The Cerebral Catalyst

Hey, I hope everyone had a nice Easter; I know I did, or at least I would have if I gave a shit about it. The fact is that I don't think I'm a heathen or anything for saying it, but holidays just don't mean the same when you're an adult, especially if you were a spoiled child, which I most certainly was. I can't say enough about spoiling your kids, man, you're better off throwing little Billy out the house when he hits about nine, no more pussyfooting around. Show him exactly what's up, because the fairy tale has to end sometime. Or maybe I'm just grumpy because for the fifteenth year in a row there was no damn egg hunt. Hell, this year my aunts didn't even make hard-boiled eggs; there just wasn't anyone to color them, the little girl who lives next door decided to boycott. I could have at least gone for pickled eggs, because for some reason you can't have beets or beet-related products on the South Beach Diet, which I was planning on starting for the third time after this glorious Easter feast (And as I write this I'm on day three and finding myself craving my mom's shitty homemade lemonade, I'm so starved for sugar, but chicken salads with balsamic vinegar are good, and beans are good too). But before the feast we hit Easter mass and if I was deeper into sadism I could quote a litany of my past church experiences to you, but you're lucky I've had my coffee.

My parents and I (me armed with my Discman and in it a copy of Dylan's Blood on the Tracks blaring so I couldn't hear the monotonous palaver of talk show radio and feeling like I was sixteen again with my head slumped down trying to disappear in the seat cushions) went to mass at the Immaculate Conception church in Connellsville. If you know anything about William Connell's little burgh, it doesn't bear repeating, and I do so I won't repeat anything other to say that it's like Pittsburgh wiped with a dirty dishrag and it has about 1/100th of the population, the population itself thinking Pittsburgh is more like New York than New York is itself. This church is of note because they've had some of the strangest characters to pass for middlemen/priests I've ever seen in my life.

When I went there as a child they had a priest who was about a hundred and shouted one time at these kids that they were sinning in the lord's house when they cried out; I think it was a brother and sister fighting over a teddy bear. When he sang it was so nasal I was waiting for a huge snot rocket to shoot out, but there was some bizarre musicality to his voice; it was a cross between a corpse leaning on the car's horn after a major pileup and a gurgling washing machine mixed with a melancholy sweetness Jim Morrison never quite got.

The second priest of note looked like Groucho Marx and he had the nerve to say to me "why so glum in the lord's house?" when I was sitting in the back with mom and dad with the collar of my black leather trench-coat turned up so I didn't have to see anyone and I could perfect my angst. What did I do? Look hard into his eyes and tell him to go fuck himself, I didn't need any middleman, mind your business? Did I even just ignore him? No, I smiled a big smile, a big one so fake you wonder if it's real and where the hell did that come from. And my mom giggled along and said something like "He's always so gloomy" and then he said "Cheer up, this is the day the lord has made." Absolute rubbish. Give me "Horse Feathers" any day over this glorified ventriloquist dummy.

And mark the third priest as the exact epitome of everything I despise about the Catholic Church, but not quite. This guy is soft, I mean he looks about three fifty; think Ignacious J. Reilly without the mustache and just about as pretentious and fastidious. I look at him and I think, I get it, he's getting fat off of that offertory money, I think about that old muckraking cartoon about the trusts with the fat pigs rolling around in and eating money like it was swill. And this is a man of god? He is also the main priest at the church my parents go to every Sunday. Well the church is at a nun commune type thing and mass starts at 8 a.m. but you have to get there at a quarter past seven so you're assured of a seat because there are only six pews. So when we would go, the nuns would still be reciting their vespers and singing songs in that droning voice where there's always a few off key and it would really freak me out; I felt like I was losing my self, that I was possessed. Moved by the spirit some would say, but man it was scary.

