shelter in place

At the Christmas party tonight everyone's phones screamed in unison as the Emergency Broadcast System went into effect for a tornado warning for the area. We huddled inside for a few minutes, tuned to the local news and radar, and watched the red squall line race across Middle Tennessee. We prepared for the emergency as best we could.

holesome exercise

After the big holiday dinner, I think it's healthy to engage in late-afternoon pick-up games with the boys. The boys back in Tennessee used to play touch football. I'm hoping my San Francisco boys are up for a little good-touch/bad-touch football.

Neil Gaiman on why libraries matter

Via BoingBoing, I found this excellent interview with Neil Gaiman on why librarians are needed more than ever in the 21st century. Added bonus, it turns out the interview was with BookPage, the book review magazine where I had my first job—a small outfit in Nashville, Tennessee.

Neil Gaiman is my favorite author. And as most writers do, he gets the library (emphasis mine).

Over the last decade, which is less than a blink of an eye in the history of the human race, it’s all changed. And we’ve gone from a world in which there is too little information, in which information is scarce, to a world in which there is too much information, and most of it is untrue or irrelevant. You know, the world of the Internet is the world of information that is not actually so. It’s a world of information that just isn’t actually true, or if it is true, it’s not what you needed, or it doesn’t actually apply like that, or whatever. And you suddenly move into a world in which librarians fulfill this completely different function.

We’ve gone from looking at a desert, in which a librarian had to walk into the desert for you and come back with a lump of gold, to a forest, to this huge jungle in which what you want is one apple. And at that point, the librarian can walk into the jungle and come back with the apple. So I think from that point of view, the time of librarians, and the time of libraries—they definitely haven’t gone anywhere.

soul. food.

An absolutely amazing place on Charlotte Avenue, in Nashville, Tennessee.

Read this. Go there.

Carrington Nelson Fox writing for The Nashville Scene:

At Thistle Stop Café on Charlotte Avenue, Magdalene House extends its empire of empathy

Excerpt:

Nashville — in particular, its rising restaurant scene — is the story of the moment. From The New York Times to Food & Wine, reporters are chronicling the ascendancy of Music City with such breathless narration of kale salad and hot chicken you'd think life here was a cabaret of artisan bacon and craft cocktails against a backdrop of reclaimed barnwood and bespoke denim. It makes for a good read.

But there is a deeper, quieter, longer-running story about life in Nashville that's not so obvious to the visiting trend-spotter. For the layover journalist attempting to capture the character of the city — culinary or otherwise — might we suggest adding the Thistle Stop Café to your itinerary? Because you'd be hard-pressed to find a location that tells a more endearing or hopeful story about the people who live here.

Located on the block of Charlotte Pike where Magdalene House's Thistle Farms social enterprise manufactures paper goods and body care products, Thistle Stop Café is the latest chapter in Magdalene's ministry for women who have survived prostitution, trafficking and addiction.

[snip]

With so much goodwill on the menu, Thistle Stop could easily rest on its social-enterprise laurels and offer a bare-bones repertoire of snacks — like so many corporate coffee chains. But that's not the case here.

The list of sandwiches, wraps, salads and desserts advances the local food story with an array of vegan and raw items that will be new to many palates. Pam Daley of nearby Spark of Life Healing Foods provides mock tuna salad, quinoa tabouli and raw pad thai made with cashews over curly crisp tangles of threaded zucchini and daikon. Dozen bakery provides muffins and scones, and Vegan Vee delivers an intriguing and indulgent selection of cookies, brownies and cupcakes sans dairy and eggs. (The raw triple-chocolate cheesecake alone is worth a visit. Made with almonds, cashews, dates, cocoa, vanilla, agave and coconut oil, the dense puck has the intensity of a truffle and a richness we are still trying to figure out.)

Or as they say it: "A story in every cup."

ACT: Black Watch

As a Scottish descendant, former resident of Stirling, and general lover of Scotland, I was entirely predisposed to love Black Watch, making it to San Francisco via ACT.

It did not disappoint. And the drill court in the Armory was the perfect place to stage it. I will let the other rave reviewers rave instead of a lengthy and thoughtful review here, but I will say this: Go. Now. Go get tickets. I consciously go into theater performances trying to know as little about it as I can as not to bias myself or learn spoilers, but a little background history regarding the Black Watch might add to the enjoyment of this story.

