My Friend, An Hero, The Captain, Sean Carasov is Dead
The Captain, Final Boss of the Internets, RIP November 17, 1961 to October 30, 2010.
I loved Sean Carasov, aka The Captain, from the day he walked into Atlantic Records to A&R the urban department. Bold, brash, with a heart bigger than his ability to conjugate the verb fuck. He introduced me to Vida, Fred Eric’s definitive Los Feliz restaurant–now a Chabad center, my how the 90s have become the next century!–and there he christened me La Lisa, a reference the grand courtesans of the Belle Epoch, not only because he saw that side of me, but also he said, because I wasn’t a diva.
He had worked for the Beastie Boys and Jive Records before Atlantic and after for Artist Direct, later becoming a major contributor to 4Chan and Encyclopaedia Dramatica, the most irreverent, offensive NSFW ridiculous sites on the Internet. He also worked in the porn industry as a producer. One time he called and suggested I drop by a porn set in the Valley, a perfect 1970s times capsule, where along with seeing a lot safe sex from a safe distance, I met the band Orgy and a cute pair of dogues de Bourgone, a type of mastiff. Thankfully, neither the band nor the animals were involved in the filming; they were just hanging out.
We lost touch until I got involved with Chanology, the Anonymous protests against Scientology’s repressive actions. Mudkips, one of his feral cats was poisoned the day of the first major protest, and Sean was falsely arrested on trumped up charges leveled by a cult-zombie. I tracked him down and we re-established our friendship. When he went to court to deal with the BS–a Scientology flack claimed Sean had threatened him–I house sat to insure there were no breaks-in or monkey business. I was of course photographed by the Lee Baca supported criminal cult goons, but wtf, that’s part of The Game. The charges against Sean were dropped.
The changes in the record business had rendered The Captain’s skills and talents redundant. His stated goal was to move to Thailand and work with refugees, but he had to deal with the IRS and other financial situations. The Captain was passionate about the underdog, the oppressed, the pariahs. He fed feral cats, adored Evie “his” feral and adored his own kitties Gotti and Shorty. Gotti died a while back, and Shorty’s death earlier this month exacerbated Sean’s depression.
The Captain would often drop by my house on his bike with bottles of Mexican Coca-Cola for me during a very bleak period of my life. He was in constant physical pain from injuries, but always kept working out, always managed to make me laugh. On Friday the 29th he popped over to hang out for a bit as we got ready for a party Saturday and tried to work out logistics of him bringing by some out of town guests. He had plans for Halloween weekend and sounded up beat about some DJ/dance projects he was starting, though mentioned being upset about having to pick up Shorty’s ashes. I offered to drive him, but he said he’d deal with it.
Today someone sent me a message on Facebook mentioning the “tragedy” and asking if I could help feed the feral cats in Sean’s yard….Whaaaa? That’s how I found out. Friends drove me the couple blocks to his house since I was pretty much a sobbing wreck. His neighbors and I wept together as they told about the details. I gathered some dirt from the spot where he had taken his last breath before shooting himself with his .45 ,and then we drove to the vet and got Shorty’s ashes which are now on my living room table. The dirt is in a jar on my altar.
The Captain was such a brave, generous, hard ass fucker, tender, bold, fearless. But the pain he felt was too great to be rectified. I love him; I always will. The Captain is why I will now have on my arm.
The family has asked that donations be made in Sean’s name to FIXNATION.ORG, a non-profit 501C3 (that means it’s tax deductible!) which does trap/neuter/release of feral felines.
And now a word from Encyclopaedia Dramatica:
So far he did a pretty good job since OSA‘s quest to find out his powerword, movements, routine and ‘crimes‘ for a dox drop at Party Van central, has yielded little to nothing other than the basics. I mean, what are you gonna ‘get’ on an unhinged, unemployed, divorced, oldfag /b/tard who blew all his hookers & blow money in the late ’90s?
I think he would have appreciated that. Even more so, that we kindly capture, neuter, release all feral cats.