The Atomic Priest XII

What good is it for a man to gain the whole world, yet forfeit his soul?
Mark 8:36 (New International Version)

What will you gain, if you own the whole world but destroy yourself?
Mark 8:36 (Contemporary English Version)

For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world, and forfeit his life [in the eternal kingdom of God]?
Mark 8:36 (Amplified Bible)

Above is the same passage [Mark 8:36] from three different versions of the Holy Bible--the third [Amplified Bible] being the most radically theologically than the latter two. Nevertheless, all three are absolute, their Source rooted in the Word. And all three refer to a singular issue whose underlying message is as similar in nature as the commonalities in versions are dissimilar. I am speaking of the one subject (both divisive and constructive) that shares a cultural and ethnic elusiveness in many modernized (and third world) societies in today's 21st century mentality.

Fatherhood.

There are no less underpinnings holding fatherhood together with a thin glaze of psychosocial glue than there are fathers in the world right now. That is not to bemoan the ideals of current views regarding fatherhood--nor to simplistically attempt to minimize fatherhood's impact on family dynamics by comparing or contrasting more traditionally held beliefs and individual ideologies supporting men and their roles--established or interpreted by participants in such ambiguities. Especially when it comes to better understanding seemingly ever-changing definitions and roles of men as fathers or dads.

***

I shall explain the difference between fathers and dads, for there really is a difference beyond the literate and illicit use of the terms; meaning, obviously, fathers used in grammatically proper terms, while dad appears less than alluring in such context--though both retain strikingly dynamic appeal to many American families.

In this fashion, ask a typical, Caucasian, suburban, upper middle-class, thirty-something housewife whether she is married to the father of her children or her kids' dad and she will, without hesitation, refer to her husband as "the father" of her children. Obviously! And if she is particularly snooty, she will flick (or snap) her pinkie finger from the slender, crystal neck of her de elegance wine glass while pointing to the exit of her fixed-rate stick-built estate with the white tip of her coke-powdered nose.

Similarly, in this fashion, ask a typical, Caucasian, RV "resort", socioeconomically depressed, thirty-something housewife whether she is married to the father of her children or her kids' dad and she will, without hesitation, refer to her husband as "that rotten, lazy, no-good, two-faced S.O.B." and, eventually, she will reluctantly reveal that he is, indeed, "the dad" of her kids. Damn straight! And if she has popped enough codeine to kill a small village in North Vietnam, she may invite you in for a cup of instant Yuban and leftovers from McDonald's.

(To be continued...)

The Atomic Priest XI

Back in 1996 I received a series of 12 ECT (Electroconvulsive therapy) treatments for major recurring depression with suicidal tendencies; this was the second time I was misdiagnosed. I was not properly diagnosed until 1998 at the Behavioral Health Center by a licensed, certified psychiatrist rather than a whack-a-doo. Earlier today I was browsing the internet for my father, who is considering ECT for schizophrenia, paranoid type. I discovered the following on a website [whose name shall be withheld for legal purposes]; please note the bold font...

***

Electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) is a procedure used to treat severe depression. It may be used in people with symptoms such as delusions, hallucinations, or suicidal thoughts or when other treatments such as psychotherapy and antidepressant medications have not worked. It is also used for other psychiatric and neurological conditions, such as schizophrenia and Parkinson’s disease. Electroconvulsive therapy is not indicated for bipolar disorder, schizoaffective anomolies, and/or illnesses discovered in the family of bipolar disorder(s) as such treatment often leads to severe loss of short- and long-term memory, morbidity and premature death.

Before ECT, you are given anesthesia to put you in a sleeplike state and medications to relax your muscles. Then an electrical current is briefly sent to the brain through electrodes placed on the temples or elsewhere on the head, depending on the condition and type of ECT. The electrical stimulation, which lasts up to 8 seconds, produces a short seizure. Because of anesthesia, the seizure activity related to ECT does not cause the body to convulse.

It is not known exactly how this brain stimulation helps treat depression. ECT probably works by altering brain chemicals (similarly to medications), including neurotransmitters like serotonin, natural pain relievers called endorphins, and catecholamines such as adrenalin.

