SWIZ BLACK CAT 12/20/2014

During my morning ritual of Instagram scrolling while on the john, I saw that someone posted a video from the Swiz reunion that happened at the Black Cat ten years ago today. I was there and considered it to be one of the best nights of my life, although looking back, there’s a whole lot to it that's wildly embarrassing.

Due to being on a promotion tour for the NYHC book, I was in the DMV for two nights while the premiere of the DCHC documentary Salad Days was doing a weekend event revolving around screenings as well as nights of music at the Black Cat. On the first night at Atomic Books in Baltimore, there didn’t seem to be much of a crossover. I recall getting a few quick beers at a tiny bar with Jeff Perlin from Breakdown before we made conversation in front of a decent amount of people at the store. I got drunk fast and it gave me the cockiness to read some spicy passages from the book.

Later that night, I went to a gig at famous child-trafficking spot Comet Ping Pong to see Give. The rumor buzzing from the time we got into town was that Swiz were going to play a surprise reunion sometime during the weekend. Pumping myself full of booze to keep the awkward socializing rolling, my persistently drunken self was ecstatic at the proposition of witnessing the comeback of my favorite D.C. band. As a warm-up, Swiz played a few songs in the middle of Give’s set. I got to scream “I’LL FACE YOU STRAIGHT TO HELL!” during the song “Wash” from the safety of the back of the stage and witness them ‘cover’ “Resurrection” by their alter-ego band Fury. Perhaps it was the free PBR sloshing around in my brain, but it felt like a truly surreal moment – all gauzy and dreamlike.

Yeah…that was probably the beer.

The next day I had a signing at Joint Custody and it was a great event where I got to put faces to many old pen pals like Tom Brose from Confront and John White who did the fanzine, Open Your Eyes. Somewhere in the haze of it all, there was confirmation that Swiz would be playing a ‘surprise’ set at the Black Cat later that night. When we got to the club, I saw they had Bell’s Two-Hearted Ale on tap – my favorite libation at that time. As the ales began to flow, my bladder kept filling up. After one of the many pee stops I had to make to the men’s room, I somehow drunkenly got the under shaft of my penis caught in my zipper. At the time, I was feeling no pain, so it was chalked up as an issue that could be dealt with later in the evening. Why? Because Swiz were about to take the stage!

With my penis skin stuck firmly in jagged metal, I got a spot toward the front of the stage. Something not right up front, but close enough to feel the surge of sound. But once Swiz opened with “Ghost”, any reservations went down the drain as the churn of bodies magically plopped me smack dab right into the action. I sang along and celebrated the music of Swiz with reckless abandon and a hindsight that didn’t exist in my teens. It was both a remembrance and realization that music is eternal and it’s the triumphs and struggles of life we add along the way that preserves it in our minds. I watch the video from the Black Cat and see my head bop in and out of the crowd. It was certainly an evening of unadulterated joy.

But back to my dick caught in my zipper…

As the evening went on and the boozing continued, I could still empty my bladder if I left the head of my junk poking out of my zipper a little (A heavy winter coat was more than ample coverage for this barely visible acorn) Like most hindrances that occur while tipsy, I figured it would work itself out. But after sets by Moss Icon and Soul Side and a long ride sitting shotgun back to New Jersey, Mr. Zipper and Mr. Skin was still inseparable.

Sometime in the late morning, I woke up in a friend’s guest room with a heavy hangover and a piercing pain in my privates. Playing back last nights’ scenario in my head, it all came back to me. Going into the bathroom, I looked down at the sad stump sticking out of my pants. After much solo brainstorming, I took a firm hold of the waistband with one hand as I gingerly pulled down on the handle of the zipper. Success! Not only was it not as painful as I imagined, but it was relatively easy when not pickled.

Later that day, I did a signing along side a woman who fucked John Lennon and wrote a book about it. Not only did she bang the ‘smart’ Beatle, but she was charging $10 just to have her sign the book! I wanted to learn some lessons from her, but she ignored me. Maybe my next book should be about that sordid night I spent with a member of Wrenched Ankle in a cabin in the Catskills…

Is there a moral to this story?

Maybe something like…

Don’t be afraid to get caught up in the moment, no matter your age. Just don’t get so drunk you get your privates caught in your zipper.