A NICE HOLE IN THE WALL
By David Frank

—Studio 13 is small and dark and Iowa City's only gay bar. Contrary to popular belief, our writer had never been there, that is, until a bar crawl brought him there.

I strictly remember reaching for my beer cup on the small round table in front of me and barely being able to see it. It was a dark silhouette on a black background. I turned to my friend Karen, who was sitting in the shadows next to me (or at least I think she was sitting next to me), and screaming over the extremely audible music, "It's too dark in here! I can't see my fucking beer cup! Give me your lighter, I'm going to light one of my socks on fire and make a torch from it!"

I wasn't kidding, but she must have thought I was, because she giggled and handed me my gigantic bar crawl beer cup without give me her lighter. "You must have excellent night vision," I yelled.

If you believe the Deadwood is a dark hole, then you've never been to Studio 13. The Deadwood is the blazing white light of heaven when compared to Studio 13. There are a couple very very (I would repeat this word 50 more times if it would be so damn redundant) dim lights behind the bar, and some flashing party lights over a dance floor that's no bigger than the bed of 1992 2-wheel drive Chevy S-10 pickup. A friend of mine who frequents Studio 13 once told me the place was literally a hole in the wall. An accurate and fair description in my opinion. Maybe during the daytime it feels a little bigger, but at night with its black painted walls and ceiling (and maybe floor—I'm not sure because I couldn't see past my knees), mist from the dance floor smoke machine, and the owners refusal to purchase a decent light bulb, Studio 13 feels smaller than my bathroom's shower stall.

Despite the absence of light and increasing sensations of claustrophobia, we were all having fun. Studio 13 was bar number 3 in a weeknight bar crawl that my nonfiction writing class was throwing. It had the best deals so far ($1 filled up our large cups), which therefore made it the best bar we'd been to thus far, even though many of us were already near blasted from the previous bars (start off quick and strong, end on wobbly and pukish is my bar crawl motto). But one step further than the cheap beer was the fact that it was served immediately and with a smile no less. One could easily forgive confining and shadowy surroundings with such service and deals.

For most of us, it was our first time there. Studio 13 is unlike any bar in the Iowa City area, namely it's the city's only so-called "alternative bar"—as it called itself for quite some time. Let's jump back to some slight history. Studio 13 was once called the Alley Kat (namely because the place is located in an alley). The Alley Kat proudly advertised itself as a "gay bar". The establishment was overhauled in order to bring in more customers (i.e. heterosexuals). The bar now called itself Studio 13 and proclaimed it was not nearly gay as it used to be, but still open to folks of all colors, genders, sexualities, and everything else (except for bigots, which was probably implicitly implied). Yet, quickly Studio 13 adopted the identity of an "alternative bar" (as in, we'e kind of a "gay bar," but despite the weekly drag shows and occasional male strippers, we're not going to call ourselves "gay"). And this lasted until recently when Studio 13 looked at itself and finally came out as "Iowa City's Only Gay Bar". Which many people reacted by thinking, "duh." And luckily for this bar crawl, there were no signs of homophobia vibrating off anyone from within our class, which made things all the more pleasant

Regardless, of how Studio 13 identifies itself, it's not much different than most other establishments. There's a bar. It serves alcohol. There are stools and tables. People sit and rest there elbows and drinks on these things. Loud music is played. Your ears ring afterwards. There's a dance floor. People dance on it.

And as I was sitting there yelling at Karen and drinking from this clear beer cup that was as big as my fat head, someone wraps there arms around me, almost like a hug. At first I couldn't tell if the arms belonged to a man, a woman, or possibly a drag queen. Therefore I wasn't sure if it was my girlfriend who said she'd be joining us sometime during the night, or just some random stranger who thought I might be as cuddly as a teddy bear, or maybe my father (long story made short—he's gay).

I turn around, and it's neither. Rather, it's some gorgeous blond from my class whose name may have been Ashlie or Emilie or Amelie (I knew it probably ended with an "ie"). And I figured she was probably taking on some bet by finding the biggest dork in our class and bringing him up on to the dance floor--which was occupied by about half our class. So she pulls me off the stool and yells, "Dance, David! Come dance with me!"

"But I don't dance," I yell because I simply can't dance, and I figured this would be about the time my girlfriend shows up. But I follow her on to the small little floor anyways. And my eyes begin to burn like someone's sticking a cigarette in my pupils because this is the only section in the entire place that has some decent lighting.

I get up on the dance floor and move arms and hips like I'm doing "The Twist" instead of dancing to some heavy beat top 40 radio dance song. And I take ———ie's hand and twirl her old-fashioned style a few times. Everyone laughs. I continue to do the same corny white-man dancing that I've learned throughout multiple wedding receptions until the song ends. I bow. Stumble back to my table. And yell to Karen,"For the love of God, my eyes have seen the light! But now that I'm back here, I can't see shit again."