ECT treatments are usually done 2 to 3 times a week for 2 to 3 weeks. Maintenance treatments may be done one time each week, tapering down to one time each month. They may continue for several months to a year, to reduce the risk of relapse. ECT is usually given in combination with medication, psychotherapy, family therapy, and behavioral therapy.

***

Whew! Golly! That was a close call!

I never did sue S******** P********** for nearly killing me, destroying my memory, etc. Plus there's this whole thing about a statute of limitations and--oh, yeah--that waiver I signed promising not to sue if they *ahem!* accidentally murdered me. Oops! Even when I don't really try, I am kind of a nice guy. No. Actually, I am more sociopathic than anything--given the way I compartmentalize just about everything [and everyone] in my life, it really is a wonder I'm not doing time in the Q right about now, being raped and beaten on a regular basis, impulsively smacking large men on dares for ten Salem Lights 100's (or Salem Gold Box 100's, which is what those cigarettes with REFRESHING MENTHOL are called now), only to have my brains served to me on the bathroom wall.

[ (A special psalm by David.) ] [ The Joy of Forgiveness ] Our God, you bless everyone whose sins you forgive and wipe away. --Psalm 32:1 (Contemporary English Version)

That is true, and it's a Psalm I try to live my life by. Holding a grudge against those doctors will not bring my memory back; it will not improve my ability to recall information--other than automatic information, like riding a bike, driving a car, making love, kissing, forming interpersonal relationships, public speaking, basic math and English skills. And I have not forgiven those quacks because I hope to receive God's blessings. Their sins (in this case messing up my brain, scrambling my eggs, killing my memory) have been forgiven. Why? Because my sins have also been forgiven--wiped away.

I suppose I brought the subject up for the same reasons I occasionally ruminate about my ex-girlfriends--there is a childish, immature part of my personality that has not grown and matured enough to completely let go. That is why I ask God to forgive me my sins, and forgive those who sin against me. I am incapable of doing so myself. Yes, of course I understand that rumination goes along with bipolar disorder. Perhaps I can't help it; perhaps that is a weak excuse to continue the behavior. I don't know. There are times when I wish those batty psychiatrists (so-called) would return with their ECT equipment, hook me up, and give me the juice again.

Then again, the thought of suffering through those infernal headaches is enough to provide cause for reflection and determination.

The Atomic Priest X

During the course of [late] this morning, I took the liberty of evaluating some solutions to the issue of my blog, the Atomic Priest. I came up with fifteen subsequent ideas, ranging from ridiculously basic to delusional grandiosity--a symptomatic aspect of bipolar disorder quite normal within the framework of its abnormality. (That's like waxing philosophic about theology while grounding your thoughts in atheism.)

***

Good morning. It is presently 4:33 AM PST and I have gone without adequate sleep now for about fifty-one hours. Stephen King wrote a wonderful, dark horse novel about this condition called, Insomnia. Excellent novel; great read.

You never really get used to insomnia. After a while it becomes something like a broken-down old friend who keeps coming around and just won't go away for whatever the reason. Still, you let him in your room every night and he sleeps quietly next to you, buzzing like a hive of restless politicians on the eve of some great American election. He is so excited that you become feverish over his aufregung and decide, well, to heck with the whole business! Getting up out of bed is no longer a chore--in fact you are sort of looking forward to it; at least until you crash between 11 AM and 2 PM. If such an event happens at all. There are those of us manics out there who simply refuse to crash at all. We figure, diable! who cares? Eventually, we will fall asleep. It is inevitable.

(I wanted to spend a moment on my NDE that took place on December 22, 1992; I have received several hundred emails requesting more information regarding the physical aspects of heaven. What did Jesus ask? "What is the kingdom of God like? What shall I compare it to? It is like a mustard seed, that a man took and planted in his garden. It grew, became a tree, and the birds of the air perched in its branches."

Again He asked, "What shall I compare the kingdom of God to? It is like yeast that a woman took and mixed into a large amount of flour until it worked all through the dough." [Luke 13:18-21]

Using a biblical context makes sense to me because there is no earthly way of explaining it. Still, keep those emails coming! You have all given me some fantastic ideas for the Atomic Priest and, believe me, I do appreciate all your support during these hectic times.)

Here are some of the blog ideas I'd like to share with you from the hundreds of followers who took the time to email me...

