By Lindsay Toler
By Chad Garrison
By Brett Koshkin
By RFT Staff
By Lindsay Toler
By Riverfront Times
By Danny Wicentowski
By Pete Kotz
Hey Joe: What do you think of the fuss that's being made about the Hooters they want to put in Florissant? Do you think the restaurant is in good taste or is it just kind of slutty?
I've always heard that behind every successful man was a good woman. I'm not a betting man, but I am willing to bet that the fuss over the Hooters restaurant stems from complaining wives.
100 N. 7th St.
St. Louis, MO 63101
Region: St. Louis - Downtown
Case in point: The ruckus there is similar to the kind that occurred between a man and his wife over a lady walking past their home every day on her way to work. This caused the guy and his wife to be constantly at each other's throats. (The crux of their fights stemmed from the way she swished.)
The lady, with her good looks and sexy appearance, created an uproar between the couple each time she passed their house. The husband would try to sit on the porch to watch her walk by, and his wife would try to stop him. Finally, his wife had the lady arrested for reckless walking. Upon the judge hearing the wife's story, he asked the lady in question to walk to the back of the courtroom. While she was on her way, he bellowed, "Case dismissed! Case dismissed!" The guy's wife hollered, "Ain'tcha gonna fine her?! Ain'tcha gonna fine her?!" He retorted, "You can bet your life I will, before daybreak in the morning."
If this is the case in Florissant, the wives should reconsider. Women have been made sex objects throughout America. The bottom line? Money. Therefore, there is nothing slutty about the restaurant. The same rule has to apply to television. Both feature skimpily dressed women and bikini attire, and I don't guess there is a law against reckless eyeballing. Once I was told that there were two guys walking down a street with a shapely lady walking ahead of them. One of the guys was so busy watching her that he forgot that his buddy was talking to him. His friend quickly picked up on what had a hold on the other guy's attention. Suddenly he broke his buddy's concentration by telling him that if he kept watching the lady the way he was, he would go blind. His buddy replied, "I'm gonna take a chance on one eye."
Thank God for eyes! Hooters is just as legitimate as any restaurant in the country. The women add an extra attraction. I am unable to give a snap opinion because I've never been to one. Maybe I'll visit a Hooters soon. My only worry is hoping I don't get run over by the male rush, because I'll be in my wheelchair.
Prince Joe Henry, one of professional baseball's original "clowns," was an all-star infielder for Negro League baseball teams in Memphis, Indianapolis and Detroit throughout the 1950s. But up until the late 1940s, Prince Joe didn't know anything about the Negro Leagues. His knowledge of organized baseball was limited to the Cardinals and Browns games he attended during his preteen years at Sportsman's Park, accompanied by lifelong buddy Eugene "Gene" Crittendon, who could pass for white. Perhaps Henry's most vivid memory of those games: Upon entry, white ushers would politely escort the boys to a small section of the left-field stands reserved for "Colored." After climbing past several tiers of bleachers, they'd arrive at their stop, rows and rows behind their white counterparts. Even at a young age, the boys were conscious of the double standard -- and determined to vent their disdain. The opportunity would arise with the urge to urinate. Rather than head for the latrine, the boys would edge their way to the front of the section and let fly. As the liquid foamed its way down the concrete steps toward the white kids, Henry and his pal would ease back and relax, politely rooting for the visiting team to beat the hell out of the Browns or the Cards. After all, Henry and Crittendon hailed from Brooklyn, Illinois, a small, predominantly black township just east of the Mississippi River. So hospitable were the residents of Brooklyn that they were known to take in a rank stranger, treat him to breakfast, lunch, supper and a night out on the town -- and afterward, if he messed up, treat him to a good ass-whippin'. Direct questions on any and all topics to firstname.lastname@example.org. If we don't like yours, we'll hit Joe with our own.