This actually happened years ago, when Angry Beaver was young and free and in a band. It took place on one of those washed-up greenish mornings you only get after a string of all-nighters. You know what I’m talking about. Winter. Long nights as cold and dark as death. You go out swinging with all the bottled up energy of overloaded hormones and booze and pills and loud loud drums. Just with your own self you bleach that universe of black to deep purple. And then the clear disorientation of morning.
Smiling people let him drink wine, which helped with the hangover a bit. They asked if he wanted a guaranteed place in Heaven, which—as statues of Mary and bright red hearts were all over the room and chemicals were combining oddly in his brain—he translated to mean “Did he want to very publicly worship demure hot loving brunettes without getting into trouble?” “Sure,” he mumbled.
The tortured silver guy on the stick bothered him, but he didn’t know how to ask any questions without speaking—an act which brought on a massive pain. So he kept quiet. Later in life he had a street corner sermon in New Orleans about this event which started: “Startlingly small are the acts that finally bring us to God!” A hackneyed beginning that was hard for even Angry Beaver to pull off. And he didn’t like how the hot concrete burned his paws. Street preaching was a short gig.