• Re-publish my poems from poetry.com. Right here! On my blog!
• Advertise my blog on Twitter [if that is allowed].
• List random thoughts--kinda like Twitter...
• Keep my blog family friendly. A little weird, but still PG.
• Factoids on Frank ('Ol Blue Eyes)
• The Atomic Priest's Daily Top Five
• The Atomic Priest's Daily Top Ten
• Bottom Feeders: Worst People Making News Today
• Healing a Nation: What We Can Do to Fix America
• The Atomic Priest Explains the Bible
• The Atomic Priest Explains Ufology
• The Atomic Priest Explains ...?
• The Universe According to the Atomic Priest
• Ask Dr. Psyche: Advice on Living with Bipolar Disorder
• World History According to the Atomic Priest
• American History According to the Atomic Priest

Thank you everyone! I need to get some research done, however, I doubt Lulu Poetry (what was once poetry.com!) will mind if I re-publish some of my works.

But are you absolutely certain you want world and/or American history taught by the Atomic Priest?

Just wondering.

By the way--hang in there, morris.d! Please believe me, life is not that bad! Besides, banana cream pies are too valuable to waste on your ex!

The Atomic Priest IX

(A continuation of the Atomic Priest VIII...)

Something about those who claim to love me turning their backs on me.

Why?

Why?

***

Now it occurs to me that nothing comes free in this life: there is a price tag connected to everything and--seemingly--just about everyone. That is the way our culture works, which may answer my question: why? Well, why not? Am I truly loved by those who claim to love me, or is it just another bag of steaming...uh...yeah, well, you know...?

It may just be my imagination, but I have thought since I was very young and quite impressionable that there is nothing more valuable and sacred than love. Perhaps I was conditioned that way; perhaps it has more to do with the sign under which I was born. Though I don't believe being a Pisces has as much to do with it as being a human being, a person who does not place price tags on friendship or love.

***

Back on track, now.

After my death and subsequent resurrection (if you wish to call it that), I became aware--after healing up following God knows how many months of painful recovery (I think it was about three)--that I had changed both inside and out. I began a very strict cardiovascular work-out and diet regime consisting of lots of pasta, high protein (two Taco Bell Bean Burritos every other day), and white rice. Plenty of water followed each work-out on my exercise bike (I really miss that exercise bike), as well as a thirty- to forty-minute shower, cleansing the sweat and debris from my body. I always felt a lot better after those workouts. Revived. Complete.

I could no longer handle eating the flesh of animals. I was a vegetarian, a workout freak (yes, you can become just as easily addicted to workouts as you can anything else), and a man on a mission. I wanted to complete my Associate's Degree in English and move on to the university level where I would eventually become either a writer or a lawyer or both.

In late-February of 1994, I had gone from 325 pounds (December 1992) to 175 pounds. Wow. I know, right?

But that is when I met D***** B****, who I fell for very hard. We made out a lot and had some fun, but that only lasted a month. Plus, she was an Aries and, well, Aries chicks and Pisces dudes just don't mix that well. Then, not much later, I met A*** T******, a Russian student from Sochi who basically went out with me for sixteen months--though I don't think she went out for my heart, my body, or my wonderful personality. Looking back on it now, I am pretty certain she went out with me for my wallet. And, brother, did she max out my credit cards!

Water under the bridge.

By 2001 I had essentially given up on looking for a woman in my life, although I prayed every chance I got. Seriously. That was around the time I met my wife. Isn't life funny? You think you've gotten beyond something only to find you have not even begun. This was the woman with three beautiful children I was told about while in the presence of God. Her name is Jo, and we are still married to this day. We are, in fact, getting ready to celebrate our seventh wedding anniversary on September 13, 2009.

You will read more and more about Jo in forthcoming blogs right here--same blog time, same blog channel.

So far, that's my life. I lived, died, lived again, went out with two chicks, married a woman, and find myself wondering what the future holds for me. I guess we'll find out soon enough.

The Atomic Priest VIII

(A Continuation of The Atomic Priest II...)

And since isolation has always been my greatest fear, it was comforting to learn that I would not pass on alone.

