin from the Insane Asylum Grotto.


Keeping the speedometer at or below Richard Nixon's limit of fifty-five allowed for a physical and mental down shift from my normal Chicago tollway bob and weaves. My slow motion instant play of a day wound through both paved and gravel paths cutting hundreds of thousand of nearly harvest ready countryside. After my stop and chat with the retired Ohio couple near the tree in the road I headed forty-five miles south to the Pizza Ranch server's recommendation of the Vallisca Axe Murder House. 

A delightful little pig welcomed me into what was a medium village with a creepy vibe that I couldn't put my sausage finger on. When I created the Max Allan Collins Film Expo in Waterloo, IA a swell team of filmmakers entered a documentary to be screened about a ninety-five year unsolved axe murder. 

On 9 June, 1912 eight people were bludgeoned to death in their beds with the family axe. Several men were accused, one was acquitted and none were found guilty - leaving the case unsolved. The garage is a three dimensional guestbook for visitors who take the day and overnight tours are available through the official Vallisca Axe Murder website. The image above is a rendering of the home as it was that bloody night along with disturbing portraits of the victims.

Since my first mile into Operation Decompression I promised myself that no admission fees would be paid, all experiences were to be free as the pollen filled air running through my wheezy lungs. Sadly the axe house tours were $10, so I ended up circling the house and garage with an overwhelming sense dark weight on my shoulders. Yeah, yeah, I know that it sounds ridiculous, but this place was just that fucking creepy.

After punching the ATM's pedal to the fifty-five mile per hour metal I got the hell out of Vallisca to meet Leo at Atlantic's Mexican restaurant, the one with free WiFi and hot wings. While I was scarfing deep fried chimichangas drowned in queso, Patrick Kolts texted me about joining him and his friends Casey, Molly and Carolyne for a bonfire and tour of 400 sq ft tree house perched thirty feet above a lake. Before my treetop experience Leo and I skipped the fried ice cream and decided to search for the world's largest bicycle in Lewis, IA.

RAGBRAI is an insane bike ride across Iowa that begins with a back tire dip in the Missouri River and ends at the mighty Mississippi River. Each year the route changes allowing for different batches of towns to reap the monetary benefits of hosting 23,000 drunken two-wheel party hounds. 

This year the lucky burg of Lewis commemorated the onslaught with a sixteen foot tall,
thirty-two foot wide one speed hipster dream bike. The only thing missing was a sixty-four foot tall
douche sporting size 170 skinny jeans with sixty-two inch cuffs.

With my last Central Iowa oddities in the hopper I was off to experience the grandest treehouse in the Midwest and matching hardwood fire. Pitch dark peppered with vertigo inducing constellations made the winding hike through meadows and timber all the better. The view of mist rolling in on the lake's surface from the treehouse would have made any thriller film's cinematographer jealous. 


After a full evening of campfire songs, peach pockets (fresh peaches, brown sugar and marshmallows wrapped in foil - tossed onto the coals) and crazy nordic folktales the girls headed back to the warmth of home. An hour or so later the fellas and I jumped into a wide aluminum canoe and returned to shore. Patrick sat in the bow with a lantern raised high, Captain Casey paddled in the stern and I in the amidship without being able to see anything beyond the oars. My fear of water mixed with the freezing air and butterfly excitement reminded me of sitting at the top of a killer water slide as a husky eleven year old. 


I could not have imagined a grander way of ending my time in Central Iowa. It was nearly three in the morning when I pulled up to Leo's and around four when I was packed and prepped for my morning commute to Western Iowa / Eastern Nebraska. 

Coffee with Harriet Tubman Near the Tree in the Road

The hounds and I settled quite nicely at Leo's after having read his thirty page list of house rules. My favorite of the rules was that the fringe on his area rug had to be spaced exactly 3mm apart at any given time throughout the day. In honor of his handsome little museum celebrating the life of a bachelor, Griswold has installed cellular signal jammers to ensure that all who enter are as lonely as he.

Upon Leo's java recommendation I jumped into the ATM and set course for the Sweet Joy Shoppe. Patrick Kolts' (the Brooklyn transplant) text message about being in Atlantic arrived as I was tipping back a much needed redeye (coffee with a shot of espresso). We caught up through a mix of texts that ended with him joining me for my third. After a swell hour of coffee talk I was given and accepted an invite to dinner at his parents' farmstead the next night.

No matter the distance traveled a sense of being beat down with a penny filled sock leaves me rendered useless. Luckily this feeling swept me to the Shoppe's outdoor bistro table for a five hour stint of swigging bean infused hot water. While stationed near the entrance it soon became clear that I was becoming something of a small town celebrity with questions of, "Are you the writer? When can I see your blog? Have you contacted the local paper, they would love to interview you? Could you illustrate my children's book? Are you from Europe?"

Dinner with the Kolts' was a spectacular mix of beef, potatoes, Dorothy Lynch salad dressing and best of all - truly amazing people. The theme of the evening was travel. We heard of Patrick's parents' time at the Louvre, his friend Carolyne's adventures in Guatemala and of his tour of the world as a photography assistant. It was nice to have a home cooked meal around a dinning room table that lasted into the early hours of morning.

I woke with the need to cram two days worth of photos into one since I took the day off. Leo and I met for a salad that he raved about at the Pizza Ranch. Our waitress spotted Google Maps on the iPad and said, "Oooo, maps. Where ya headin'?" I layed out my two-lane adventure and she recommended the Villisca Axe Murder House. Locals are key to finding the truly unique goods in an area.

On my way out of town I swung by the Hitchcock House, on the word of Leo that it was the boyhood home of the infamous director. Turns out is had no ties to the Vertigo King, rather it was a safe house on the Underground Railroad.

