Let's say it was spring and you'd fallen in love. The dim bricks of the houses in the old neighborhood were suddenly illuminated. Scraggly dogs looked fit and lively. Even the mailman, who usually looked as if he could have been packing an Uzi instead of the mail, was friendly. La, la. You drove your sweet one home one morning, achieving acute erotic tension while feeding each other a custard-filled World's Fair Donut concoction, when one of you said, "There's Jesus!" As sure as there are angels in heaven, there was the Redeemer: plastic, glowing, arms outstretched like Evita, beatific on the second floor of an ordinary corner brick home. "Ali Baba Blvd" was an amusing street marker on the building, but it didn't seem to be indicative of any tribal discord. Nobody needed to be alarmed by this Jesus: unobtrusive, kindly in appearance, looking over the misery and corruption and small pleasures of the world -- at least on this little corner. At the time that this "best" was being filed, He was still there. Drive by and give Jesus the South St. Louis doorbell sometime. Praise him, what with his message being love and all, in every season.
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