On Tuesday evening, Chasity Valentino announced a protest against Hamburger Mary’s owner David Pardue with the following post:
LGBTQIA+ Community stands against Dave Pardue, owner of Hamburger Mary’s St. Louis, Missouri.
St. Louis, Mo on Sunday July 5th 2020 a group of local community members will come together to protest owner of Hamburger Mary’s St. Louis, Dave Pardue at 400 Washington Ave, St. Louis, MO 63102.
We believe it is important that Pardue be exposed for exhibiting racism, transphobia, and sexual assault on members of the LGBTQIA+ community. With our protest, we endeavor to bring awareness to the fact that Pardue has numerous allegations against him that include sexual assault, racism towards customers and staff, as well as transphobia towards the Drag Queens employed by him.
Time is up for abusers. We will not stand for people having power or control any longer. We believe that David Pardue should be removed from ownership of Hamburger Mary’s St. Louis, as well as removal from the School Board in Fairview Heights, IL at Grant Middle School, and stripped from his role on the board of directors for pageants.
The protest will include stories from victims of David Pardue’s violence toward the community.
Late Tuesday evening Danielle Hunter went live to defend Pardue, which she describes as a close friend. “There’s a lot of girls who work there and we need our job and we love David.” WATCH HERE
House of Markstone Responds to Hunter
Danielle Hunter was part of the House of Markstone, living at their Drag Embassy on South Grand, before siding with Pardue in a feud.
Alicia Markstone unloaded on Hunter after last night’s video.
Danielle Hunter, As I watched your performance tonight I was actually saddened by your life. For the 35+ years I’ve known you, you have continually destroyed not only me but everyone you have come in contact with. Thrown me to the trash so many times to get what you want I have lost count. I didn’t want to forgive you this time but you sat on my couch and said “ I have changed a lot I’m not that horrible person anymore” I gave in because unlike you I am good. I was good enough to sew for you for nearly free to free. All the way up to the minute you lied about everything and frantically moved out because I was “evil” well the week before you did this it was ok I made you 7 costumes for New Year’s Eve weekend. For free Yep that’s evil. You knowingly took the side of someone that did me horribly wrong, over mine. You let him be so mean and cruel to me , because he could give you work and be your meal ticket. But you have done this my entire life to me. You have never been good to me you have always used me. Had me put in jail for something you were responsible for and threaten my ability to get hiv medicine. All the time. You have been ran out of every place you’ve ever lived because you are evil. I was still afraid of you until I realized that I lived in a city that sees your evil too. I am proud and you can no longer hurt me. I have reclaimed my strength that you have stolen from me over 35 years……..
I worked there for about 5 months and experienced a lot of micro aggressive racism from David making comments like “who would want to be black” to singling out black employees and trans employees for “jokes” that only he really laughed at. If there was a table of black patrons, he would joke negatively about them being cousins of black employees, especially if they were difficult. Sexual remarks about my ass where made often and I’ve been groped by his husband more than once during shifts and drag shows. He and his husband often made sexual advances and jokes towards a another guy we worked with.
–Dexter Peebles
In October of 2019 I lent costumes to David Pardue of Hamburger Mary’s and Miss Gay America to help him decorate for the national Miss Gay America Pageant. Afterwards due to lies spread by a member of his cast and former roommate of mine our cordial relationship ended. My belongings were still in Davids possession. Over the months following our falling out, David and his group of friends proceeded in an attempt to ruin my professional and personal reputation by spreading falsities about me being physically abusive, a drug addict and trash among many other slanderous rumors. I could write an entire novel about the experiences I’ve had with David Pardue, but he’s taken enough from me already. I’ll leave you with his words, after I kindly reached out (again nearly a year after lending them) to retrieve my belongings.“Oh Janessa…..you may have a few fooled in this city but trust you are nothing and will always be nothing.”
Should this voice be allowed to continue pretending to be a leader in our community?
I’ve said Krista Versace is the Elektra of St. Louis
I’ve joked privately to friends that Krista Versace is our own Elektra–the villainess diva on Pose. She’s a bitch and always has been, but she’s fierce and she’s ours.
Yesterday Versace was fired from Hamburger Mary’s after a handsome gay Republican with a large social media following accused her of bullying him and dicslosing his HIV status and past drug use. The post where the exchange took place, which was on Just John bartender Kareem Lahai-Pumagoi’s wall, has been removed. I haven’t seen images of the comment and it seems images haven’t been produced.