It's a new story, one not told, and both riveting and emotional. Superbly acted and brilliantly staged. Robert Jack's manages to embody two completely opposite characters and personalities in this show, many people don't realize both parts are played by the same actor. And he plants both roles deep. And Stuart Martin carries the lion's share of the drama, and makes you are eager to follow him along. The visual history of the Black Watch's uniforms is wonderfully portrayed, and my friend from Glasgow told me that the changing historical/regional Scottish accents were brilliant—I'm fairly decent at identifying regional brogues, but not that good.

And being the Out with ACT night, the lads joined us for a drink or four afterwards, and I was a bit beside myself with so much Scot. I'm wishing I had made it a later night and joined them for after- after- drinks in the Mission.




And shouts to Cameron, the piper who can act, his love of Texas (which I will outshine when I introduce him to Tennessee-prepare the other cheek) and to all the lovely lads in town for the show. SUCH a pleasure.

ACT (The American Conservatory Theater) has installed some serious renovations to the Armory space and intends to host more productions there. Enjoy the new acoustics and upgraded bathrooms. And when (not "if") you go to Black Watch, plan your libations ahead of time. The show runs nearly two hours (1:50) and there is no intermission, and if you leave you may not be reseated. Although I (surprisingly) made it through the performance without having to get up to pee, it was a distraction throughout the whole show (Do I have to pee? Will I have to pee? What about now? How will I get out if I need to pee?)

However, if you can void your bladder first and have a strong bladder, do have a pre-show drink at the Armory Tavern across the street beforehand. It's owned/managed by the same Kink.com which owns/manages the Armory, and it may be my new favorite bar——gorgeous with deliciously crafted cocktails. Just like my company.


And after the show, be sure to check out the Art-O-Matic! Five bucks for an original work.


Even more to love.

Steeplechase 2013

Another fun weekend in Nashville, and another fabulous Iroquois. I'm about to wrote up my blurbs for Nfocus, although it's getting harder and harder to come up with something new to say. It's begining to be old hat, as it were.

I will say this about the 72nd Iroquois: fashion-wise the infield has become better dressed than the boxes, and seersucker has been out-raced by gingham. Or as I call it, Gingham Style. (see also)

Rather than wax with words, here are some pictures worth their thousands.




























Nfocus blurbs will be posted six months after publication.

Also, huge love to Van and David for hosting the charming evening with Steve and Allen.

Update: Oh yeah, there was a super trashy catfight in the infield. No surprise it's on YouTube. And blogs. Fun times. Ladies, if you're going to get hammered and tend to violent behavior, put on some panties.

Out with ACT: 4000 Miles

And I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more just to be the man who saw 4,000 miles and waited by the stage door.
Rumor has it that the estate of Tennessee Williams, which has a wide reputation for just being dicks, put the kibosh on ACT's planned performance of A Street Car Named Desire because it might dilute the interested in a potentially possible tour, someday, of the all African-American version of Streetcar which closed in New York. Whatever.

Best thing that could have happened.

Amy Herzog's 4000 Miles, directed by Mark Rucker, is a throughly engaging new play that manages to fill every scene with warmth, or laughter, or pain, or emotional fear. All in one room, with two actors almost never leaving the stage. As the Seattle-ite grandson arrives at the Manhattan apartment of his windowed, slightly socialist grandmother at three in the morning after riding his bike the 4,000 miles from the west coast, the archetypes are quickly established. I should say stereotypes as these characters in the abstract are not old enough to be archetypes, but they are much deeper than that, and their typeness is set quickly so that we may recognize each of them for what we may think we know so readily, and they grow from their. Their characters are revealed, as all family characters are, through their relationship with each other. And even in the stereotype language used to establish the baselines are used to great comic effect, as if to say "Yes, we know this is a stereotype, but these people exist, and he's one of them. Now let's move on from that and get going." As Leo ends his bike ride, his real journey, and ours, begin.

Reggie Gowland embodies the character of Leo so smoothly you'll expect to see him biking in the Mission, and Susan Blommaert is a tour de force as Grandma Vera (which may be to be expected from someone with her resume. Damn.). The caliber of acting in this play is as best as I have seen, and their timing and physicality are impeccable. Rounding out the cast in two smaller roles of the younger women in Leo's life—more relationships in which he himself is revealed, are two more talented actors Julia Lawler and Camille Mana.

