As much as I try not to fixate on aspects of my youthful experiences, I always seem to return to certain vivid memories. It must have been around 1971, suburban Detroit. As a child, I heard a guest evangelist at our Southern Baptist church preach a compelling revival sermon on Revelation, the end days, and the Anti-Christ. The way he figured it, the Anti-Christ had already been born, and in the year 1962.

Well . . . I was born in 1962, and was plagued with uncontrollable thoughts and impulses I knew were impure, sinful. I had even secretly found a way to physically evoke lustful sensations from a forbidden part of my anatomy. Of course, I became convinced I must be the one, although this was not something an introverted 8 or 9 year old could share with his folks. Instead, matters of manifest destiny swirled through my neatly groomed noggin: If I was the Anti-Christ, and would just be fulfilling my predetermined path, how could God hold this against me? In other words, would I go to Hell for fulfilling prophesy? I never did discuss this with anybody else.

My parents split up when dad took up tattooing, riding motorcycles, and inhaling prohibited herbs. I remained active in church and serious about my relationship with Jesus Christ, going on to sing in choir, attending youth meetings a few times a week, going on "visitation," where we would unexpectedly drop in on friends and put them on the spot with spiritual fussing-over and praying. I memorized useful scripture, and carried a small bible with me all through junior high school, making me the target of all kinds of cruel mockery, and further alienating me from most of the other kids.

I sacrificed any social life for focus on art and academics, at school, and working on the school paper apparently qualified me to assemble and print the church bulletin. This, along with a part-time church-janitor job entitled me a key to access the church unsupervised, to make noise on the organ and try spanking it in unusual places, such as the baptismal. When I got old enough, I taught Sunday School and led Vacation Bible School activities. All the adults and other youth must have considered me the perfect little Christoid, but I secretly knew the horrible truth.

Mom remarried and became dissatisfied with the stodgy Southern Baptists, so we began church-hopping to find a more charismatic church home. We visited big, gaudy churches and little storefront missions, finally landing right across the street from our previous church, at a full-gospel fellowship. Of course, full of humility and servitude, I quickly became useful around there. I became active in youth group activities and took on the task of assembling and printing the weekly bulletin there, too. The real bonus, here, was having access to the bass guitar as well as organ and piano at this church. Alone under the guise of bulletin work, I enthusiastically taught myself how to play the simple bass-line from Devo's "Mongoloid," at a volume that made all the church's stained glass rattle like crazy!

Now this was back before the advent of affordable photocopying, so I had to work with a typewriter and an old hand-cranked Gestetner stencil machine. So restless was I, that I would purposely plant humorous "typos" in the copy of the church bulletin. Once, I even cleverly spelled out something alarming along the left margin of the copy, reading down. Nobody caught that one!

This was a Holy Ghost church, complete with healings, speaking in tongues, slaying in the spirit, and occasional spastic dancing in the aisles. It was fairly alienating to me, and I couldn't get the gift of tongues no matter how hard I prayed! If I thought the invitations and endless repetitions of "Just As I Am" at the end of the Baptist services were drawn-out affairs; the torturous invitations at this Full Gospel church were never-ending ordeals I knew would only end when I went forward to confess my accumulating hypocrisies! Of course, I never did.

Our youth group organized an evangelical theatrical production that was such a big hit, we went on the road, scaring many people into salvation, from church to church. The scenario of this amateur production was the "Judgment Seat," and focused on the Lamb's Book of Life. We had space off to the right that was Heaven, complete with dry-ice clouds, angels, and Handel's Messiah. To the left, of course, was Hell, complete with fiery strobes, a creaking door, demonic sound-effects, weeping and gnashing of teeth, and Hell's angels. The Archangel at the helm of the Book'O'Life was played by who else but . . . Yours blushing truly.