Now many near death experiences eventually come around to explaining how the individual [soul] embarks on his or her journey back into the host body--the vessel which contains the soul, one of the great mysteries of God. Some explain instantaneous arrival back into the vessel while other explain a sort of trip backwards from the breath of God to Earth itself.

Much like my life, my transition back into human form was rather mundane, something like a dream within a dream, as Edgar Allan Poe once described. When I opened my eyes I was oblivious to any real pain. They had enough morphine pumping through me to dull that obviously dreadful aspect of the human condition. What I do recall with absolute clarity is my mother's face looking down at me--swollen, red, wet, inconsolable, surprised, tired, worried. My father's countenance was similar, however, I detected a kind of rage that only fathers whose sons have been lost to the bastardization of the practice of medicine can endure. Still, they were both relieved; they both spoke coherently enough for me to make out the following words and expressions: love, we love you, oh my God, we love you.

And then I saw my surgeon and heard what he had to say. Now, you may think that my surgeon, a certain Dr. D*********, would have shared similar feelings and emotive responses--similar to the thoughts of gratitude and/or horror my parents carried within their hearts and minds. But this was not the case. As is the fact with too many surgeons and doctors and praticiens de médecine these days, Dr. D. [let's call him Dr. D., shall we?] had little to offer in the ballpark of emotional response because, let's face it--he is (or was) a doctor, a person who practices medicine like a rancher slaughtering so many cattle to meet his status quo, his quota for the month, the year, the lifetime his license allows him to practice under the tenure of his time as such--Dr. D. really didn't give a rat's tooth whether I lived, died, went insane, or sued him collectively following either or the other. It was no skin off his nose or the noses of his sterling team of human-devouring lawyers. No. So...when I saw my surgeon and heard what he had to say in his broken English, a language secondary to his native tongue of Phillapino, it really didn't strike me as anything beyond a poor joke.

"Richard!" he exclaimed with a plastic smile only Seventh-Day Adventists can achieve (after years and years of practice, naturally): "Richard! You are alive!"

And for some reason I attempted to smile back through the tubes running down my nose and throat and respond in kind.

But I just didn't have the strength. Nor did I care. I just wanted to turn back and head Home. Because it was at that moment that one of the many things God spoke to me came flooding back when I watched the tears run down my mother's face, nose, cheeks, and dribble from her chin. It was something He said to me that I was unable to shake loose.

"It will not be easy. But I will always be with you."

What won't be easy? And why?

And Lord God...how is it that You will always be with me when You've got so much to do?

And when can I come back Home?

There was something else as well.

Something about those who claim to love me turning their backs on me.

Why?

Why?

(To be continued...)

The Atomic Priest VII

(The picture to the right is my wife, my Soul Mate, Jo Ann, who typically uses the screen persona, Jolie.)

I feel sick. But this is a good sick. Like I'm going to puke. Wretch. Vomit. I probably won't, but I feel like I'm going to. I have not taken any Methadone in over 52 hours. Oh, yeah. About that...

See, a while back--let's say 2004 for the sake of argument--I fell off the back of my brother-in-law's back porch. I admit, it was my fault, but the back of my skull came within millimeters of slamming into the edge of an engine crane. That would have hurt like hell. Instead, my lower left lumbar took the brunt of the fall. Now, rewind the clock to April of 1997. I was involved in a multi-vehicular collision (my fault...) which sucked big time. That had also done some damage to my spine. Now I live with degenerative arthritis, two slipped disks, and a herniated disk in my lower back...not to mention considerable pain from stress. A lot of stress.

Of course I have tried physical therapy. (Perhaps I will try it again; I don't think I gave it enough time.) In any event I am under-medicated. Grossly so. Seventy milligrams of Methadone per day is simply not enough and it will certainly not be enough once I begin an intensive physical therapy regime. My dad had already started physical therapy and he has also found himself in more pain, visa vi he requires more Methadone as a result.

I have been hinting around to my primary care physician now for quite some time to edge me up from seventy milligrams of Methadone a day to one hundred milligrams of Methadone per day. Seventy milligrams of Methadone per day is not enough. It isn't even in a therapeutic range, for God's sake. The therapeutic range of Methadone within a 24-hour period for a man my size is actually 120 milligrams--not 70. Any doctor worth his salt knows that. Just check Web M.D. or look up Methadone under (what's the name of that site?)--oh, yeah...Wikipedia! That's the one! Incredible information about Methadone there! They actually suggest anywhere from 80 to 140 milligrams of Methadone per day!

