By the time the Legislature adjourned, Oxford and her cohorts had kicked ass. Not only did state lawmakers refuse to open public coffers to the baseball team, Oxford et al had gathered enough signatures to force a public vote on taxpayer subsidies for new sports palaces in St. Louis. To be sure, Oxford didn't do it all by herself, but, as frontwoman for the Coalition Against Public Funding for Stadiums, she bore the brunt of criticism. Organized opposition to the ballpark didn't jell until she came on board and put together an unlikely alliance of Republicans, Democrats, Libertarians and Greens. Some accused her of grandstanding on the ballpark issue to improve her chances of winning public office. Others said Oxford and her ilk were perennial naysayers who never saw a good idea they didn't hate.
Sheer ridiculousness. If Oxford was hellbent on going to Jeff City, she would have picked a lesser opponent than Russ Carnahan, the governor's son, whom she nearly beat two years ago in a state House race. No, Oxford marches to her own drummer, and for that we should all be grateful.
For some reason, the bagpipers in the Invera'an Pipe Band didn't appreciate Bob Jamerson's hijinks -- leading them down Tamm Avenue, twirling a baton, smiling and spinning, winking at strangers, turning their celebration into high-camp street theater.
Jamerson's sidewalk solo parade is free nearly every day in the Central West End, and word of his antics spread throughout the city like wildfire this year. People now cruise in the hopes of seeing the Gay Majorette, trying to inject a dose of levity into their day. They're most likely to see him along Lindell Boulevard and Maryland Plaza, where he struts daily in his biker boots -- with pompoms and tassels, of course -- drawing gawks, guffaws and, mostly, applause along the way. Jamerson works at bringing out his inner diva; with his extensive collection of ensembles, he can be Tina Turner one day, Cher the next.
"It's all about joy," he says. "Society imposes restrictions on our lives that a lot of us accept, although there are lots of reasons not to accept them."
The origins of the storyline seem sort of clichéd, but the outcome is anything but: A depressed furloughed flight attendant goes to a therapist after September 11. The therapist tells him to go out and do something that will make him happy. A year later, he's stealing the show at Taste of the Central West End, doing a torchy dance in a tutu and cop shirt.
The costumes may change, but the baton is ever present. "Baton twirling was a hobby to me," says Jamerson, "so I went to the closet and got out my old baton and added it to my walk, basically to lift my own spirits. I had no idea what the effect of that was going to have on the people watching me."
From her second floor of the Optimist International offices on Lindell Boulevard, Katie Vaughan saw Jamerson's evolution from Richard Simmons-style workout artist to flamboyant exhibitionist. "When I first saw him," says Vaughan, "he was wearing the tight jogging pants and cut-down sweatshirts, and he would go by singing to himself. Then his costumes became more elaborate, and around the holidays he would start going to the specialized costumes -- the Santa hat and red velvet skirt, the pink bunny suit for Easter." Jamerson's morning appearances became highly anticipated. "There was a code," says Vaughan. "'Pick up line two' meant Bob was coming. Anyone who had a window would go to it and see what Bob had on for the day. We love him here."
Jamerson routinely celebrates on the sidewalks of Euclid Avenue in Maryland Plaza, and it's a safe bet that certain upstanding patrons of the family-oriented Pasta House, gazing through the plate-glass windows at the sexually charged show, have had to do a bit of explaining to the kiddies. Jamerson's act is seductive and over-the-top to the point of campiness -- a pouting pompom girl with a nod to Josephine Baker, the St. Louis dancer/chanteuse who became the toast of 1920s Paris.
Another day, another stage -- morning rush hour on Kingshighway, near Barnes-Jewish Hospital -- he stands bare-chested, a faux-diamond tiara on his shaven pate and bright red-lipstick gleaming in the sun, gyrating in short-shorts for the motorists idling in their own fumes. Hoots, hollers and honking horns only egg him on.
He faces the queue of cars, sensually strokes his thigh like the most accomplished East Side stripper, then lightly slaps his fanny. Sheer bawdiness.
Whether the public views him as a performance artist, a goofball or something else entirely, Jamerson himself is quite sincere about his mission to break down barriers: "This town still has a lot of issues with race, homosexuality and a lot of other things, and for me, as a black gay male, to step out of that box on the street in people's faces forces them to deal with some of these issues." There's that, yes, but he's also trying to land a spot in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Meanwhile, he's waiting to hear from Leno's people or Oprah's people -- whoever gets to him first.
But that's not why does it. He does it for the best reason, which makes him the Best St. Louisan of 2002: "I have the courage to put on a costume, step out on the street and twirl a baton, something that the average male would never do, especially in the Midwest! And that makes my spirit free. I think my spirit is freer than any other human's in this city as we speak."
A former CNN reporter who made his bones covering the Gulf War, Jaco came to KMOX in February 1995, adding a much-needed gravitas to the 50,000-watt behemoth. Rounding out his experience, Jaco has covered riots in Miami, floods in the Midwest and the Branch Davidian siege in Waco. In March, he vacated his longtime 2-4 p.m. slot and moved to evenings; his Nightwatch airs from 8-10 p.m. Jaco's timely, detailed stories, complemented with interviews, transmit to 44 states, the station's reach by night. One recent guest was Aukai Collins -- devout Muslim, FBI informant and author of My Jihad. Night after night, Jaco provides his own valuable insights, culled from a lifetime of globe-hopping and reporting, adding luster to topics that could otherwise turn dull. As one addicted listener says, "I have yet to tune him in when he doesn't add to something I'm already interested in."
Callow's well-known position as Berger's ghostwriter is one of the prime reasons people fear him and put him on the payroll -- even if it otherwise isn't in their best interests to do so. Why this is so says more about this town's fear of the truth and its preoccupation with maintaining appearances than it does about the efficacy of Callow's Simon Bar-Sinister act. It also says a lot about a Post-Dispatch environment that allows Berger and his ghost. Callow's power hinges on perception, fear and the knowledge that he's Jerry's stringer. Apologies to Bill McClellan and a number of other top-flight pros who practice an honest craft.
A guest preacher at the Jerusalem Missionary Baptist Church, Rogers prefers to evangelize on the city streets. "Anybody can preach behind walls," he offers, "but to be called out to the highways and the hedges -- that's a special call." He never solicits donations, yet preaching has earned him taunts, even arrests for peace disturbance. It's the thank-yous that make it worthwhile. "Two young men recently came to me," says Rogers. "They'd decided to give their life to the Lord, and they told me they're glad I'm out there doing the good work, don't let nothing stop me, keep on lifting up Jesus, 'cause if ever there was a time we need to lift him up, the time is now."