I would be lying if I said that I wasn't disappointed to find the Hitchcock House had not inspired a world in which birds attack. Although this was a swell time capsule that included a safe house for slaves escaping from Nebraska and Kansas on their way to Detroit with a final destination of Canada. 

A cupboard in the basement swung open to conceal the fugitive slaves during a
time that offering aid or shield to them was a federal offense.



After such a solemn stop I was in need of a lighthearted oddity and what could be better than a plow absorbed into an oak tree?



A farmer was tending to his plow when a battalion of Union Soldiers marched past this very field.
A wind of patriotic revelry swept the farmer up and tossed him into rank, leaving his plow against a bur oak.
Sadly the farmer never returned from war and the plow was swallowed whole by the tree.



You can only see a few pieces of the plow:
above - moldboard is the fancy word for the sharp end that gouges the soil



The clevis or what is commonly called brass knuckles.



 Lucile Vanderbilt and Sir Winston Woo in the split trunk of a monster oak.
Take number four. Ms. Vanderbilt does not enjoy the lens of a camera.

If you ever wake from a heavy night of drinking near Exira, be sure to crawl your way to this ninth wonder of the modern world.

Keeping with my dendrophiliac fantasies I pushed forward and found another rare tree, one that has grown in the intersection of 350th and Nighthawk just outside of Brayton, IA. This 100 foot tall cottonwood was nothing more than a switch that could have just as likely been used to swat the ass of a mouthy farm kid, but it was destined to take root. Local lore says that a land surveyor jammed a cottonwood branch into the prairie to aid in his marking of Audubon and Cass counties.  



The fellas who lay gravel were on a union break when they came upon the sapling. After a discussion
over olive loaf and sour milk they decided to plot the roads around it rather than getting off of their
equipment to cut it down. (I may have fabricated the whole union worker thing, it is a mystery
as to why it was never cut down to make way for the roads).



The ATM did not like being parked half in a ditch and almost refused to clear her way out.
As I lurched forward into the road I almost sideswiped a Buick from Ohio that held a nice
retired couple in town for Atlantic's Coca-Cola days.

Tomorrow I will complete this day's stops and prepare you for western Iowa and Omaha, both of which had more visual treasures than you could ever imagine. Dare I say Insane Asylum Grotto?

Here is the Nice Indian Woman I was Talking About

What I thought to be as a short leg of three plus hours turned into a nine hour jaunt peppered with a couple of dandies. The final two stops made for a spiritual experience balanced by an ultra jumbo gal in moccasins.

West Bend, IA is nothing more than a gas station mashed into a smattering of ticky-tacky little boxes wrapped around the opus of an inspired manic priest.

Like many of the locations captured by my handy fish-eye lens,
the Grotto of the Redemption has the distinguished honor of being the "World's Largest" grotto.
Father Dobberstein activated the Catholic Phone Tree (yes, they have such a thing)
and requested that all parishioners load railcars headed for West Bend with
precious stones; geodes, coral, petrified wood, calcite and a whole sack of other geological oddities.

Fr. Dobberstein spent forty-two years constructing this wonder beginning in 1912.
He had only two assistants toward the end of his life, Matt Szerensce and Father Greving,
who eventually completed the project after Dobberstein's death.

Even the stations of the cross are constructed entirely of only the grandest stones that
a Catholic could find. No matter where you stand in the Grotto a sense of calm surrounds you. 

Exquisite Italian marble sculptures of Christ, his Disciples, angels, Mary and Joseph
are placed chronologically throughout the Grotto. Here is Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane.
A creepy looking Judas was hidden around the corner with his sack of gold
coins for pointing Christ out in the Roman lineup.

I could have spent hours pining over the placement and beauty of each gem.
Even with the intensity of subject matter there was an ever present sense of whimsical folk art.

I know that you will never be "just in the neighborhood" of the Grotto of the Redemption,
but make the trip whether you are religious or not. Father Dobberstein's creation that was built
to fulfill the promise made to the Blessed Mary for curing him of pneumonia.

Walking out of the Grotto renewed the purpose behind Operation Decompression and pumped me full of curiosity for the remainder of my adventure. With just enough time for one more stop before bunking at Little Leo's Griswold manse, I again hit the two-lanes.

One of the best parts of foregoing any tollways or freeways is the lackadaisical feel of meandering among the crops ready for harvest. My colorblind eyes work best when the surrounding colors are earth tones, making for a gem of a view.

Twenty-seven miles southwest of the Grotto in the small town of Pocahontas, IA stands a lady who was forced to accompany a Brit named John Smith and his singing dog in their canoe out west.

If it were not for this brave twenty-five foot maiden Mr. Smith would
have been executed by her tribe for duping them into selling
Manhattan for a bucket of Mardis Gras beads.  

Pocahontas, IA is named "The Princess City", yet Pocahontas was never a princess.
It was only after her death that a fictitious title was bestowed upon her.
P.S. She married a fella who invented a better strain of tobacco, became wealthy, had a son, moved to England, was the toast of the Court and ended up dying of an unknown illness at the age of twenty-two on a river bank in Virginia.

I will make the rest of this lengthy novella quick and to the point through the magic of bullet points:

• I had to pass through Atlantic, IA on my way to Leo's.
• Atlantic is sixteen miles north of Griswold.
• Julie and I have a friend named Patrick Kolts who lives in Brooklyn, NY.
• Patrick's Parents live near Atlantic.
• On my way through I voice texted Patrick, "Chad Allen reporting from Atlantic, IA, all is well"
• The next day he texted, "What?! I'm in Atlantic, IA"

More on Brooklyn via Atlantic tomorrow along with an Underground Railroad House, an axe murder house and my becoming a local celebrity in Atlantic.