PREACHERS AND CIGARETTES

Have you had that moment? That moment in which what you were looking for had no place in the upstairs, the downstairs, the basement, the freezer, the fridge, the bathroom, the porch?

But...

I've had that occurence and I had it again.

(But then you find it in....)

It is simply amazing. It really is.

(You find it in the broad open?...)

***

I woke up early this Sunday morning to take a piss and maybe pinch out some of the unhealthy foodstuff I injested yesterday. I let the dogs out (Ollie'd been lying on the new couch--he'd get his) and I pulled a smoke from the pack and went and did my business. I got out of the bathroom after a particularly stinging shit and I let the dogs in, letting Lou lounge in the basement/kitchen stairs and Ollie--because he had slept on the couch and pissed in the dining room--in the pen in the basement.

Because I wasn't quite ready to go back to bed (and also because my stomach/tummy was still gurgling) I turned on the TV and flicked and chicked until I came across a guy named Joel Osteen. Joel Osteen. I'd heard of him before. I'd seen him before. Slick-haired and squinty-eyed, bright white teeth and superfluous.

Haley Joel Osment, right? That dude? The kid with the sixth sense?

Yes. No. Maybe.

They look kindred, sure. But Haley and Joel ain't no Osmonds. Haley's his own man and Joel is Yaweh's.

But, hey, truth be told? Joel Osteen is a hell of a speaker, a preacher, a harbinger of good news, a modern-day...prophet?

I know, I know. Right. Like that butt-smear knows a God-damned thing. He's in it only for the money. He's (assuredly) got nice cars and nice homes. He's married to an attractive woman, yet he still (perhaps) sleeps around.

Yes, but....

Maybe, but....

But I know this: I have watched the guy before, and every time I do, he brings-a me to tears-a with my own shame and hope and love of God and love of uplifting stories. Am I an easy mark? Perhaps. But I have got to give it to the man: he's good.

Here's the point: The whole time I was watching Osteen, I was intermittenly looking for a smoke, for my pack--17 if there were one. I could not find my pack. I smoked a butt from the ashtray and watched and listened (teared up) to Osteen's imploring of the audience to get up off their asses and to do what the Bible warrants. Simply put: Just do it. He didn't use those three words (they belong to Nike, see) but he definitely told us--in a most-pleasing manner--to pursue our dreams.

I know. Just another charlatan, preaching in the name of the Lord.

Maybe not.

I suppose I was unduly impressed by the man, and my searches for my pack-of-smokes fell to the backfield in my mind. The guy is hypnotic, is all I'm saying. I looked, a bit, during the broadcast, but never found the pack of Camel Wides. And, then, the show was over. (I cut it off before I could see J.O. imploring me to send cash or "get on my knees" or, basically, follow him as Savior.

I got up, let Ollie out of his downstairs prison, took a piss, and walked back into the living room to see my pack-o-smokes sitting right there, on the table behind my TV-watching armchair--right there in the wide-fucking-open.

It gave me shivers, 'cause I had looked there. The pack and lighter were on a bed of sea shells from Vag Beach...but I still shoulda seen them.

It made me think that, if Osteen were the man of God that he claims to be, could God not, perhaps, be trying to tell me something?

(And the Sun just poked out from the clouds....)

I'm not a fan of evangelists, but I recognize talent when I see it.