“I never said he had HIV. I said he was a drug addicted porn star prostitute and has had his virus for over two decades, something he’s publicly talked about” Versace said in reference to the man’s interview with POZ Magazine.
“I hate to see it” begins longtime follower Mac Taylor upon hearing of Versace’s termination. “Krista is a bitch but a bitch you enjoy. Like an Alexis Carrington. I remember she had on this baby blue jumper once, sipping on a glass of white wine at the back bar at the Complex. I stopped and told her, mid sip, that the blue was a really good color for her and without missing a beat as I walked on toward the bathroom she yelled back at me ‘ANY COLOR!’”
According to bartender Kareem Lahai-Pumagoi, the same gay Republican behind the campaign against Versace has been viciously targeting him over his support of Black Lives Matter for some time. On a since-deleted post where Lahai-Pumagoi shared numerous screenshots, he writes: “This dude is trash. So obsessed with clout chasing. His narcissism knows no bounds and I love how he’s attempting to intimidate me by blowing up my IG and Facebook page. It’s harassment and you have zero power over my life.”
I’m withholding the name of the gay Republican and his known Trump supporting associates at this time as I wait to see a fuller picture of what occurred in the coming days. I don’t condone mocking someone’s status, period. As far as being bullied, though, it’s hard to see someone as a victim when they love trolling “libtards” and using their sizable following to harass people of color.
Knowing that Kareem Lahai-Pumagoi seems to be next on the gay Republican hit list, it’s important for the community to be vigilant. In St. Louis especially we’ve seen cancel culture co-opted by narcissists time and again to advance their own self-interests.
***UPDATE WITH STATEMENT FROM JUST JOHN OWNER JOHN O ARNOLD***
Let me add my 2 cents without going into a lot of details. The other day this same gay republican (GP) called my bar and demanded to speak to one of the owners because he was upset with what Kareem had posted on his own FB page. FYI, it had absolutely nothing to do with my bar. I told the GP that this was in between him and Kareem and that they needed to work it out. He did not like my answer and threatened me by saying he had thousands of followers and that he was going to blast my bar is a negative way on his page. I told him to be my guest and then he immediately hung up on me. He called me back within 3 minutes apologizing. Kareem and the GP did end up talking and the post was removed. Kareem and I both thought he was in a good place but evidently not. This GP was determined to get “someone” fired. What a POS! In my opinion, Krista should NOT be fired. They need to hire her back. I have nothing but respect for Krista. This GP talks publicly about everything she mentioned.This pandemic has brought out the worst in people. Our bar is only allowing 25% of our capacity but we are at 150% worth of drama since opening. People are going out of their minds. It is like they have all been cooped up for months and now they just need to start some kind of DRAMA
****UPDATE WITH NEW STATEMENTS FROM KAREEM LAHAI-PUMAGOI****
“WHAT AN EGOTISTICAL PRICK! SUCH AN ASSHOLE! SO HURTFUL AND DISGUSTING!” Kareem exclaimed upon hearing of Verace’s termination.
Kareem called me to defend Versace. “Krista did not disclose his status. He disclosed it himself on that very thread! He then deleted the comments.”
Kareem said the gay Republican, since outed as Matt Shiermeier, had been harassing him for three weeks, triggered by Kareem telling Shiermeier “You don’t have the clout you think you do.”
Since then, Kareem says, Shiermeier has been bombarding him with messages about how popular he is. He also has his followers post laughing emoji on Kareem’s photos, and on the photos of those who engage with Kareem’s posts.
After John O. Arnold was unpersuaded to terminate Kareem, Kareem reached out directly to Shiermeier. “What is the deal that you do nothing but think about this all day at 42 years old. Don’t you have friends?”
Kareem said Shiermeier said no and began crying. He thought they had some sort of breakthrough, and is furious that Shiermeier cost Versace her position.
****UPDATE*****HAMBURGER MARY’S RESPONDS WITH FACEBOOK POST
Shade has always been part of queer culture, but with the advent of social media shade has gone mainstream and unfortunately that means everyone thinks they know how to throw it, often with cringeworthy results.
I’ve broken down shade into four categories so you can better appreciate when it’s done artfully, and dismiss it when it’s not.
Ballroom Legend Mechee Harper
Ballroom Standard: The Ballroom Standard (think Pose) is the Gold Standard.