The last couple of times when I happened to be home I went with my parents, I'm over arguing about not going — I just go for the material now and I recommend it as a test of your beliefs. If you haven't been to church in a while, I suggest this one; it really increases the guilt factor in your life. This priest gave one of the most archaic sermons I've heard in a while, something about "how dare science say the eye is an organ", and that "the power of god is what makes us see", and no he wasn't trying to be all poetic and shit, he was just trying to get us all caught up in mystical mumbo jumbo. I have eyes and I know how they work, and they've probably seen a lot of things they shouldn't have. This guy sweats; he's up there like a piggy at the roast but I'm sweating too because I'm thinking about going to hell because I can't stand any of this shit, again more catholic guilt. At the end he stands outside and shakes your hand and he has the limpest fucking wet noodle handshake you could have, and I can't stand that. You judge a character of a man by his handshake, and this guy was weak, let's say like a puppet limping its involuntary furry hand over yours. This is who was at the helm on Easter Sunday.

We were early this time for church, which is rare but auspicious I would suppose because during these times I scan around for girls, women, whatever. Maybe it's wrong to think about such things in a religious setting but I can't help it, I scan like that everywhere. I saw a couple of people who went to my high school, one girl whose mother spoke in our gym about faith and abstinence, two things I know a lot about but not by choice. Let's say I have faith that at some point in time I won't be forced to abstain. We sat in the last pew (hiding from something?) in the middle, a primo seat until other people had to come in and push us near a family with toddlers who love to whine and wiggle through the mass like they know something most parishioners don't. I was sandwiched in the middle of my parents and was feeling still in that time warp "what the fuck am I doing aren't I an adult" kind of mood, waiting for the shit to be over. I try to be tolerant of other peoples' beliefs — nothing I ever learned in Catholicism — so when I go to church with them I always pick up a hymnal and pretend to follow along. It's the same my dad has done for as long as I can remember, so if it's good enough for him, then I guess it's okay for me.

First thing the fat sweaty priest does is say we should all turn to the people around us and wish them a happy Easter. Why? Who gave you the power? You're the puppet, not us. Don't make me act like it. I don't do anything; I don't turn and say anything to strangers. Why should I? I'll probably never see these people again and there's no point in putting on a face. Not to say I'm not friendly, but there has to be a purpose. I choose to be friendly; I don't jump at some tabby's bark.

After everyone shakes hands and makes nice, the priest starts talking about how this is truly the day the lord has made, and we should be thankful that he died for our sins. I never got that. You're telling me it could have been worse? If I were never born, then I never would have suffered; if I never existed there wouldn't be any reason to bother.

The mass passes in its usual sluggish fashion until the homily. My chubby puppet starts in with the usual shit, tells some stupid joke about being a Christian is like being in god's army and that the people who only go to church on holidays are in the secret service, Ha Ha, laugh riot. I believe that my faith is no one else's business and I don't walk around saying look how holy I am, etc etc, which is a big hang-up for a lot of Catholics. He then went into some shit about the devil, and how the dark prince loves it when people don't go to church, how he sits in his lair and cackles and cracks his knuckles stroking the heads of the hounds of hell. Don't you love scapegoats? That way we can blame every base human emotion on something else. Then he says, "let's really give that devil a kick in the pants as we renew our baptismal promises." And it dawns on me that this is the part I always dread. In some ways I can accept the concept of the devil, at least the struggle between good and evil at least inside a person's heart, so in past times I thought of it like that and participated. This time I really felt on the spot, and my mother was staring right at me as we stood to renew the promises.

"Do you renounce Satan?"

I said nothing.

"And all his pomp…"

Nothing.

"Do you believe in God, the father, maker of heaven and Earth…"

Nothing again.

All the while she looks at me as if I'm Satan himself without all the minions and pomp. What would I do with minions anyway? I'm anxious, but it doesn't feel like I'm condemned, more like I'd made a stand. Then the priest makes his procession around the church to inundate us all in holy water. He skipped over us? I whisper to my dad, "I guess he knows what's going on over here." I don't think he heard me. No joking in church. Pay attention. I'm gun-shy until the droplets hit me, thanking God they don't sizzle through my skin.