And why the hell not? I am not only in grievous pain, I am also a drug addict. No! Jesus. I don't do street drugs, however, I have been popping opioid narcotic painkillers now since I had my gal bladder operation way back in 1992--you know, the one that killed me. The one that I didn't sue Adventist Health over. Ever since then I got the taste for painkillers, I have done some remarkably stupid things to keep my drug addiction going. So my problem is two-fold; I definitely need painkillers (at least I have convinced myself of such) for my lower left lumbar, but I am addicted to the very thing that keeps me out of pain--the very thing that allows me to live a somewhat normal life. Additionally, my metabolism is quite rapid, though you wouldn't think so by looking at my body. I'm a big guy, a large man whose presence tends to frighten people, although that is the last thing I want to do. I love people, and that is a fact that even the Holy Spirit will attest to. Just pray about it. You'll find out by actually talking to me and giving me a chance. I am a good man. I am a remarkably nice fellow.

Please understand: I am not your usual junkie. I am, in fact, a human being who, through a series of events as far beyond my ability to control as the stars are from my naked eyes, I became embroiled in what so many human beings living in the United States of America--in particular, but in no way limited to such--wish to avoid. If it were possible, believe me (please believe me), I would go back in time and undo all of the things I have done to my body. I suppose I would have begged God while with Him to keep me. I would have committed suicide in order to remain with the Lord and avoid returning to this world. Knowing God, however, it would not have worked. You see, God wanted me to return, to help raise this family with this beautiful wife; to complete the mission, if you will, to do my part to help complete the underground salvation of the Earth without seeming insane.

But now it is far too late. I have come too far. So it is time to do what I can to explain the remainder of what you ought to know about me; it is time to do what I can to explain the remainder of what you ought to know about December 21, 2012 without coming off as a complete idiot.

Please read the Atomic Priest VIII & IX for further details. In those blogs I shall pursue what remains of my life following our arrival in California. Between now and the time the good Lords chooses to take me Home once and for all, I shall do everything in my power to make sense of a particularly senseless life up until now--not counting tomorrow or the time following; that is, if time exists at all, about which I have my doubts.

I no longer feel quite so sick anymore. Just weak.

The Atomic Priest VI

(On December 1, 1996 I was baptized a Christian in the First Baptist Church here in our community. As time progressed I discovered that I had some disagreements with the church regarding certain issues that my pastor was never able to clear up with me beyond accepting certain ideas on faith. For example, I asked him what would happen to the six million (some reports state as many as ten million) Jewish human beings slaughtered during the Second World War, to wit my minister replied, "Well, that's not for us to decide; it's for God to judge when Christ returns." That did not settle well with me and I decided that I would not return to church until I had settled that theological and existential struggle within myself first. It has been nearly thirteen years and--although I am satisfied that the Jews [as well as the mentally disabled] are the first to enter the Kingdom of Heaven--the mystic in me is still traveling along, seeking answers to other questions the church cannot answer to my full satisfaction. Nevertheless, I came upon an HBO documentary on Google Video and YouTube called, "Soldiers in the Army of God" and--well--I just had to offer my layman's opinion regarding this extraordinary film. In seven parts, of course. Here, then, are my responses.)

1.

I have just completed watching this remarkable HBO documentary ["Soldiers in the Army of God"] and found it as disturbing as it is troubling. It is important, however, to keep in mind that we are looking at a camp of thought with the Soldiers in the Army of God movement that does not represent the church as a whole or mainstream Christianity. God commands clearly, "You will not kill." I consider myself a Christian mystic to certain degrees; I consider myself a saved, baptized Baptist...

2.

I consider myself a saved, baptized Baptist...[b]ut I am also pro-choice. I wholeheartedly support and defend a woman's right to choose. Yes, I do favor encouraging options other than viewing abortion as a form of birth control. In that aspect I'm definitely pro-life. Still, attempting to remove a woman's right to have an abortion (regardless of her reason(s) for doing so) is against the law and woefully against Scripture. Resorting to terrorism and violence in an effort to end abortion...

3.

