In a single weekend the St. Louis community, along with friends and fellow entertainers from around the country, came together to ensure Chasity Valentino had the legal representation she needed to defend herself against the big money individual who singled her out in a lawsuit. Dozens of donations as modest as $5 added up quickly, followed by an anonymous $740 contribution Sunday evening.
We want to thank everyone who shared the story and who donated. Without representation Chasity would have been easily railroaded. Because of all of you, Chasity can go to court with dignity, and she has more than a fighting chance of winning.
All donors listed in alphabetical order.
Joshua Alexander Chris Andoe Jennifer Armer Alison Bacon Ryan Bandy Jerid Bates Jordan Braxton Dan Boyer Mike Campise Thomas J Choinski Candace Counts Patti Daigle Emma Delaney Chris Dexter Jesse Doggendorf Abby Dorning Lance Frutiger Denise Hart Webster Heffern Jeffery Houston Matt Huber Josh Jordan Joan Lipkin Michael Lonergan Jessica Lyons Dawn Noel Arthur Nunn Lindsey Phoenix Lisa Reynolds Kimberly Rockwell Gregory Schmelig Ryan Shannon Nick Stanton Chris Taylor Mac Taylor Jonathan Tennant
Dozens peacefully demonstrated outside of Hamburger Mary’s St. Louis in July after the firing of drag legend Krista Versace. The termination ignited a much larger conversation among entertainers, former employees, and even customers about allegedly offensive and inappropriate behavior on the part of co-owner David Pardue.
Trans activist and entertainer Chasity Valentino emerged as one of the protest leaders, and is now one of two individuals singled out in Pardue’s audacious defamation suit. The other individual is producer Chuck Pfoutz.
Euclid Media Group, the parent company of Riverfront Times and Out in STL, is also named. Neither publication covered the story or the protest, but Pardue’s attorney is arguing that Euclid is responsible for reporting on chrisandoe.com since I was the editor of Out in STL at the time. While the argument is unusual, it is a common strategy to pursue a link to a party with resources when seeking monetary damages. While mentioned in the filing, I am not being sued.
Anthony Rothert of the ACLU of Eastern Missouri reviewed the file and said, “It does seem like a bullying piece of litigation, particularly against this person [Chasity].”
Richard C. Reuben of ReubenLaw LLC has agreed to represent her for a flat fee of $2,500. Chasity is young and survives on a limited income, and must now come up with the money or risk a judgment that could reach upwards of a million dollars.
On July 5, 2020, Chasity stood up for her community. Please stand up for her in return. If you can only give $5, please give it and then ask your friends to donate as well. Chasity doesn’t have David Pardue’s deep pockets, but she has an entire community that has her back. Each donation, regardless of size, is a statement that we stand with Chasity.
For those able to make sizable donations, I’m offering the largest single donor an exclusive evening where I’ll read excerpts from my upcoming book, House of Villadiva to your small group at your home or virtually. Offer is open to anyone in the United States.
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, a heavyset man of 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.”
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.
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.
Friday afternoon Troy Skaife took his Friday Social Club happy hour group to the bar formerly known as Clementines, which was the oldest gay bar in the city when it closed in 2014. Clem’s was considered sacred ground by many, and since the change in ownership I’ve thought of the building as a fallen embassy, trying to not even look at it much less revisit it.
But I decided if there was ever a time to go this was it, since many friends of mine attend these happy hours. I dug through my archives and pulled out the December 2014 issue of Vital VOICE, where I had a piece about Midnight Annie, the drag queen whose ashes were long entombed in the wall. While uncertain how it would be received, I felt compelled to impart a sense of history on the new owner and staff, and hoped they’d find it interesting.
The bar is beautiful and familiar, and the happy hour took place upstairs, which was just an unused apartment during the Clem’s days. The bartender serving us was young and attractive, with a shaved head and muscular physique, and while not talkative he was efficient, relaxed and professional. The drinks, however, were nothing like the famously strong Clem’s cocktails.
The balcony, once the most coveted and exclusive spot for LGBT people during Mardi Gras–which was also the only time it was used–was open to anyone. As the regular bar patrons arrived it felt they were either consciously or unconsciously engaging in dominance displays, trying to “hetero” the place up in response to our group, yelling at the game, repeatedly blowing air horns, etc. There’s a chance they would have been just as loud and rowdy had we not been there, but soon it seemed our entire gathering had taken refuge (video) on the balcony.
I went downstairs to look for whoever was in charge, and found a group of three employees at the main bar, which wasn’t busy at the time.
“Did you know there was a drag queen entombed in that wall over there for many years?” I asked.
“Say what?!” one exclaimed, but after that burst of surprise I lost their attention instantly.
“This is an article about it you can ready sometime” I said as the man behind the bar took the magazine and set it down without comment.
For anyone who isn’t familiar with the story of Midnight Annie, below is an excerpt from Delusions of Grandeur.
Midnight Annie’s Final Performance I almost didn’t go to closing night at Clementines, and Ray didn’t plan on going either. It was a Monday night, I’d spent all of my time there since Wednesday, and I thought it would be too sad. Around eight, however, I decided I would always regret not going, and since I was going Ray 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, a daily regular who had his own hot pink goblet and had been too upset to be interviewed over the past several days, 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 with their friend Midnight Annie as the headliner. Unbeknownst to her they billed it 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. She carried on there for many more years, and even after she passed she was still a draw, remaining among us in the wall. 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 years gave a rousing farewell speech, and the whole place stopped to listen and applaud. 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-five year old drag queen” he began, and then announced “And she’s leaving with me. Ladies and Gentleman, next to Jan is Midnight Annie!” and I’ll be God damned if he didn’t have Midnight Annie’s dusty urn, complete with the yellowed and water stained label, sitting on the bar with a cocktail! The crowd went mad with uproarious 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.
Shortly after, I made my way to Nadine’s, where many others had also migrated. We talked about how going back there was like going back to your house a few years after you died. It’s no longer yours, and seeing the new inhabitants is disconcerting. It felt we were trespassers.
Not only are Midnight Annie’s ashes gone, I can feel that her soul has moved on from that space as well. I will continue to look away from our fallen embassy, preferring to remember it as it was.