Harmonic Unity on Ponce You can't understand or know Atlanta, without knowing Ponce de Leon Avenue, or Ponce, as the locals refer to the street. Ponce bisects the city, separating the haves from the have-nots. A few blocks to the north is a neighborhood with homes valued at $200 and $300 thousand dollars. To the south, the value is a quarter that. Streets intersecting Ponce have one name on the north and another on the south; a technique used when Atlanta was developing to define social standing by address. If you live on Monroe, the same street as Boulevard, one knows right away that you don't live 'over there.' As much as this six-lane road divides the city, it unifies our diversity by gathering everyone together in a sundry of businesses, restaurants, nightspots, and residences. Like any defining line where two worlds come together, the result is an eclectic collection of harsh urban culture and a non-traditional sense of community filled with potential conflict. For many, Ponce is home. The strip is not reflective of Atlanta in the eyes of the Chamber of Commerce; you don't find it highlighted in any of the tourist guides, like the upscale neighborhoods of Buckhead and Midtown. But, it is the one place in town where everyone who calls Atlanta home gathers in edgy harmony. On Saturdays, I ride my bike down Ponce, getting a better glimpse at the cross-section which gathers on the street. Anchored by city government, most of the city's offices occupy a retired Sears Roebuck and Company warehouse at the center of the strip. A collection of restaurants provide everything from homemade soul food or New York-style pizza, to a 24-hour diner called the "Majestic" or cheep grungy granola food at a place called "Eats." The nightlife, not the best in the city, but certainly the most diverse, provides something for everyone. Sports bars, dance clubs, and a leather bar (known as the Eagle) with S/M fetish nights where an acquaintance was once strapped to a cross by a bartender and humiliated because his enjoyment was put on display for a group of hooting and hollering friends. The Clermont Lounge has a stronghold on Ponce, where $20 will buy a voluptuous black woman named Blondie, who will strip and perform a table dance, read poetry she's written, and crush a beer can with her breasts. If I ride early enough, I'll bump into prostitutes, both male and female, strolling home from a night of patrolling the street. The homeless gather at any number of shelters, to receive a meal, a shower and a little support. On lazy afternoons, you'll find a crowd of Atlanta's elite viewing the latest art films at the Plaza Theatre. And any time of day or night, Krispy Kreme donuts cranks out a wide assortment of sugar-laced pastries. But the best view of Ponce comes in the evening after dusk has fallen, and there is nothing but neon on the horizon. The Midtown skyline becomes the backdrop for a strip of entertainment catering to a solid and gritty working class ethic. A disco beat thumps from the Clermont. The Majestic glows as it has since 1934. Excitement and awkward pleasure lurks in the darkness of the Eagle. Hot donuts are served up at Krispy Kreme. Margaritas with a kick flow at El Azteca. Both men and women stroll the street, looking for a bit of companionship. There is an order to it all, symmetry balancing on a razor's edge. There is an oasis amongst this urban collection where you can view all of Ponce. It is the one place where the diverse population frequenting the strip unites together in universal harmony. It is the Upper Room; a doublewide trailer perched atop another building with a grand rooftop patio overlooking Ponce. The Upper Room is owner Sam Horn's lifetime dream, a combination of two fantasies: a piano bar with a touch of Key West. The two halves of the trailer rest about ten feet apart, connected by a turreted ceiling with neon beer signs hanging overhead, creating a cathedral of ambiance. In the corner is an electronic baby grand piano. The pianist's eyes twinkle as light from the mirrored globe above reflects in his eyes. Over his shoulder, the skyline of Atlanta and the soiled character of Ponce shine. Sam Horn has opened a number of piano bars before, but none like the Upper Room. After playing with the best of the best for years in Vegas (He proudly proclaims nightly that he only knows, "New York, New York in G, because that's how Frank liked it."), he purchased the Upper Room with the intent of creating in his retirement "Atlanta's Entertainment Showcase." Tuesdays and Wednesdays are Open Mic night at the Showcase and what forms is a support group for the artistically inclined. They come from all walks with their music books in tow. Cigarette in one hand, cocktail in the other, they sit at the bar, paging through their music looking for the right piece to capture their mood, enhancing the spirit. Most claim to be semi-professionals, at some point making money for their talents. Others are just there for the moment, highlighting their shower abilities. A crowd of regulars appears every week. The leader of the pack: a hair stylist with burnt sienna hair coloring named Bob, better known as Stormy Weather. Dressed in denim and a satin cowboy shirt with an embroidered Trans-Camero flame pattern, he parades around the trailer on his acrylic stiletto heels as if he's the hostess. "I'm so glad I finally have a pair of shoes I can polish with Windex," he quips. Occasionally he joins a singer in harmony emerging from the audience as if he were in a Hollywood musical, belting out much bravado. When it is his turn, the crowd is captivated by his voice, complete with inflections, as he imitates Carol Channing's "Hello Dolly." Only a tornado could knock this trailer over the way Stormy Weather does. For a while I came to hear the soothing sounds of a woman whose name I never knew, but in my mind Dinah Fallopian was a nice fit. At one time she was a professional singer, but after dabbling in documentary film production, she got away from it. For a short time, she was the Friday night line-up after being discovered by Sam Horn at an Open Mic night. She would sing sassy, sultry songs like "Making Whoopee" and "Hey Big Spender", while lounging comfortably against a barstool in a sexy pants suit with a big, sparkly broach and large hoop earrings. As she sang, if she didn't have hold of a martini, her hand would roll hypnotically, drawing the entire crowd into a trance. She has since slipped away into the night of Ponce, never heard from and never seen again. Mike is the latest addition to the regular chorus of singers. Dressed in a plaid cowboy shirt with Mother of Pearl snaps opened to expose a chain link necklace resting on his hairy chest, if he had bushy hair under his Excite Search Engine logo cap, he'd resemble Neil Diamond in the 70s. Mike's been singing semi-professionally for years and says he has a varied history with the performing arts. During the Olympics, he was hired by the City of East Point to entertain spectators while they waited for Marta trains to shuttle them to the events. "That was the highlight of my artistic career, so I decided to call it quits when I hit the big time," Mike told me. "After that, I was an emcee for karaoke. I had a lot of fun doing that. But then I changed my life, sold my house, got a divorce, sold both cars. Now I work on T-1 lines as a digital technician for the phone company. So I've gotten away from it, but I love this place. This place is great. I wish I had found it a long time ago." He flips through the songbook. "Ramblin' Rose. That's a good one." Mike sings Barry Manilow's "Copa Cabana" with a vivacious energy that penetrates to your bones. The way "Lola" rolls lusciously from his lips excites me. He stares as he sings, piercing one's soul with a tickle in a way only a true performer can. There are others who are at home in the Upper Room. One woman, who dresses in her best, sings lullabies for her children who are tucked in bed. A gentleman brings his saxophone to play along with the synthesized piano. His freestyle technique of swaying to the tune can best be described as "aerobic sax." Another gentleman, who always has a Warner Brothers Studio Store theme to his outfit, generally sings tunes Sammy Davis, Jr. would select. I asked him what he would be singing one night. "I will always love you," he replied. "I know," I said. "But what are you singing?" The Upper Room, Atlanta's Entertainment Showcase, high above Ponce, is the place where the artist within comes out. The music and passion unify those from different backgrounds, from different sides of the street. For just a moment in their day, they share a space, an essence, a cheap cocktail, an appreciation of those around them, and their dreams, which are bigger than life could ever possibly be on Ponce.