When we come to the sign of the peace, I shake my mother's hand and my father's with a big smile on my face, not faked. I love my parents and I wish they were more tolerant, I wish I didn't have to feel like I have to crawl in the closet when I'm around them. I don't know if Catholicism is to blame for this, I sure don't feel like a bad person.

The real riot comes before communion, when our tub of guts says into the mike, "A lot of people like to leave now, but not in our parish I hope." I look at my dad and think, now's the time to leave. My mother gives us both a stern look, but in the end when it's time for our row to get up we all just slither towards the back and out the door.

On the way to my aunts' house I'm listening to Blood on the Tracks again, the song "Idiot Wind" is on and I think about how it relates to a lot of what you hear in church. It's a lot of people standing in one place and reciting other people's words and thinking about lofty shit that rarely gets you through a day on earth expecting rewards because of that, a lot of superstition really. As if under one roof, faith means more than under another roof. They tell you the right "Christian" way to act in church, but most people tune that out. They want the rewards with none of the effort. Most people pray but never act. Prayer is not action; actions are what matter to me, in the end all philosophy amounts to is idle chatter, B.S. like the morning's talkshow radio drone. But I'm a hypocrite because I love to bullshit all the time, sometimes just to hear the sound of my voice and reassure myself that I can think and form words.

The Easter meal is good enough, I have three plates full, but there is something lacking. We used to have big gatherings with every chapter of each side of our family. Now it's segregated, and most of those people it occurs to me are dead. My mom tries to tell stories about people she knows who are dying, wants to talk about bodily functions and everything you just don't want to hear at the table. My parents and three of my aunts are sitting at the table, and for some reason the conversation turns to shoplifting; one of my aunts works at Target. She talks about how important it is to protect the merchandise and I'm thinking, yes it is to keep your job, but ultimately why care? They should just have robots there instead, that's what they want you to be anyway. But I don't say this yet because she talks about how one time a woman looking about sixty took three pairs of bras into a fitting room and came back with only two and lifted up her shirt plopped down the two on hangers and said "I'll take this one" nearly pressing her deflated balloon breasts in my aunt's face. What a great place to work.

So then I lay my big philosophy on them, I've been feeling real antagonistic lately without cigarettes and having to sit through that facade of worship puts me over the edge and I philosophize with a touch of venom and they take it the wrong way. Or maybe they've just been brainwashed to think that freethinking is a tool of the devil. But in the end, we come to a mock agreement that one has to protect the store's merchandise but one doesn't have to enjoy doing it. There's a real tentative peace between all of us, and they don't say much, even over coffee and cookies, which is always a big part of the whole meal. I keep a tight lip. It's hot and I'm starting to sweat and feel like rubber. Eventually they say they're going to go and visit my sister and I say I'm not going and just sit in the TV room with my dad. He sits in there before and after the meal and he used to just sit in there normally when we would go over to my aunts' house for birthdays or supper; I'm told he used to just sit in there in the dark when they didn't have a TV in there and wait for my mom when he was dating her. So I leave with my dad but not before grabbing hefty plates of food and an enormous, almost grotesque helping of cookies. My mom stays to go with them and I'm glad to get her out of our hair.

Back at home, we watch Bonanza, my dad's favorite show, and gorge ourselves on the cookies with tall glasses of milk. In the end, that's what all holidays are about; stuffing your face until your gut gets so big you can't see over it, if you're lucky enough to. I wasn't even drunk this year, and that says a lot. But it's spring now, about seventy degrees outside, and I'm going to take my old bones out for a walk and pray there isn't any rain because I don't have an umbrella anymore and I don't want to get hit by a lightning bolt. If I'm lucky I'll see little Billy, on his way to the hobo jungle and all grown up at ten with his knapsack philosophy. Cheers, Billy.

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Joseph L. Conty, Jr. wears a buffalo hide tunic and sips peach nectar from a chalice. Known to drink multiple flagons of mead for breakfast and chew bear fat for gum, he would like to remind the public that anyone else who dares to use the moniker of "Captain Fun" isn't fit to carry his merkin.

Posted 04.04.05

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