Decked-out in white robes and sparkly wings. The darkened auditorium would give way to spotlight on a script full of both sinners and saved alike, stumbling confusedly down the aisle towards me, having been unexpectedly delivered there by various auto accidents and health mishaps. There was the drunk, the promiscuous woman, the woman who aborted her baby, the group of kids partying in their car when it crashed, and even the self-righteous but lost churchgoer. As each dramatic scenario unfolded, I would either find their name and usher them into heaven; or grimly declare the omission of their name, and introduce them to eternal damnation. We performed this play dozens of times at various churches in the Detroit area (including, I'm certain, Jack Van Impe's church) and always got resounding results.

My academic record qualified me for a little financial aid, so I went off to study graphic design. The need for pocket cash prompted me to beg dad to get me started with the tattoo needles around this time. My second and final year of college was a big year for me, as I (finally!) lost my virginity; tried hallucinogens, in attempt to find that elusive ecstatic state that the Holy Spirit had never gifted me with; and began to roadie for a local punk band, getting me interested in singing and music again. My financial aid disappeared with the advent of the Reagan era, so I had to drop out and find minimum wage work at local nursing homes. I gigged with a band called WeirdWorld until, in an unprecedented act of folly, shipped out for US Army basic training for an enlistment as a Truck Driver. Enlistment over with, I blundered into another well established American tradition - that of marriage. Two years later, this particular failed Canadian venture left me on my own in Toronto, Ontario, a locale that remained constant for just over a decade.

I continued to write and produce audible material, most notoriously an ongoing transgressive musical project called Surface Noise, and a weird and offensive ezine called FOD! Maggotzine. I took the time to personally examine and compare different faiths, fringe elements, mystic and occult traditions, Sufism, Gnosticism, Voudoun, Discordianism, Chaos Magic, and even Satanism; filtering them through my own thoughts, feelings and experiences. This resulted in the breakthrough realization that I didn't have to necessarily accept the faith that had originally been thrust upon me at a young age, or any other, for that matter. I attended the Anarchist Gathering in Toronto, where I first encountered the idea of Christian Anarchism. It was refreshing to find that being a Christian didn't mean having to suck up to the establishment, but I was a bit confused by the apparent degree of socialism involved. Throughout all of this, it dawned on me that I had indeed lost my faith in organized religion, but not necessarily in Christ. Feeling at last enlightened, I began to publicly promote what I called "Disorganized Religion" (DOR), starting with my own toxic concoction, Urania 235, and produced/distributed various tractlike leaflets to expose the concept of DOR to innocent bystanders.

"Gospel" literally means "truth." My favorite scripture to pluck out of context is "Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free," because it doesn't impose "truth" on you. Ye shall know it! You discover it on your own!

235 is the numeric designation of the most potent form of uranium used in nukes. Urania is the Greek muse of poetry or astronomy. Though spiritually inclined, I don't believe in organized religion, so at one point, had to create my own personal mythology. This started with a form of Black Goddess reverence in which a fierce Kali-type bitch-goddess named Urania 235 wields considerable influence. Contrary to the common notion of God as an old white man, U235 is a large black woman. In fine post-modern form, I began to picture the Goddess in the form of Aunt Jemima, or the "black mammy of the south." The name "Jemima" means "Dove," in both Hebrew and Arabic etymology, so she corresponds to the feminine aspect of the Holy Trinity of Christianity, the Holy Ghost. Trinity Site is where the world's first nuclear device was exploded on July 16, 1945; an event commemorated with an onsite phallic stone monument or lingam. As you can see, Urania 235 is a culturally appropriated hodgepodge of ideas that only really makes sense to me. But, left to my own folly, I inevitably returned to Christian roots.

A few years ago, I returned to the Detroit area to professionally pursue tattooing and piercing at the family business, and have since further developed ink and perforating skills. Audible Surface Noise projects are in progress, and the next issue of FOD! Maggotzine is to appear soon at <www.indegraph.com> In attempt to tie up the loose ends in describing my spiritual outlook, I'll say I have little use for churches, am pro choice, gay positive and support legalization of marijuana. I can't swallow the "sin-nature" concept, and would also like to assert that the "heretic" is necessary to healthy Christianity; but to most Christians, heretic means "the adversary," or the red guy with horns. If somebody with these beliefs can be considered a Christian, then here is my profession of faith. If not, then I'll see you in Hell, Miss Poppy!

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