It might be easy to say that the play is just about ordinary people in an ordinary life, but the story which unfolds, and the people revealed before you are extraordinary. We see so much of the familiar, and the familial, and the drama evokes the pathos so essential to good theater. Sure, I teared up more than once, but I laughed raucously when I wasn't.

Again, the cast was kind enough to join us at the Out with ACT reception afterwards. Great crowd and great cast.

Camille Mana, Susan Blommaert and Wilson Hardcastle

Julia Lawler and Kevin

Wilson Hardcastle and Reggie Gowland

A special treat for us was the return of Randy Taradash, in town only for a brief time before returning to New York to close his wildly successful production of Bare.

Julia Lawler, Randy Taradash and Reggie Gowland

And a final special treat—the lovely Brianna. Kevin and I tend to be the last people in the theater who do not actually work there, and so we get to meet some of the fun late night staff. Randy knew we would get along—


She has a Joss Whedon/Mutant Enemy tattoo!


The next production at ACT requires some complicating set construction and so the theater is strictly constrained for extending this production of ACT. They've been playing to sold-out houses and have only been able to add a day or two. 4000 Miles runs through Sunday, February 10. It's worth the trip to take the ride.

next

Tennessee is known as the "Volunteer State."

I guess that has a better connotation than "Slutty."

and farewell to the fathers

My family has always been a loving, welcoming bunch.  As Jay noted in his homily to Dad, "...somehow the other children wanted you as their dad too...Dad, you and mom ran a household that welcomed our friends as much as your own children. We just seemed to collect other kids. Margaret, Jonathan, Susannah, Billy, Bill, two Pauls, Carrington, EJ, Robin, Hartley, Joe, Sloan, Scott, and anyone who lived on Sheppard Place, to name a few."

Among these close ties, I have two biological brothers, an adjunct brother, an adjunct brother and sister-in-law, and a pseudo sister. I refer to Margaret as my pseudo sister as she and I were raised pretty much next door to one another and are close as I imagine I would be had I a biological sister. You've met Margaret.

Joe (3), aka Jody, was brother Jay's best friend growing up and was annexed by the Hardcastles in high school around the time his parents were divorcing. I could not love Joe more if he were my own blood. It was Joe who, being too close to Dad to call him Mister Hardcastle and too respectful to call him John, coined the appellation Papa John—the name of reverence and affection my father carried proudly and too soon unto the grave. Joe now lives in Birmingham with his family.

Also brought into the fold was T. Hartley (4) whose father was our pastor growing up and one of Dad's closest friends. Hartley married Carolyn, and through much effort produced Grace. With their parents absent, Mom and Dad became the "Designated Parents" and when Grace came along, Papa John and Franna joyfully became doting grandparents to one more.

This week two of my acquired siblings have lost their fathers too, and I would like to pay my respects:

Joseph Hiram Calvin, Jr.
From the Birmingham News/AL.com:

CALVIN, JR., JOSEPH HIRAM Joe Calvin died on April 3, 2012; he was born in Decatur, Alabama June 2, 1918, the son of Joseph Hiram Calvin and Bernice Jackson Calvin. He was educated in the Decatur City Schools and graduated high school from the McCallie School in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Joe graduated from Davidson College where he was president of the Kappa Alpha fraternity. He attended Harvard Law School for two years before serving in the army, from which he retired as a captain in 1946. Joe received his Juris Doctor from the University of Alabama and practiced law in Decatur for nearly fifty years. During this time Joe served as President of the Morgan County Bar Association, President of the Decatur Kiwanis Club, was a long time member of the Board of Compass Bank, Chairman of the Decatur School Board and was elected to represent Morgan and Lawrence Counties in the Alabama State Senate. He was named most effective Alabama senator. Joe was a lifelong member of the First Presbyterian Church in Decatur until moving to Birmingham in 2000. He was a deacon and elder and taught Sunday school for many years. He is thought of by all as the perfect gentleman. Joe is survived by his wife Juliet Given Calvin, and his son Joseph Calvin III, wife Jennifer Calvin and four grandchildren; Kalli Calvin, Elizabeth Calvin, Joseph Calvin IV and Virginia Calvin. Joe is survived by Juliet Calvin's sons Finis St. John IV, wife Gaynor Lee St. John, and William Given St. John, wife Elizabeth Gentry St. John. He is also survived by her grandsons Finis St. John, wife Virginia Givhan St. John and great granddaughter Mary Juliet; and John Jefferson St. John. He was predeceased by Juliet's granddaughter Emily Parker St. John. The family will have a private graveside service at the Decatur City Cemetery on April 4, 2012.

