Hair of the Dogg
With the mayoral election over, we felt it was our civic duty to pay a visit to Stanford & Son’s in Westport. More specifically, we were curious to visit Studio 504, the club attached to it. All we really knew was that whenever we walked by on weekend nights, there was always a huge line. That, and it seemed to encompass all the things we’re not really fond of, such as cheesy dance clubs, stand-up comedy and Stanford Glazer.
Adding to our trepidation was the description we discovered on Studio 504’s Web page. “No date? No problem! Studio 504 has plenty of warm bodies from which to choose. Just select a partner, buy them a drink (or maybe have them buy you a drink) and then ‘bam’ before you know it you and your partner will be on the dance floor dancing like Solid Gold Dancers on acid.” We shuddered at this image and at the hackneyed Emeril reference.
We went on a Friday night, somehow managing to avoid the line. After we were metal detected and checked for Mace, we entered and encountered two more bits of unpleasantness: a big, framed picture of R. Kelly shaking hands with one of the owners, and a $10 cover.
The crowd was somewhat sparse on the dance floor; most of the people were hovering at the windows to check out the scene on Westport Road. In this row of onlookers, we spotted our first amusement: a woman wearing pale-denim jeans — except for the butt area, which was a darker denim, as if she had sat in dye. It was very Merry-Go-Round.
We retreated to the brightly lit back game room and ordered the standard mixed drinks — they came in small flimsy plastic cups — and waited for things to pick up. When we went back to the dance floor, the Eminem-doppelganger DJ was playing to a bigger, predominantly African-American crowd. We quickly became fascinated by one of the few white women on the floor, who was line dancing with another chick. She was wearing a tight, denim unisuit with a military-style front, complete with rows of buttons that went down to her crotch. Perhaps it was in support of our troops; all we knew was that we didn’t unilaterally support her choice of evening wear.
Naturally, after we had been drinking for a while, we became intrigued by the posters in the bar featuring Snoop Dogg pushing 100-proof Gecko Black tequila: “Snoop Dogg’s urban bourbon — It’s nasty!” We disregarded that disclaimer and ordered shots.
Our Vin Dieselesque bartender looked horrified. “Oh, nonono,” he said, shaking his head as he poured them for us anyway. “I want to watch your reaction.”
The stuff smelled of pure alcohol and looked like charcoal water, leaving black sludge marks in rivulets down the side of the plastic cup. It tasted like licorice, but Research Assistant Kaelen pronounced it essentially “evil.” We gratefully gulped the Coke chaser Vin provided for us.
Our night ended on that note — it was past last call. Aside from the Gecko, we’d had an unexpectedly pleasant time. We liked the laid-back atmosphere as well as the fact that Studio 504 seemed to be devoid of the skeeziness inherent in most clubs. Would we go back again? No. But now we have one less reason to mock Stan Glazer.