Resorting to terrorism and violence in an effort to end abortion...[is] absolutely horrific and has no place whatsoever in Christianity--or in any other dynamic of society, for that matter. Certainly not in the culture procured and elevated by the United States of America (or any other nation striving to eventually call itself totally, completely free). It is particularly distressing when you consider the historical significance of America's basis of existence: Christianity--freedom of...

4.

Christianity--freedom of...[religion]; or, at the very least, the inalienable right to pursue religious and/or spiritual ambitions without bringing harm to other human beings resulting from propagating violent mores. In the case of this cult, Soldiers in the Army of God, one may understand their pseudo-providence--their "divine superintendence"--without digging much deeper than some of their seriously mentally ill leaders. The acts of violence and murder committed by such radicals is as...

5.

[...]committed by such radicals is as...atrocious as the nineteen radical Islamic extremists who--doing the bidding of OBL on September 11, 2001--suicide-bombed the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and tried to take out the White House, too! A terrorist [or a group of terrorists] is the same, no matter the guise he (or she) may assume. That is why the cult of the Soldiers in the Army of God ought to be considered a terrorist organization--nothing more, nothing less. Anyone associated with these...

6.

Anyone associated with these...[creeps] posing as radical, pro-life Christians should be questioned thoroughly (to the fullest extent of the law)--even if they are merely somewhat associated with any of these reprehensible jackals. I pray the United States government leans heavily on its programs and policies implemented as a result of the Patriot Act, utilizing Homeland Security objectively to process what has obviously evolved into a network of terror cells whose clearly defined purpose...

7.

...[Whose clearly defined methodology] includes (without limitation) the recruitment of like-minded individuals, psychiatric and physiological training, hyper-extensive social networking within the parameters of a specific racial, gender-specific, and socioeconomic class whose intensive climate renders newly approached recruits [almost] incapable of leaving before their minds are completely formatted to commit terrorist acts in the name of the group dynamic: Soldiers in the Army of God. © 2009

***

(Soldiers in the Army of God is available for viewing at http://www.youtube.com in seven parts.)

The Atomic Priest V

My eldest [step-]son, Jonathon, is graduating tonight from high school. He is eighteen and will be nineteen in August. When asked what his goals are following graduation, I typically get a blank stare. I'm uncertain most high school graduates in small towns (at least 85-90%) know what their futures hold. So it is not at all shocking to realize that Jon is without goals at this point in his life.

Albeit, he is very excited about his graduation tonight and, well, I think we'll leave it at that.

The Atomic Priest IV

There is nothing more annoying than your seventeen year-old daughter attempting to procure your attention by singing off-key to music you cannot hear (which may be for the best).

All she has to do is approach me and say, "Dad, I'd like to talk to you."

Wouldn't that be easier than allowing her hormones to get the best of her?

I mean, why not?

Anyway--my eldest son is graduating high school tomorrow night at 7:30 PST. I've got mixed feelings about it, as I am certain any parent would. I cann't bring myself to congratulate him, to let him know how proud of him I truly am--my biggest fear is he will join the armed services since there is little or nothing left for him to pursue in such a small community like this one. Unless he is willing to work at Wal*Mart as an associate, junior college is out of the question since Cal Grants are dead (thanks, Arnold) and financial aid like student loans require pay-back, of course. But does he want that monkey on his back right now, especially since he has no post-high school goals established beyond playing X-Box 360 all summer and "winging it" after summer melts into fall.

No child left behind is a joke.

And he really ought to consider moving out of this vacuum while he still has the chance.

Let me tell you: being the parent(s) of a high school graduate from the California public school system is a lot like playing Russian roulette. You're screwed no matter what.

I cannot help having sympathy for the boy.

In addition, California--as well as the federal government--needs to re-tool its laws which mandate eighteen as the legal age of adulthood in the United States of America.

Our son may be eighteen, but he is not even close to being a man. As a late-bloomer, I don't expect him to develop into a man until he is 32 or 36. (And even that estimate is glaringly liberal, based on not only my own experiences raising him but on his behavior both physiologically and psychiatrically, as well.)

Best thing my wife and I can do right now?

Pray.

The Atomic Priest III

[I will continue my brief biography, however, I have something to share with those of you who actually take the time to read my blog--whoever you may be.]