Al Griffin, Jr.
From the Atlanta Journal Constitution:

GRIFFIN, Albert, Jr. ALBERT GRIFFIN, JR. Albert Griffin, Jr., 77, of Atlanta and Flowery Branch, GA died peacefully on March 15, 2012. Al was born on March 10, 1935, in Philadelphia, PA, to Albert and Mabel Hilsman Griffin. He was a 1953 graduate of Druid Hills High School and a 1957 graduate of The University of Pennsylvania where he received a degree in Political Science from The Wharton School and was a member of Sigma Nu fraternity. He received a graduate degree from The Stonier Graduate School of Banking at Rutgers University where he wrote his thesis on the financing of professional sports teams. Al's entire 40-plus year banking career was spent at SunTrust. For years, he ran the bank's college recruiting and management training programs. He loved following the careers of those he had identified and taught, many of whom became leaders in the bank. In the late 70's, he transitioned to the bank's investment department where he enjoyed working with individuals who became clients and friends until his retirement. Al was a member of Ansley Golf Club and First Presbyterian Church where he served three terms as elder, twice chaired the church's long range planning committee and was a member of the stewardship committee. Al was instrumental in the formation of First Presbyterian's Broadcast Ministry, twice traveled with a group from the church to Kenya and was a devoted member of the Tuesday morning men's Bible Study at the church for more than 15 years. He also served on the boards of Young Life Northwest Atlanta, the Atlanta Chapter of Habitat for Humanity and The Ravina Club.

Al was preceded in death by his parents and his first wife Carol Gregory Griffin. He is survived by his wife of 28 years Martha Dickinson Griffin, sister Mabel Griffin Kichline and her husband Pat, and brother-in-law Bruce M. Gregory, all of Atlanta. He is also survived by daughter Carolyn Griffin Hall and her husband Hartley of Nashville, TN, and sons Richard H. Lindeman and his wife Charlotte of Lookout Mountain, TN, Kenneth L. Lindeman and his wife Margaret of Gastonia, NC, Peter B. Lindeman and his wife Celeste of Atlanta, and Henry V. Lindeman, II and his wife Amy of Memphis, TN. Also nephew James M. Crawford, Jr. and his wife Tracy of Woodside, CA, and niece Laurie Crawford Tolbert and her husband Tom of Lexington Kentucky. Al is survived by 11 grandchildren: Grace Griffin Hall, Richard, Ashley and Charlie Lindeman, Emily and Annie Lindeman; Claire, Bryson and Frank Lindeman, Henry and Russell Lindeman, and seven great-nieces and nephews: Kaylynn and Alyssa Crawford and Griffin, Jackson, Rachel, Benjamin and Bonnie Tolbert, all of whom brought him great joy over the past two decades. A celebration of a life well lived will be held on Sunday, March 18, 2012, at two o'clock at First Presbyterian Church Atlanta followed by a reception in Fifield Hall. In lieu of flowers, memorial gifts may be made to First Presbyterian Church, 1328 Peachtree Street, NE, Atlanta, GA 30309; The Westminster Schools, 1424 W. Paces Ferry Road, NW, Atlanta, GA 30327.

Thanks to the GOP, Tennessee is officially the new stupid

How far will the Tennessee GOP go? Sigh.

The GOP-controlled State legislature has come up with the following over the past year: Pro-bullying of gay kids bill, don't-say-gay bill, guns in bars, displaying the ten commandments next to the constitution in state buildings, teaching biblical creationism in schools, "no saggy pants" in schools, protecting proselytizing to kids in school, and now preventing business from prohibiting firearms on their own property.

You know you're scraping the bottom of the liberty barrel when Iran has more personal liberty and progressive religion.

With all this sanctimony and gun masturbation, you would think there are no other issues before the body politic. How's that economy going? Corruption? Pollution? Education? Nope, all still suck.

Tennessee: Call us Missibama

Nothing but more shame for my home state of Tennessee. The state legislature is well on their way to surpassing Mississippi and Alabama in bigotry and institutionalized ignorance. It's like they are competing in a competition to be the most arrogantly stupid and backwater so Jesus will love them bestest. "We're bigots who hate science! That makes us Christianer than you!"

