The Cerebral Catalyst

April showers of whiskey and Yuengling bring you May's buttflowers in the form of trenchant insights and never-ending wit only associated with the visage of Captain Fun. Look over in the drunk tank of life, there you will find him. What in the hell has the man been doing? I heard he was clean-shaven for almost a month. God knows that didn't last long. Been steadily employed. Dare the Captain climb the corporate ladder? I wouldn't hold your breath, folks. A man has to write sometimes, no other reason than to see words formed on the page. Is he that vain? Why don't you ask him yourself?

I can't believe it's been four years since we founded the Catalyst. I really don't know what I expected. That's not a bad thing. Truth be told, I hoped it would have made me less lazy, having an outlet for my thoughts. This was not to be. The sad truth is if it doesn't involve money, I won't get out of bed for it. So I write my columns from my bed, I guess. There are a million and one reasons for why, but why not? Don't you just want to get behind that slogan?

I remember the day at Hemingway's when we all sat wide-eyed at the idea of creating our own literary magazine. I remember the feeling of power. The awesome feeling that we could create something of our very own. It felt good. Having great ideas and brainstorming. And the Catalyst has arrived, in my opinion. Arrived upon what is an interesting question. But I feel we can be a formidable force in the literary world in the years to come.

Recently I was given the task of reintroducing myself to our new Catalyst readers. I know that my contributions over the past couple of years have been spotty at best. Blame it on existential crisis. Blame it on whiskey. Blame it on Ding Dongs. Whatever you want to blame it on, you can. But let us put that all in the past. Why Captain Fun? Because who else can come up with witticisms like "burly bon vivant", and be your man on the scene, getting his "kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames", to paraphrase Jim Morrison. Only your Captain. The Captain Fun. Let us not forget the title of this magazine, the Cerebral Catalyst. The idea is to get at least one of you to do something with your brain. I know it's hard. Most times all my brain wants is beer, cigarettes, and internet porn (in that order, rinse and repeat). And these things are hard to resist, don't think they aren't. But when you die, you want more than protein stains in your parent's kitchen or a house full of empties. There's a war on. A war on the creative minds of our time. Who fits into their little boxes? Think always outside the box, or when "they" tell you to think outside of the box, think inside the box with a lit cigarette. Or a bong. Hotbox the box. You aren't what they tell you you are. You are a different person every second. Or you could be, if you were me.

But this advice comes with a disclaimer. The hard truth is that anyone who gives advice or tries to be a leader in any capacity often does it for themselves. They want to seem holier than thou with a feeling of false wisdom. No one cares that much about other people. Except Mother Theresa or Donald Trump, maybe. I would like to tell you that I am full of false wisdom, and that it would make me very happy if someone read one of my columns and it actually inspired them to do something. God knows I haven't done anything of great import with my life. And why so glum, Captain? Who really gives a shit about your personal life? I do. But that's only me. Don't forget about being humble. There's one thing about ego, yes, you do need to have one, but you don't need to destroy others to get ahead. Unless they completely deserve it. Some people should die terrible deaths. How else does the world go around? Metaphorical deaths, I mean. Don't go out impaling people on your sword. And don't ever end up in these situations: You live with your parents for more than a year. (Or a month. Or a week.) Or you become "interested" in a co-worker. These are subjects too broad for columns or books or Dickensian novels themselves. What is love, anyway? What purpose does a man have having feelings? Oh shut up, you're getting too melodramatic. I hope and pray this column will lead to a mighty following, an outpouring of creativity on both of our ends, and finally, my burning at the stake, or at least the tying of my beaten and broken body to a nuclear warhead. In the months and years and decades and centuries ahead, I hope to bring you the wisdom of the cosmos, seen through the prism of a tall pint, as all wisdom and prisms should be.

Remaining ever vigilant,

C.F.

Visit Captain Fun's Swarthy Archives.

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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 05.07.07.

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Site founded May 7th, 2003, by Project Catalyst.
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