Mayor of Ponce
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Mayor of Ponce / Music news Dangerous Moves: Mayor of Ponce puts 'lemons on his chain'
Posted by J. Winter on Sun, May 16, 2010 at 2:47 PM
It’s hot and this situation has gotten sticky. This summer sun beating down isn’t helping my temporary roommate footing. Not in these turbulent economic times. Temperatures have been rising and relationships have gotten heated. Things are strained at best.
Not being gainfully employed is painful, no matter how much one enjoys watching Maury Povich deliver bastards to reluctant fathers on daytime television. While lying on the couch, Joey Greco’s concern and his philandering "Cheaters" pull at your heart strings; all while mixed with ethnically balanced technical school commercials. It only makes you feel more worthless.
It’s these trying times that call for creativity. It’s these moments in self-doubt that call for heroic endeavors. A sensible time for a Dangerous, yet necessary Move.
So as the old adage goes, when life gives you lemons… Put a cash bar in your front yard.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Mayor of Ponce / Music news Dangerous Moves: Mayor of Ponce enters the Hall of Flame
Posted by J. Winter on Mon, Apr 12, 2010 at 8:15 PM
He’s tall, tanned, and by the looks of his neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair, he’s vintage — a silver fox on the loose in this rooster house. He’s spinning a romantic and tender tale of the time a P.T.A. member rubbed him out underneath a blanket at a Braves game. He doesn’t remember the guy’s name, but the 3rd base-line seats were fabulous. Fitting, 3rd base is also a handjob in baseball analogy. We are men, and we’re talking sports.
The Georgia pines are exploding pollinated clouds of yellow Napalm. It's finally spring and our city is bursting with color and renewed excitement. Every year, the birth of April reconvenes the optimism of Opening Day, celebrates the good ol’ racist elitism of the Masters, and puts to rest the Madness of March. A feverish week fit for any sports nut.
On the walls are Yellow Jackets, Blue Devils and Crimson Tides. In all their glory, their shine is shared with the most colorful flag of all. Chest poking out, sassy, and probably snapping its fingers in the face of the cartoon mascots that have it surrounded; this flag has all the dazzling colors of the rainbow. In all its pride, this particular piece of nylon represents bears, cubs, and … twinks. Heeeey!
Just some fellas catching the NCAA Final Four, we’re in an unassuming sports bar. There’s wood-paneling, neon beer signs, and a bartender wearing pink, erect bunny ears. There are chicken wings, dudes shooting pool, and a couple of gentlemen sitting in a booth (on the same side). There’s high-fives, walls lined with televisions, and a server who answers to “Joe” as well as “Miss Chambers.”
The best is the softball team plaque commemorating the fiery talents of “Woofs' Pounders.” Yes, we’re in Woofs — one of the few, if not only, gay sports bars in America. And yes, the place is fabulous.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Mayor of Ponce / Music news Mayor of Ponce digs out his soul
Posted by J. Winter on Fri, Mar 12, 2010 at 2:00 PM
There’s a foggy glow over this gloomy corner of downtown Atlanta. The Georgia Dome is just over the hill, and I’m on the bad end of a dead end street. George Harrison was right, it’s been a long, cold, lonely winter. Only he seemed more optimistic. But this chill and these bad vibes have to break soon; I’m almost out of Ayn Rand books to burn.
My hearts been on ice and these ambitions bundled up. It’s been a mean season and this old soul's getting restless. My apologies for the tired wordplay, but that just about sums up this cliché of a winter. The tulips, the wayfarers, the sundresses — they’re right around the corner. But they seem to be getting further out of reach.
It’s a Saturday night, and we’ve found ourselves in one of Atlanta’s best kept secrets. The location is in the name of the place, and I’ve been here a number of times, but my haphazard internal GPS still has trouble finding it. It’s Elliot Street Pub and it’s nestled in a creepy corner of Castleberry Hill. It’s a tiny bar that takes pride in its obscurity, a kind of place with cups, a keg and a chalkboard by the door that trusts the regulars with the honor system.
We’re all here to see Atlanta throwback darlings the Soulphonics and Ruby Velle. We’re cramped in this pint-sized bar shoulder-to-shoulder — more like a walk-in closet with a liquor permit. But the warmth is comforting, it’s like we’re in this together.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Mayor of Ponce / Music news Mayor of Ponce pays tribute to New Orleans
Posted by J. Winter on Mon, Mar 1, 2010 at 3:00 PM
I draw a blur as I try to write this on Ash Wednesday. Thirty-six hours in New Orleans and it all runs together. I just returned from the Popeye’s on Ponce in the hope that some fried Cajun crud might stir up some voodoo in these finger tips. Maybe this bourbon in my root beer will help me scratch this piece together, or at least cure these shaky hands. If so, I’ll consider Popeye's for a co-byline....
DANGEROUS MOVES: Parade of follies
Our heads are spinning as we walk down the halls. Macaroni art and essays with bad penmanship and badder grammer line the walls. Motivational sentiments hang from the ceiling: “There are no short cuts.” “There are no excuses.” “Knowledge IS power.” It all makes sense now, even though it’s not true. Sure, knowledge is power, but not as powerful as old money and royal blue blood lines. These poor black kids will find that out soon enough.
That’s when the loudspeaker clicks on, “... If there’s anyone in the building, please report to the principal’s office!”