“Ballroom is shade. I grew up in shade,” says ballroom legend Mechee Harper, who was recently tagged in a post throwing shade her way. On that very post where someone shaded her, Harper replied, “Feel free to check my wall for my response. I wouldn’t dare reply on such a low trending thread. Bye.”
And of course on her wall, she delivered a quality read.
Ballroom shade is delivered with the same skill, precision, and nimble improvisation as if the two parties were “battling” on stage. The mere fact that shade is being thrown isn’t enough for the discerning audience.
Facebook Friendly Shade: Saying an actual name can land you in Facebook jail if reported which is one reason most social media shade stops just short of naming names. To make the shade credible, though, the post must be public.
While not the fine art of Ballroom, Facebook Friendly Shade can still be witty and effective, while letting you live to shade another day.
Sassy Screenshot Shade: This spineless approach involves blocking someone and then vaguely (no real name) reading them, counting on folks to send the read party screenshots. Sadly, the kind of person who does this typically has equally undiscerning friends who shower them with attention, enforcing the cringeworthy behavior.
“Tell Camp” Standard: Named after a man infamous for this approach, Tell Camp is the “block and talk” approach on steroids, and is the lowest, most underhanded, and least respected form of shade. There’s vigorous debate as to whether it should even be classified as shade, as that gives it too much credit. Not only are you talking about someone who can’t defend themselves, you are actually using their name while doing it. Reputationally, it’s a suicide bomber approach.
Shade is a cultural art form passed down through drag families and ballroom houses. Just as you wouldn’t run onto an NBA court and try to compete, amateurs are best served by watching the show from the sidelines, lest you find your name forever associated with your humiliating efforts.
I woke to screen shots of three or four people ripping me to shreds last night (after a bit of pot stirring), and when that happens I’m always intrigued by what they focus on. In this case, one argument was that I couldn’t make it in New York.
I drove in Manhattan twice: When I arrived and when I left.
Not only is that true, there’s an entire chapter in my book about it.
I was living in Oakland with my husband of a dozen years when he fell in love with someone else. Moving to New York was something I had intended to do since I was fifteen, and I considered it to be the unfinished business of my life. The silver lining in the separation was that I had nothing left to lose (I even quoted Janis Joplin in the closing of my way too personal notice to my Berkeley employer–a letter they used against me when I tried to file for unemployment to fund a few extra months in New York). The decision to make that leap also allowed me to deliver one of the best lines of my entire life, when my flippant husband came home and I announced out of the blue, “At this point in your life you need to be single, and I need to be in New York.”
The euphoria of being liberated, which lasted through a weeklong cross country trip visiting friends from Oklahoma City to Detroit, was followed by a crash once I arrived and reality set in, and New York was not the kind of place you go to lick your wounds and regroup. With several real estate recruiters telling me, “Nobody in this town will hire you without Manhattan experience,” writing jobs offering $25k, my savings dwindling, and the only regional job prospects being in places like Philadelphia and Hartford, I had another epiphany. This was an opportunity to downshift, return to St. Louis, and finish my long delayed book, Delusions of Grandeur.
My view while living in Manhattan
So yes, it’s true I did not succeed in New York, there’s just not much power in that insult when it’s something I’ve written about years earlier. My failures are something I own, and they are an asset to my craft.
The only thing in the screen shots that annoyed me is the claim that I “crawled back to St. Louis,” as if this isn’t where I wanted to be.
I lived in San Francisco for a total of eight years (over two periods of time, and with the last year in Oakland) and during that time I not only wrote about how St. Louis was my muse, I convinced friends from around the nation to converge in St. Louis for events based on my stories about this place. On a civic pride level, I don’t like people describing this as a last-resort town.
I’m not from here, and there are certainly easier places to live.
My perspective as an optimist is there’s value in seeing what they’re saying, as long as you don’t let it get to you. Maybe someone will say something you can learn from, or maybe you’ll read it and think “Is that it?”
I also know that by this little group focusing on me, they gave another target the night off, and that person probably needed it.
“Midnight Annie’s Final Performance” was included in Belt Publishing’s The St. Louis Anthology
Photo of Midnight Annie, courtesy of Gary Reed
I woke up on Wednesday September 24, 2014, grabbed my phone from the nightstand and checked social media like I always did. The first post I saw was from a friend announcing that the bar where I spent my Friday nights, Clementine’s, was closing after the coming weekend. I was floored, and hoped it was just a rumor. The historic corner bar and restaurant, famous for their strong drinks and colorful characters, was one of my favorite things about St. Louis. It was the LGBT community’s embassy in Soulard, and for me symbolized permanence.
