Dangerous Moves: Mayor of Ponce enters the Hall of Flame

A3C and MICXSIC rally a cipher to smack the mic from the Donald’s tiny hands.

By J. Winter Monday April 12, 2010 08:15 PM EDT

Photo credit: Fabien Williams

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.

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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.