We’re in an elementary school in a parish just outside the French Quarter. Its 10 p.m., we’ve been drinking since this morning, and we’ve just been called to the principal’s office. God, I love Mardi Gras.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Mayor of Ponce Dangerous Moves: R.I.P. DSC and Lenny's
Posted by J. Winter on Tue, Jul 1, 2008 at 7:27 PM
Mayor of Ponce raises a glass to those who deserve it
It was a sad weekend for Atlanta scenesters who saw the official passing away of Decatur Social Club and the un-official death of Lenny’s. Techno may have been the cause of DSC’s demise, and poor ol’ Lenny’s has seemingly been done in by corndogs.
Ironically, these two Friday night traditions split the dishes a few years back when promoter Preston Craig took his KISS indie-rock dance party outside city limits, lured away by a 4 a.m. bar call. The move proved brilliant as the summertime Azul patio became a Friday late-night staple.
It was a wonderful four years of sweaty dancing to “Deceptacon” on top of the bench seats inside the cramp, dark restaurant. No matter what show you went to that night, you were sure to converge in Decatur for after hours drinking of cheap PBR pitchers and cheaper shots of Jager. Its where your MySpace friends came to life. DSC got you laid, made you friends, lost your cell phone and/or camera, and hopefully caused irre-hep-table damage to your liver and brain cells.
And that’s only if you were doing it right.
DSC embodied everything I love about this city. It was about dancing and fun and just getting out of your head. It remained wonderfully inexpensive, when it certainly could’ve taken advantage of its popularity. DSC wasn’t about bottle service and V.I.P. tables; it was just about having fun.
But all great things have to come to an end. Sadly, DSC moved away from Iggy’s “Lust for Life,” and into its Challenger space shuttle, techno remix phase. Its final frontier, I suppose.
DSC, you will be missed.
Getting on the horn to see what the good word was this weekend, it was pretty obvious no one wanted to attend this year's Corndogorama. It was a tough pitch: $20 to see the same local bands you’ve seen for years. It was a weird feeling — suddenly, going to Corndog was not cool.
EDITOR'S NOTE: According to Lenny's booker Bean Summer, the club has no plans to move or close before its lease expires in two years. Also, stay tuned for coverage of Preston Craig's new weekly East Atlanta pub crawl.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Mayor of Ponce Mayor of Ponce dishes Oysterfest at Piedmont Park
Posted by J. Winter on Fri, Feb 29, 2008 at 11:26 PM
The Mayor of Ponce went to Oysterfest last week, and left feeling all clammy about it.
Cresting the hill on 10th Street, I see a mass of people surrounding Park Tavern. Mass as in thousands. Thousands as in plural. I think to myself, this isn’t going to be a day in the park.
Since the exodus from Buckhead, it’s the first Oysterfest held at the crown jewel of Atlanta – Piedmont Park. I figure I better attend the event since it might be the last one for a while at the park. Because of the dire drought conditions, the blue-haired aristocrats who run the Piedmont Park Conservancy have already shooed away the Dogwood Festival, Gay Pride, Screen on the Green and the finish line to the Peachtree Road Race. If the elements don’t ease up, I fear they might do away with actual people. The 186-acre park will just be a wildlife refuge with swing sets.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Mayor of Ponce Mayor of Ponce: Sex, drugs and Christian rock
Posted by J. Winter on Tue, Feb 5, 2008 at 10:21 PM
Editor's note: If you haven't read self-proclaimed Mayor of Ponce J. Winter's latest Nightcrawler columns, click here and here. And check out one of his older columns below. Even without photos, we think you'll get the picture.
Fri., Jan. 11
It's 6:30 p.m. and the text reads, "Louis goes on at 7:45." It's from Butch Walker. I'd better hustle if we're going to make it to Buckhead.
"I'll be upstairs," his next text reads. Funny, because it conjures up an image of him waiting for my arrival above his Ruby Red Studios with candles and suggestive music playing. He buzzes me in, and thankfully, it's just Butch. No candles or Keith Sweat. As a matter of fact, there's not much of anything.
Butch is back in town taking care of a few things after the Malibu beach house he was renting from Flea burned to the ground along with ALL his possessions. His Midtown pad is empty except for a couch, a baby grand, and now, a mayor.
We hop in his rental and bounce to Buckhead. It's a fairly anticipated show at the Roxy with San Diego's Louis XIV, Canadians Hot Hot Heat, and Britian's Editors. It's like the U.N. of corporate rock.
Backstage we head up an extremely tight spiral staircase into a tree house of sorts that overlooks the stage. Paul, the Hot Hot Heat drummer, is looking out a window into the crowd and notices someone, "It's that dude! He's at every one of our shows."
I already know before I look. Sure enough, front and center, it's former Creative Loafing cover boy and current Atlanta mystery Kenny Crucial. I explain to Paul that it's an honor to have him at your show, and the only reason Kenny is so weird is because he's Canadian. Awkward silence.
Louis XIV absolutely kills its set. Onstage, lead singer Jase Hill is drinking wine of out of the bottle. You can't take your eyes off him. He's half wizard, half Jim Morrison.
Free backstage Budweiser is great, but we need drinks. The front bar is definitely "Cougarville," and rock star Butch isn't the only one getting recognized. A cute little blonde whom I've seen around starts chatting me up. Butch buys us a handful of drinks and we set up shop to watch his boys Hot Hot Heat. Aside from having to follow Louis XIV, the sound isn't right and Steve Bay's disheveled vocal pattern is definitely an acquired taste.
Plus, he kind of reminds me of Sideshow Bob.