Entombed in the wall of the establishment were the remains of Midnight Annie, a drag queen who long frequented and performed at the bar. While laughing and drinking there with my friend Big David, I sometimes pondered having my own remains interred beside her, forever being part of the action. She passed in April 1995 at the age of 73, two years before I first moved to St. Louis, but I felt like I knew her after hearing so many tales of her antics. Her shows sounded like pure madness. She’d often sit down on stage, wearing her salt and pepper bouffant wig and sequin gown, and begin kicking up her heels and howling at the moon.
All morning I tried to get confirmation as I began working on the article. Bars were always rumored to be closing, and there’d been embarrassing retractions in the past. One bar, Novak’s, even had an emotional closing gala, only to open up for business as usual the following day. The LGBT magazine I wrote for, Vital Voice, had to balance the desire to break the story with the need to get it right, and our publisher decided we weren’t running the piece until we had a quote from one of the owners.
Rather than covering it as breaking news, I crafted the announcement like a eulogy, recalling the storied past of the place, how it was a cornerstone of the community, was the oldest surviving LGBT bar in St. Louis, and how there was no more prestigious spot to be during Mardi Gras than on the grand balcony above the entrance. In 2012, I was so determined to grace that balcony that I loitered around the guarded entrance to the upper floor, and the second the bouncer’s back was turned, bolted up the stairs. I strolled in like I was supposed to be there, tossing beads into the crowd below for ten or fifteen minutes until I sensed suspicion from the krewe, and nonchalantly made my exit.
The article was essentially written when I arrived at Clem’s and spoke to the bartender, who’d just learned the news himself in a letter from owner Gary Reed. It was then I got word that #Boom, Vital Voice’s bitter rival, just broke the story with a brief announcement and a quote from the same bartender. We ran our piece twenty minutes later. I then began working on gathering and documenting every story I could from the patrons during the remaining days. I knew my Friday night group, but there were so many people I didn’t know. People who were there during the day, or on different nights. I needed to meet and talk to as many of them I could in a desperate attempt to immortalize this place before it was too late. With a pen in one hand and a cocktail in the other, I lived, breathed and drank the moment. During those final days, I was embedded at Clem’s.
“It’s like Cheers, when I’m down and out there’s always someone here to lift me up. That’s the one thing that scares me to death: Where am I going to meet my friends? Where will us fading flowers go?” said Josie, 52.
That first night the news was so fresh and most everyone was in disbelief, while some were angry. A festive, slender man of about sixty, named Johnnie, was excited about my interviews, and told me who I should speak with.
“See the guy with the hot pink goblet? That’s Miss Davey. He’s been coming here every single day for years and they keep that goblet just for him. One day I asked Jan, ‘How do I get my own goblet?’ and she said, ‘Well, you’ve gotta come here every day!’ You need to talk to him!” Johnny said, but returned a moment later, “He’s too upset and is afraid of what he might say. Give him a little time.”
I spoke to a big, gruff, bearded man named Dennis who, in his booming voice, told me Clems was his first gay bar, then a frail, petite man walked through the door and Dennis shouted, “HEY HOWARD!” and pulled him in. “This is Howard, he was here for the grand opening!”
I greeted Howard, who told me he was 79 and lived on the east side. “I always stopped here to get my bridge drink,” he said. I suggested he grab a cocktail and then come back to talk.
“You’re giving him too much time, he might die in the next five minutes! He’s about a hundred and forty!” Dennis joked.
Later, at the tables on the old brick sidewalk out front, Dennis and his buddies agreed to tell me more stories if I’d smoke a joint with them. A group of six men shared tales about Clem’s, reminisced about other bars that came and went over the years, and recalled the tales of Midnight Annie. Legend had it she got the name back in the 1940s when she’d bribe a jailer to let her “entertain” inmates in the middle of the night.
“Oh I remember Midnight Annie,” one man began. “She was a trust fund baby and when she’d get an installment she’d blow it in no time. Once she sauntered into a Cadillac dealership and bought two Cadillacs. One for her and one for her trick! That’s just how she was. God, I still remember her sitting at that bar drunk as Hell with her lipstick going up her wrinkled face and her wig on crooked. She had this trademark high-pitched sound she’d make, and when she’d do it everyone around the bar would mimic it. Like a bird call.”
