Okay, let me say right up front that I do not know if there is a God or not. If I’m anything, I’m a Deist. What I do know is that no one I’ve ever met was living as if they believed the dogma. The dumbest thing I ever did was to write a book titled, “Conversations With God” (Vanquish Publications 1992). I crisscrossed the U.S. interviewing people who claimed they had had a conversation with God. Right away I get an invitation to speak on a religious speaking tour. While I’m not the least bit religious, still I went. I guess that makes me a capitalist. It was awful. I’ve played music in some of the most dangerous bars in this country—cowboy, redneck, a few were Latino. Not once did I feel I was associating with pure scum as I did in churches. While these people didn’t smell as bad as some of the drunks, the odor of evil poured forth like Niagara. You could actually smell it; and naturally, they all had to give you a hug. The guys in the band were always kidding me about not being able to pick up a whore with a $100 bill. You didn’t need money to bed these Christian women. The company arranged for us to stay in private homes, thank God. The daughters, and even the wives of these preachers, would spread their legs for you in a New York minute. The moral of this story is: If you’re in a strange city and get lonely, for heaven’s sake don’t go to a bar, go to a church.
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