My wife and I received the following form letter addressed to all parents of our son's grammar school entitled, "K-8 Program Survey Results - Parents".

Please keep in mind that my wife and I did not participate in this so-called "survey" for our son's school. The following does, unfortunately, represent a small sample of the thinking currently taking place in California public school, at least in our district.

1. What is appropriate touching for boys/girls?

a. no touching - 66%
b. holding hands - 32%
c. kissing - 1%

My deconstruction of the following comments [shall appear in brackets] for your entertainment. Ahem!

Comments:

* By touching, this is how violations happen. [What exactly is meant by "touching"? Does that mean if a little girl puts ribbons in another little girl's hair that is somehow a "violation"? And what is meant by "violations"? My son was physically playing in the field with another little boy yesterday afternoon. Is that a violation? A violation of what, exactly?] You can't trust anybody. [Really? Are we to teach our children such sick principles? What are the end results of teaching our kids that "you can't trust anybody"? Does this mean they should avoid class because, according to their way of processing thoughts and ideas, they cannot (or should not) trust their teachers?] Also they easily can get lice by being too close. [Lice? From whom? Wouldn't it be a good idea to de-lice children before they begin school? What are the chances--realistically--of getting lice because you come in contact with another student (or teacher)?]

* Children at this age need to learn to keep their hands to themselves. [I agree with this to an extent.] If it's holding hands for buddies in line or something, then that's different. [But doesn't that directly contradict the whole "You can't trust anybody" idea? What about school children learning to keep their hands to themselves--which I agree with to an extent? Isn't that also a direct contradiction to the comments resulting from the three questions posed to parents about touching, holding hands, and kissing?]

* No physical contact between a boy/girl should be allowed. [It is common sense: if you tell boys and girls that they are not allowed to do something, chances are they will find a way to do it anyway. Kids are naturally defiant. It's their way of communicating independence and willful, extraordinary thoughts of their own; it's their way of growing and learning about what is right and wrong without having to be told.]

* As an adult, we cannot hold hands and kiss in the workplace. [That's "as an adult"--not as a child who is growing and learning for himself. Stop projecting your adult standards onto children, you sick, depraved individuals!] We must always maintain a safe & comfortable environment. [Yes! Finally! Now that is a thought I can totally agree with! It's about time!]

The comments go on and on, many of them repeating what has already been explained. The psychological projections of so many single mothers pining for a way to return to their "glory days" and undo the damage they wrought upon themselves by choosing to get pregnant at such an early age is despicible, sad, depraved, wrong, and damned trashy. I feel sorry for these single moms, yes; however, I feel especially sorry for their children, kids whose lives are defined by what Mommy wants, which is to live some wretched fantasy vicariously through their own kids. That is just terrible.

It is not our kids who need to be policed. It's us, we the parents, who need to police ourselves. "Leave those kids alone!" as Pink Floyd sang.

Even Jesus said, "Anyone who leads these children astray[...]it would be better for them if a block of cement were tied around their neck and they were dropped into the deepest part of the ocean." The Lord knew what He was talking about; Christianity teaches us to love and respect our children. If we do not, we are truly lost.

"What a terrible thing to lose." ELO sang that.

Think about it.

The Atomic Priest II

You could sum up my life in three parts--childhood, young adulthood, and adulthood.

My childhood was a rather mundane swirl of hypersensitivity, emotional and physical brutality and the mouths and hands of other children, a lot of moving around (even after my family arrived in California we moved quite a bit). Dickensian at times, my parents both struggled to make ends meet; I recall with crystal clarity the hellacious arguments they had about paying the bills while simultaneously handling two daughters and a bipolar son whose illness--though detected--had yet to be diagnosed and properly treated with medication and psychiatric therapy.

My young adulthood was two-fold. Firstly, as soon as I turned eighteen I left the house after being misdiagnosed with schizophrenia. The apartment I lived in was more like a holding cell for the criminally insane and, since I could not handle the medications prescribed to me (Navane, Thorazine, as well as other colorfully old-school anti-psychotics) I began self-medicating with Benedryl and--eventually--alcohol. I slept most days, forcing myself into stupors with over-the-counter medications, malt liquor, whiskey, wine, beer...whatever I could get my hands on. Whatever did the trick. Whatever knocked me cold.

