Bash Compactor: Dude, Where’s My Phone?

Written by Gerry Visco on . Posted in Bash Compactor, Posts.

They don’t call it the Blackout Bar for nothing! The day after a party there, I noticed what I thought was a green stamp from the bar bouncer on my hand—it was actually an ugly bruise. And my phone was MIA. To me, this was proof that a good time was had by all.

The Blackout Bar in Greenpoint has been around for a couple of years. I’d never been there, but was invited to a new weekly Wednesday night party called OTK Super Bisexuals party hosted by Gio Black Peter. Bisexuality is of course the best sexuality since it doubles your chances to get lucky, so I gladly accepted the invitation. When I arrived, as I walked through the dark and narrow bar toward the DJ booth, Gayletter blog honcho Abi Benitez held a vial under my nose. "Have some poppers!" he said enthusiastically. I did as the Romans did and took a big whiff.

I was feeling the bar from the get-go.

There was a good crowd—relaxed, happy, fortunately of dubious moral fiber—and even though promoter Kelly Gorman handed me a drink ticket, the blonde barmaid with black horn-rimmed glasses said, "Let’s just use that for the next round," and poured me a strong gin and tonic.

Because of the intimate size of the space, no matter where I was, the person next to me would introduce himself. "Hi there," said a blond man with thick glasses. He was Michael Martin, a comic who performs at the Upright Citizens Brigade and has a website about baking. "You should come to see me," he said. Then there was the lanky Jeffrey Hutchison, who stripped down to his jockey shorts in the photo booth in the room in the back while I snapped his picture.

As the night started getting hairier, I decided to try out my new performance installation. "Hey, let’s make a mosh pit on the dance floor," I called out to a few of the partiers around me. It didn’t take much to get eight or nine of us punching, shoving and having rowdy fun. Someone produced a roll of yellow emergency tape and we wrapped it around ourselves like so much ribbon on a gift. Event producer Earl Dax was seen slam dancing while I rode around the room on a friend’s back. I spotted a shy, black-haired kid in a red shirt standing alone in the corner, so I grabbed him and pulled him into the circle. When we later exchanged names, it turned out I’d heard his music—he performs as Idiot Says Yes, but his real name is Theodor Wilson. He later tweeted that he had long been nervous about having his photo taken, but when I screamed, "Who the fuck do you think you are, someone special?" it cured his lifelong fear. How nice that I was helping mankind during my barhopping. What a night! With the birds chirping and the beginnings of daylight shining down upon Greenpoint, I decided to cab it directly to the office. That way I’d be bright and early for the day job.