Six-Gun Stan

Seventy-four-year-old Stan Glazer climbs atop an avocado-green '66 Lincoln Continental with suicide doors. He and his 38-year-old wife, Lori, seat themselves high on the Lincoln's rear end, feet dangling into the backseats, and prepare to surf the Brookside St. Patrick's Day parade.

"Is this how Truman did it?" Glazer says and laughs.

Three years ago, Glazer lost his bid for mayor against the incumbent Kay Barnes. He likes to say he has never stopped campaigning for the job. The convertible is borrowed from Mark One Electric Company, one of his campaign contributors. He has assembled a modest entourage that includes Lori, longtime friend (and today's driver) Bill Ramm, and Glazer's campaign manager, Mike Ferguson.

Glazer thinks that 34-year-old Ferguson can help him tap the youth vote. "These kids need to put someone in office who's going to open a few doors," Glazer says. "You know, you're 18, so God help you if you get caught drinking a beer, but we'll send you to Iraq to get your head blown off."

The Lincoln pulls into the parade's current. People in the crowd give the soon-to-be mayoral candidate a thumbs up or wave. Somebody yells, "I'm voting for you, Stan!"

"Three votes, I just got three votes," Glazer jokes.

Lori, Glazer's third wife, gently reminds Stan to look left or wave right. Lori's presence is one of the things that will set Glazer's 2007 campaign for mayor apart from his 2003 run. Back then, Glazer managed about 40 percent of the vote against Barnes, even though he didn't begin his campaign until four months before the primary. Lori was less visible then because she'd started a new job, she says. The woman he calls his "bride," though they've been married for five years, says she'll be more involved this time. Nearly 40 years her husband's junior, Lori has luminous blue eyes, blond hair styled in a pixyish haircut, a pert Meg Ryan nose, a big laugh and an even bigger diamond weighing down her ring finger. Lori is the director of sales and customer service at Union Station, but for Glazer, she's something of an image adviser.

"Are you embarrassed?" Glazer asks Lori.

"No. Are you?"

"Yeah," he admits.

Somebody shouts, "Go, mayor!"

"Hey! Thank you!"

A trend begins to present itself: the archetypal Stan fan. Male, thirties, beer in hand, wearing a college T-shirt. The Johnny Dare's contingent. It's a demographic likely to vote for a guy like Glazer, a former comedy club owner, a businessman who's watched a few ideas turn into million-dollar ventures and then crash and burn, a man who isn't afraid to tell racy jokes, someone best-known for speaking his mind (as when he hints that City Hall would be better off if former political boss Tom Pendergast still ran things).

In the parade, Glazer seems a little taken aback by the overwhelmingly positive response he's getting. "I keep waiting for someone to say, 'Hey, fuck you, Stan!'"

"Hey, Stan!" calls a mother. Her children wave.

"I wish these little kids could vote," Stan says under his breath.

Earlier this week, Stan the Man officially kicked off his campaign, making the formal announcement at Fiorella's Jack Stack Barbecue. Like he says, he's never stopped running. But behind the new suits, the glossy bio packets and the presidential photos, he's still Stan Glazer. The brassy personality. The blunt honesty. The big mouth. He can't run away from that.

Glazer's in the kitchen of his Plaza condo, dressed in old black sweats, filling little bowls with Fritos and mixed nuts. The Glazer campaign brain trust has started to arrive. So far, it's Larry Thrasher, a Kansas City North neighborhood activist, and midtown neighborhood activist Mark Esping. Ferguson, Glazer's campaign manager, is on his way.

Everyone's feeling loose and joking. Glazer laughs at the fact that he has to be a more courteous driver now that he has big "Stan for Mayor" magnets affixed to the sides of his white Chrysler Crossfire.

Esping recounts a story from a meeting that he attended earlier in the day at the McDonald's on Prospect with African-American activists who opposed the stadium tax. They were using the n-word, Esping says, until someone remembered he was there and pointed out that you shouldn't use that word around white people. This reminds Glazer of a joke.

"So St. Peter's away from the pearly gates, and a messenger comes running up to him and says, 'St. Peter! There's a bunch of niggers coming!' And St. Peter says," — Glazer claps his hands sternly — "'Now, we don't use that word. The proper term is African-Americans. You should know better. You march right down there and you apologize to them.' And the messenger goes running off. And he comes running back yelling, 'They're gone! They're gone!' St. Peter says, 'All those people are gone?' 'Not them!' The messenger says. 'The pearly gates!'"

Glazer looks around the room as his brain trust chuckles, but the joke's not exactly a knee-slapper. "That's racist," he says matter-of-factly. "But watch any black comedian — they use that word all the time."