This year the state went out of their way to override and strip metropolitan areas from the LGBT equality protections they had already enacted, and they keep pushing for approval of the "can't say gay" in schools bill.

And now: they've passed a law to teach "creationism" as science in schools.

And they still shoot down any effort to allow wine sales in the grocery store. (And don't even think about selling liquor. Praise Jeebus.)

They way things are going, their next act will be to change the state flag to a movie still from Deliverance.

Tennessee Titans

Someone forwarded this link to me with the question, "Does this make you then son of a titan?"  This is The Nashville Scene's 2011 In Memoriam spread of the influential and notable people who will be missed ("Titans" is the word they used.).  My father, John Hardcaslte, tops the list under Business.  Betty Brown, all around awesome person and mother to my good friends Susannah, Nina and Eliza (and Martin 3), tops the list under Connectors.  Both passed this year, and both from the same kind of Parkinson's.  We've been through a lot and loss together.  And Nashville is the less for their moving on.

Business

JOHN HARDCASTLE
1936-2011
Real estate titan, H.G. Hill Co.

By Bruce Dobie

John Hardcastle combined a banker's manners with a historian's intellect, and that mix produced one hell of a delightful and agreeable man. With his wife, Fran, he was firmly planted in Aulde Nashville social circles, but displayed a driven intellectual curiosity and often thumbed his nose at convention — such as his participation, in 1976, in a re-enactment of the storied 1779 flatboat trip from Kingsport to Nashville that historians consider the founding of the city. Similarly, the first time I ever heard Hardcastle deliver a lecture, on Nashville history, he was dressed in a coonskin cap and other 18th century attire. If memory serves me correctly, he was channeling James Robertson. Perhaps "performance historian" would be an apt description of his metier.

Besides his passion for Tennessee history, Hardcastle was an ardent environmentalist, active in the early efforts to save Radnor Lake from development. He was also active in the Nature Conservancy. (At his funeral, a son offered the remark that while his father loved nothing more than sleeping outside in a tent, the only tent his mother ever really loved was the one enveloping the Cheekwood grounds once a year.) Professionally, Hardcastle started out as a banker but later was named president of the H.G. Hill Realty Co. Under his watch, the company developed the upscale project Hill Place on Post Road.

Hardcastle was an extraordinarily sociable man and had a fabulous laugh. In fact, just about everything he said seemed to start out seriously but then detour down a trail of good humor. At one point in his long slide into so-so health, I ran into him at the Whitland Avenue Fourth of July picnic, which he loved. He was dressed in a natty red-white-and-blue. "Age is getting to me," he said, taking a seat on a nearby bench. I then repeated to him what John Jay Hooker had told me, when he had turned 70. "When I woke up this morning," Hooker said, "I grabbed my penis and told it, 'Penis, if you were alive today, you would be 70.' "

John Hardcastle laughed so hard I thought I was going to have to call a doctor. At his funeral, a Dixieland jazz band played classics, and smiles broke out everywhere.

Connectors

BETTY BROWN
1939-2011
Environmentalist, philanthropist, progressive, single degree of separation

By Bruce Dobie

Betty Brown tended to a broad array of interests from her (and her husband Martin's) almost feudal spread out Hillsboro Road. Her agenda seemed to flow rather organically, although an official obituary would point to the fact that she was the founder and guiding light behind the Nashville Tree Foundation, which has planted thousands of trees here. There were other board memberships certainly, but most of her official commitments stemmed from a love of the outdoors. Friends often found themselves traipsing after her to inspect one or another wildflower on the family's property. Her environmentalism was, in many ways, her religion.

Because of her husband's family ownership of Jack Daniel's, Betty had standing the moment she moved to town. But from then on, it was her ballgame. Smart, progressive, unabashedly happy and willing to do whatever she wanted, she was a force. Betty didn't spend her time grooming future Swan Ball chairwomen. But the social arts were, in fact, her forte. Betty was a consummate and inveterate connector of people, always at the center of something. A visitor to her and Martin's house might find seated around the table a talking medley that included a congressman, an Episcopalian bishop visiting from California, and an environmental activist just in from the woods. Her summer trips to the family compound in the Canadian wilderness, attended over the years by dozens of thankful guests, were studies in how to make the difficult look easy. Betty's running buddies were a who's-who of literate, well-heeled Democrats, and at the Brown home they were often refreshed.

