He sold merch for the Specials and the Clash. He was the tour manager for the Beastie Boys at the beginning of their career. He got A Tribe Called Quest a record deal. But the first I ever heard of the Captain was in a column he wrote—”In Defense of the Mullet”—in the second issue of Grand Royal magazine, published in 1995. His irreverence at the time was striking.
To me the Mullet is as American as pick-ups with rifle racks, tractor pulls, Wal-Mart, wet t-shirt contests, slapping your girl upside the head with a frying pan and living in the woods. In fact, I think it’s time the Mullet became the official cut of the U.S. Armed Forces. Fuck the crew cut. Crew cuts are soft. You won’t see no Mullet on Christopher Street. The Mullet is the white man’s jheri curl. Hell, maybe I will get me a Mullet after all. A Mullet, an El Camino with Nitros, a six of Coors, an eight ball of meth and just ride.
No surprise that his ever increasingly righteous editors at Grand Royal (the Beastie Boys) felt the need to tame his prose and censored his freeform “Beefs” column. Reading it again today, it’s kind of amazing they printed it at all, considering the shit he throws around about “Baba Yauch,” pistol whippings, “fat women in stretchy pants,” etc. Check it out and have your mind blown (click for larger, legible images).
While I hadn’t followed the Captain in the 15 years since then, it turns out he became a major contributor to 4Chan and Encyclopaedia Dramatica, and even stirred up a bunch of trouble with the Church of Scientology, who allegedly poisoned his cat and got him arrested on charges of “Criminal Threats” (which were eventually dropped). He took his own life on Saturday, October 30.
The official word from the Beasties camp: “what the fuck captain !?! we love you and miss you.”