Dangerous Moves: Viva Señor Selleck — Mayor of Ponce bar crawls down Buford Hwy., pt. 3
June 9th, 2009 by J. Winter in Mayor of Ponce, Music news
DON SELLECK
Read Viva Señor Selleck — Mayor of Ponce bar crawls Buford Hwy, pt. 1 and 2.
“If your office would like the daily specials faxed to your office, leave your fax number with your server or write it on this paper. Thanks, the Rusty Nail.”
That’s what the sign reads. It’s push-pinned by the door and it really does say it all. I’m somewhat disappointed that it’s printed from a word processor and not from the scribbled penmanship of a serial killer. But it does make me wish I still had access to a fax machine.
There’s an enormous pistol outside. Probably wing high to the Big Chicken. The barrel smokes when the chamber is cooking the meat of whatever’s dead inside it. You’ve driven by it and I’m sure you’ve had thoughts. Desires of adventure. The want of a good story. Everything about its appearance says: “If the South’s gonna rise again, the Rusty Nail’s gonna have something to do with it.”
THE AMERICAN DREAM
The menacing facade is only equaled with comical goodness on the inside. Team Danger and I are at the bottom of Buford on our crawl, literally and figuratively. Past the smoking pistol and in through the pirate ship doors, this is the grand finale.
At first glance, the place isn’t so tough. Forget all that hell raisin’ deception. The Rusty Nail (2900 Buford Hwy.) is more like a Doberman with a cuddle addiction. Past the cigarette machine and tee-ball team pictures, we’re greeted with a large circular bar in the center of a mostly empty room. It’s like we’re in the hull of the Dodgy Roger. We grab some stools and try to raise the new South, one high-ball glass at a time.
Looking around, it’s like Trader Vic’s (255 Courtland St.) — if Vic’s had a black sheep cousin. The side of the family that doesn’t wear shoes. A tiki bar in Hiawassee, not Hawaii, if you will. It’s tropical confusion and I fucking like it.
Instead of sleek, deep mahogany of pacific inspirations, the Nail has tattered lattice. Pictures (taped and tacked, not framed) are scattered about on the wall, mostly of this one goofed-up, goofball doing suggestive things with sombreros and such. There’s ’70s stained glass that distinctively says early Wal-Mart era. Really brilliant uses of brown, this place. The Clermont Lounge (789 Ponce de Leon Ave.) would throw a jealous fit if it could spy this haunt.
Opting against the box of wine choices they have on the bar (they have white and pink — yes, in a box), we grab some Wild Turkey and Coke to blend our browns with the habitat. But unlike Follies up the road, we don’t have to settle up after every drink (or prime rib). We’re good for it. Jon Slay, full of confidence, remarks, “It’s so nice to be able to buy now and pay later.”
Yes, Jon, it’s the American dream.
ENTER DON SELLECK
There’s a fellow bouncing about and he’s hard not to notice. Not really because the place is, for the most part, empty. More so, he’s one of those people who owns attention. And his Hawaiian shirt pretty much commands it. Every hibiscus on that floral print wants its own spotlight.
Our bar maid sets down a round of Jager shorties, followed by a guy yelling from the back of the bar, peering over the rims of his glasses, “Y’all wanna do some shots?”
It’s the same dude wearing coconut bras and sombreros in all the pictures. He’s louder than his shirt and he’s walking over with his own shot in the air. Fuck, I’m really starting to like this place.
He’s a big guy, gray hair, mustache, Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, and loafers. He’s Magnum P.I. if Thomas had a black sheep cousin — the side of the family that doesn’t wear shoes, naturally. His name is Don and he’s our new best friend. He has one liner’s for everything.
I make a crack that Thomas Magnum probably wants his belt back. “Fuck him,” says Don, without missing a beat. “I whipped his ass and took his belt from ‘em.” He pauses as he makes us another round of Jager. “He knows where I am.”
A little bit later he adds, “I took his Ferrari, too. I totaled it.”
I bite back. “So how’d you wreck it?”
“I tried to drive it here.” In other words, no matter how high-performance Robin Master’s Ferrari is, it’s quite difficult to drive one from Hawaii to the main land — no matter how good a drunk driver you are.
“Shit,” he adds in reflection, “that was a long time ago.”
Then Don starts to riff on his shirt, “I love these damn things. You can throw up on ‘em, and it’s part of the pattern.”
The guy can go all night. And he does. Hamming it up, telling stories, slinging free shots of Jager and charm. Jokes you’re sure he’s cracked a million times, but they still get you. He’s the fun-loving, goofball uncle. The one your dad loans money to for his hair-brained schemes, only expecting a ridiculous story in return. And it’s worth every penny.
I really do love this place. Long live the Rusty Nail. And long live Don Selleck.
ALL IN THE ASS
Slay returns from the bathroom with a look of enchantment. “Dude. You gotta go to the bathroom. … Instant success,” he declares. “You’ll see.”
Sure enough, he’s right. There she is, right by the urinal for all blurry eyes to see. And it’s hard not to imagine all the mischievous thoughts she’s stirred up in this very spot. Not to mention the irony of its placement — a place you arrive to only after being engulfed by the gods of wine, with your zipper and hands in such a vulnerable, suggestive arrangement. Everything makes so much sense.
It’s a framed poster of Cheryl Ladd from the early ’80s. She’s on a tennis court, one hand holding a wooden racket, the other positioned just above her skirt on her ass. And it might as well be on the push button of all that is carnal — showing the lucky who have come through the Nails’ men’s room that panties weren’t really a necessity in the ’70s and ’80s. Nor was being bashful.
And yes, it does make so much sense. It’s why guys do anything. It’s why we bathe, get haircuts, buy clothes that are in style, get jobs to get money to get that. Yes, Cheryl Ladd’s ass represents all of that. And more.
It represents everything right about doing a ridiculous bar crawl. It’s her ass. It’s the Lance crackers at Follies (4075 Buford Hwy.). The one-dollar dancers. The coked-up Mexicans. And it’s people like Don Selleck. All these things represent what’s so wonderful about this city, or any city for that matter. All these ridiculously wonderful things wait behind every out of the way turn. Getting stuck in patterns and ruts is expected. Getting out of them to see what life around you has to offer lends itself to the extraordinary.
I look at Slay at the end of the evening and suggest that we take Don on our next bar crawl. He corrects me, and he’s probably right, “Don needs to take us on his next bar crawl.”
Long live Cheryl Ladd’s ass. And long live Don Selleck.
Read Viva Señor Selleck — Mayor of Ponce bar crawls Buford Hwy, pt. 1 and 2.
(Photos courtesy J. Winter)
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