Secondly, I attended college. Local junior college at first, followed by university (1994) after I graduated with an Associate's Degree in English.

Then I died.

On December 22, 1992 I was pronounced dead at approximately 7 AM. My parents had accompanied me to the hospital where surgery was performed to remove my gal bladder [which had become riddled with gal stones] laproscopically. The individual responsible for administering my anasthetic made the mortal mistake of combining the wrong ingredients, creating a highly toxic poison whose implications meant death shortly after placing me under the knife. As soon as they were informed that I was dead, they both went into shock. To the best of my recollection, I was told that my mother began to cry uncontrollably. My father held her. Several doctors were called in to attempt to bring me back and calm my parents down. But that is what I was told. To the best of my recollection.

I was dead for half an hour.

But, to me, it felt more like forever.

I hovered above myself as the scampering figures around the table worked overtime to bring my body back to life. But my interest in what was happening vanished when I looked upwards at the ceiling, moved through it, sailed far above the hospital, and swooped up further into darkness and stars, tiny diamonds glimmering, pulsating, moving and breathing with life. At once the universe seemed to stop its rotation--then all the stars went counter-clockwise. Slowly at first. Then rapidly until a tunnel appeared from my location to a very bright light, an illumination so brilliant there are no words in any language--in any vocabulary--to describe it. Swiftly, peacefully, lovingly, I entered the light and felt myself within the presence of what some have described as the breath of God.

Personally, however, my own experience did not include the spirits [or souls] of loved ones long-since passed away, or even angels; my own experience included me and God. That was it. And God essentially let me know that it was definitely not my time. I had a mission to complete. I would be married with three children to help raise. I would make a lot of friends and, when it was my time to go, I would do so in the presence of many good friends and family. And since isolation has always been my greatest fear, it was comforting to learn that I would not pass on alone.

(To be continued...)

The Atomic Priest I

The Atomic Priest I

About myself (in brief): Born March 18, 1970 in Manchester, Connecticut to Roy Neil George and Enid Rose Mitchell-George, I was named Richard Clark George after some relatives and, well, gosh, it just sounded fun to give me three first names. We lived in Boston, Massachusetts for a spell until my father transferred from the U.S. Navy into the U.S. Coast Guard and we moved to Tampa, Florida. From there we moved to Mobile, Alabama--my parents, me, and my two sisters: Marjorie Elizabeth George (born two years after me) and Julie Anna Christine George (born two years before me). My father left Coast Guard service and, in 1979, we all moved to northern California.

Now, two weeks before moving from the college community where my father had been attending business school in Mobile, Alabama my family was playing around with a Ouji Board. According to God, who spoke to us through the Ouji Board (apparently) our family had exactly fourteen days in which to pack up and move west. When we asked why, one-by-one the strings on my dad's string art sailing ship plucked from their prospective nails. We were convinced when, quite suddenly, the entire work of art fell from the wall, hitting the bare floor with such verocity that the quarter-inch glass covering the frame shattered.

We had our Buick gassed and packed less than two weeks later, a U-Haul hitched to the bumber, and little more than what money we made from our moving sale set aside for food, lodging, personal necessities, and emergencies. Needless to say, we left the Ouji Board behind.

The trip from Alabama to California in late-August/early-September 1979 was frought with the usual set-backs but, once we reached San Jose, California and rented a cheap motel room for the night, it became very obvious that our trip out west had not been in vain. The faith we had as a family back then kept us from enduring the single worst hurricane in Mobile, Alabama's recorded history, a monster of a storm that wiped out the little college community in which we lived. Totally. Absolutely.

The State of Alabama suffered its worst natural disaster in recorded history when Hurricane Frederic, whose winds blasted the coast and inland areas with sustained gusts up to and surpassing (in some cases) 130-mph, slammed onland. Since the hurricane smashed into our prior residence at night, it made evacuating far more difficult, claiming lives and causing innumerous injuries.

According to our previous neighbors, the home we had been renting in Mobile, Alabama was "a total loss" and we were assured that our lives would have "certainly been lost" if we had remained there.

Thanks to our faith in God and a silly Ouji Board, every member of my family is alive today and living right here in the Golden State.