Many of the stories about St. Louis’ gay world came out of East. St. Louis, because gay bars were less likely to be raided there. Some of the bars sounded a lot like speakeasies.
“Those early days were revolutionary,” began a silver-haired gentleman named Beaux. “There were bars that were straight by day and gay by night, and Helen Schrader’s started out that way. Helen had been a notorious madam with 50 women working for her during her heyday. When one of her first girls, Alice, got old she worked the front door at the bar. You’d knock and Miss Alice would slide a little slot open and look at you. If she knew you, she’d let you in. If she didn’t, she’d tell you to go away.”
The interior of Clem’s. Photo courtesy of the St. Louis LGBT History Project
Stories also came in online. My friend Dan posted a memory on Facebook, and it really struck me because it was about a passing generation.
“One really busy night many years ago I had sex right there on the counter of the bar, maybe 400 in the bar at the time. Surprised? It brought back memories of the first owner, Wally Thomas. He sold it in ’85 but it stayed a gay bar. People don’t want to let go, but the past HAS to go. The past, the bars, the buildings, the people all have had their time and now need to go. And they will – no matter what is said. That place leaves far greater a legacy than I ever will. As one person said: The old heart of Gay St. Louis will cease to beat. I see the passages. The old gay ghettos, the book stores, the peep shows, the gay bars, their time has passed. My tribe, my people, my places, become part of yesterday’s mist. Museum pieces that fade and collect dust. And so does yours truly.”
While Monday would be the last day, Sunday afternoon was when the community at large came to say their goodbyes. It looked like Mardi Gras as the crowd spilled out of the bar into the street, where a BMW blasted music for the hundreds of people outside.
The last Sunday at Clem’s. Photo courtesy of the St. Louis LGBT History Project
I had only been back in town for a few months, having moved to San Francisco to try to salvage a long beleaguered relationship, and then to New York to get over it. My heart, however, was always in St. Louis, and I was so thankful to be on the ground during these final days of Clementine’s. It would have killed me to miss them.
Steve Potter, a local NPR personality, was so moved and inspired by the stories Clem’s fading flowers shared with Vital Voice that he came out on the air, discussing his first visit to the bar decades earlier.
As the world opened up, gay bars nationwide were going the way of the dinosaur, especially those serving an older clientele. But this haunted town had such a memory, and rather than disappear, Clem’s would simply take its place in the local folklore.
I almost didn’t go to closing night, and Big David didn’t plan on going either. It was a Monday, I’d spent every waking hour there since Wednesday, and I thought it would be too sad. Around eight, however, I decided I would always regret not going. Since I was going, Big David came out as well. I walked in, and on the glowing dry erase marquee near the pool table I wrote, “Going down with the ship.”
The bar was crowded but not overly so, and the characters there were the ones who really loved the place. The spirits were higher than expected and the camaraderie was simply incredible as old friends hugged, laughed, and made toasts. Miss Davey, the daily regular who had his own hot pink goblet and had been too upset to be interviewed, came up and gave me a hug.
“I’m really sad, but I’m going to be ok,” he said, smiling.
When owner Gary and his late partner Jim bought the bar in 1985, they held their first drag show. Midnight Annie was the headliner. Unbeknownst to her, they promoted the evening as “Midnight Annie’s Final Performance” to make it more of a draw.
“Would you quit telling people this is my final performance?” an exasperated Midnight Annie kept admonishing.
I was less than a foot from Gary when, in the final hours, he took the mic, and the quiet, introverted man who’d hardly said anything over the years gave a rousing farewell speech. The whole place stopped to listen. He spoke about how much times had changed since the bar opened in 1978, and changed for the better. He spoke of the historic old brick building which was erected in the 1860s. He said all drinks were on the house until the last bottle was dry, and then he then brought up Midnight Annie.
“I always say my only child was a seventy-three year old drag queen,” he began, “and she’s leaving with me. Ladies and Gentleman, next to Jan is Midnight Annie!”
I’ll be God damned if he didn’t have Midnight Annie’s dusty urn—complete with the yellowed and water stained label—sitting there on the bar with a cocktail.
The crowd erupted with cheers and applause.
On that final evening there were people in attendance who’d come to see Midnight Annie’s final performance back in 1985. After a thirty year wait, she and Gary Reed finally delivered with a closing number the city will never forget.
