The Cerebral Catalyst

You may have been asking yourself this month, "Where is the Captain?" "Where is my angst, my rage, my lazy, lazy column writer?" He's typing this as I speak, so I'll let him tell you. He moved. Or rather, I moved. Sound a little schizo? Well, I am a little schizo these days.

I've got a new place in the suburbs. I am adjusting to "normal life." There is no such thing as normal; anyone with a pair of lungs knows that. You would be surprised how hard and easy everything is at the same time. Sometimes when I am sitting in traffic and the heat boils my head and my scalp peels, I feel like I am going to die. Other times, I'll see the yellow stain on an old woman's teeth and bust out laughing to myself (there is no one else). I am a lunatic, right? Is there anything wrong with observing? There are so many devices present in our age that exist to keep a writer from writing, to keep a human from being human, all presented under the guise of convenience. Let's take the internet, for example. Pot calls kettle black on internet web column aside, I ordered a pair of headphones online last week because I didn't feel like going to the store. Stupid, right? I mean, how am I supposed to write this column and become hopelessly obsessed with minutiae and torture myself/others with it if I don't leave the house?

You learn so much from just observing. I am continually amazed by people everyday. It is frustrating and invigorating and exciting, and it is all happening now. If you live in the moment, which is the only piece of advice I took from Buddhism, you will be content. How often do I catch myself thinking about the past or the future? Insane, unrealistic futures with large sums of money and women and soft middle age, imagined comfort. That's the harmless part. The harmful part is when I imagine things like unemployment, failure, and destitution. Puppetry. I don't ever want to be anyone's puppet. Except maybe Winona Ryder, I've always had a thing for her.

Too much thinking. Too much thinking has spoiled my mind. I used to be fun. I used to do things. There are so many different things to do each day. Are you doing the right things? As much as I can try to create a schedule or work towards something, there is always the element of chance. Everyone knows this. This is what keeps a lot of people in bed. Things can get pretty shitty. As I type this, nothing is wrong. I can't complain. I'm a bit hungover and missing a piece of a tooth, but hey, that's been going on for months now. There must be some sort of point in here, and I am not Robert Shuler, so the best I can say is look out the window. Look at things so hard you see double. Burn the image into your retina. And do cool things. Things you like to do that don't hurt others and expand your mind.

Our world is going down the shitter, and it must have a keen audience to transcribe the final days. The end of the world doesn't matter to me because I'll know my death is inevitable. But wouldn't it be nice to find out who was right about the whole god/religion thing? What would you expect? Something like Revelations? What if God looks like Vin Diesel? Or Jim Belushi? What then? Will the end justify the means? I think it will. Sometimes I can't find the words to write that express the way I feel. So I have conjured up the end of the world as a scare tactic. Do you think style or substance matter when you're staring a wave of molten lava in the eye? All of this is the talk of a crazy man, and if you bothered to get to the end of this, I'll buy you a beer. Or I'll just peel you one off from the fridge. I hope you like I.C. Light, because that's all I can afford.

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 08.20.07.

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