They protest too much: I'm a little disturbed by Jack Lane and Michael Hamilton's response to Deanna Jent's review of Hello, Dolly! [Letters, October 5]. I too thought that Jent's criticism of the theater's collection techniques was not appropriate for a column which, in theory, reviews artistic presentations (though the criticism is not wholly without merit). However, Lane and Hamilton's response to the review was shrill, whiny and unbecoming their positions as the leaders of one of St. Louis' largest arts organizations.
I wonder why they didn't take the high road and just ignore Jent's criticisms on that point like everyone else who donated? With leadership like Lane and Hamilton exhibited in their letter to the editor, no wonder Stages is artistically bankrupt. And don't even get me started on the move to Chesterfield.
St. Charles County
For the last time, shut the hell up about the Bobster: Annoyed St. Louisans who think Beatle Bob should sit-the-hell-down should shut-the-hell-up and be thankful. He's "flailing" evidence that a live music scene still exists in your city.
If you object to having your club-hopping evenings "ruined" by colorful characters like the Bobster, you're welcome to relocate to the nation's capital, where I live. You won't find anyone like Mr. Mop Top gyrating around here these days, because increasingly stuffy local ordinances have all but snuffed out the once-thriving D.C. nightclub/roots music scene.
Vivian P. Arceneaux
Note to self...: Regarding your Best of St. Louis, I'd like to say how much I enjoy your paper and I think it has only gotten better since the paper was sold, regardless of what Frank Johnson thinks [Letters, September 28].
There is just one thing I'd like to point out that has bothered me about the RFT. The story about Beatle Bob ["Sit Down!", August 24] and a few months before that you put Baton Bob on the cover [December 31, 2003]. Why? Who gives a shit about those people? Is that all it takes to get a cover or story -- prance around the streets in drag or annoy people at a concert? When you give them attention, it's a waste of paper. That's exactly what they want. Even if he wrote a letter claiming "Hirsch's outright scandalous lies about me," Beatle Bob probably had an orgasm when he saw the first story and a second that you printed his response.
What do you have to do in this town to get PR? Kill yourself ["Won't Be Worried Long," August 10]? That cover was awesome, but maybe if the story had been written when Hunter Brumfield was alive, he wouldn't have pulled the trigger. Why not do a story about Brandon Anschultz or Chris Samnee? What about Barb and Bernie McDonald -- the pair has been playing music for over 25 years with nothing to bicker about except they have never made the cover in 25 years! Instead you put some crazy queen?
I have been struggling to break through the comedy scene for three years, and so next time you want to put a crazy queer on the cover, pick me (please). I advertised my Web site (www.tommychamberlain.com) in the RFT transsexuals page as a gag and I got almost 200,000 hits. So thank you RFT.
Misty pizza-color memories: I missed Rose Martelli's controversial review of St. Louis Pizza Haus, but I gather that she has a problem with square-cut thin-crust pizza ["Parlor Game," August 31]. She apparently questions its authenticity. Perhaps a lesson in St. Louis pizza history is in order.
When I was dating my wife back in the late '50s (yes, I'm a geezer), we often visited Pagliacci's, a primo Italian restaurant then on the southeast corner of Manchester and Kingshighway. In addition to its regular kitchen, it had an open-view pizza kitchen right out in the dining room. The pizza crust was thin and light, and it seemed there was always at least one spinning in the air over the prep counter. The topping choices were many. You could also choose provolone, mozzarella or both if you were a real cheesehead. And yes, Rose, the pizza was cut into three-inch squares because it would have been impossible to pick up a long wedge of thin crust laden with all those toppings and not have it collapse under the weight.
I assure you, Rose, this place was genuine Italian. If you would ask the waiter how your pizza was doing, he would answer in thick dialect, "Shee'z coooking." And there were plenty more genuine Italian pizza experiences available just like that one. There was Valencia's just west of DeBaliviere on Delmar, and Parenti's in the Central West End, and on and on, and the pizza crusts were thin and light and the pizza was cut in squares.
Oh, how I long for the days when I could eat five or six square-cut slices of thin-crust pizza, topped with bubbling mozzarella and provolone and sausage and pepperoni at midnight and go home and sleep like a baby.