One time around Betty's table, someone mentioned a nasty divorce whose details were rocking the city. "Yes, they're negotiating here," she said nonchalantly. Activity often found Betty. She was comfortable in the fray. She loved spotting talent, putting people together, mixing it up. Her native Louisville pulled hard, but Nashville was where she invested her time and energies. An epic struggle with Parkinson's claimed her far too early. What we all would have given to see a vibrant Betty, 25 years hence, still presiding, the city's grande dame. She was buried in a wooden casket made from a tree felled on the family property. The gal had style.

boys for tots

Okay, so let's recap my past couple of months.  New job.  My father died.  Two long, emotional trips to Tennessee.  My sister-in-law's father died.  I took two weeks to clean out 40 years of hoarder crap/absolute treasures from my parents' attic, which is about a kajillion times the size of my apartment.  Thanksgiving. Office move.  More new job stuff.  Christmas shopping.  Parental tech support.  Parental emotional support.  Cleaning out three months of "i'll deal with this later shit" form my apartment so I could see the floor, clean the place, take the harvest decorations down, go to storage unit, go to storage unit, put holiday decorations up, amass family Christmas presents in organized piles in now tidy home.  Shop for relatives.  Ship for relatives (seriously, they want to close more post offices?).  Clean out closet of skinny clothes to make room for fat clothes inherited from fashion brother.  Make reservations to use all Groupons which will expire in about drive minutes.

So really, it is no surprise that (1) I am exhausted and (2) haven't been blogging much.

And that James and I could not schedule our mutual birthday dinner (birthdays are the last week in August) until the first week of December.  I had gotten a Groupon for Burgers for two with unlimited bourbon and tots at Bullit (named for the McQueen flick filmed in SF) on Polk Street.  The Marina end.

Here's my one minute review of Bullet:  Very marina, cruisy, meat market, understaffed, understaffed, understaffed, very capable and kind single waitress for a hoard, and the gayest —dancing with elbows above the shoulders gayest—soundtrack ever.  And awesome, awesome tots.  Hammina.  Salty freaking goodness.  Sure, Fatty McPhaterson over here is postponing diet and exercise until January and so could have gone through four of five baskets on our unlimited tots deal if it weren't for the entirely reasonable that is James.  Our deal was good for 90 minutes, the first 45 were spent waiting for service.  For 20-something straight people, go get a drink, pose, and pick up.  Everyone else, go for the tots, sip your drink, and play anthropologist watching the Marina Mating Rituals.  Eunce, eunce, eunce.  (That's the gay dance backbeat.)

making history

Sent in from Alert Reader Holly. From the Metropolitan Historical Commission Newsletter, November 2011:

MHC Updates
Remembering John Hardcastle
As many of you know, John B. Hardcastle, a former member of the Metropolitan Historical Commission, died in October. Mr. Hardcastle joined the commission in July 2003. He was a devoted and active member of the commission for many years. A long-time advocate for the preservation and protection of our community’s cultural and natural resources, Mr. Hardcastle served as President of Friends of Warner Parks, board member for Friends of Radnor Lake, Director and President of the Tennessee Historical Society, Trustee and Chairman for the Tennessee Chapter of the Nature Conservancy, and numerous other roles with additional organizations. Thank you, John, for your service to our commission, and to our city!

John Hardcastle, 1936-2011

HARDCASTLE, John Bachman. October 6, 2011. Born July 22, 1936.  Preceded in death by his parents, Kendrick Crossman Hardcastle, Jr. and Elizabeth Bachman Hardcastle; brother, Kendrick Crossman Hardcastle III; and nephew, Kendrick Crossman Hardcastle IV. Survived by his wife of 52 years, Frances Keltner Hardcastle; sons, John Bachman Hardcastle, Jr. (Stephanie), MacDonald Keltner Hardcastle (Emily), and Wilson Gaut Hardcastle; grandchildren, Bradley William Hardcastle, Ellen Merritt Hardcastle, and Leland Keltner Hardcastle; sister-in-law, Mia Canaris Hardcastle; and nephew Christiansen Niels Hardcastle.

John married the former Frances Merritt Keltner on September 26, 1959. Fran was the love of his life, confidant, and dance partner for 52 years, and with her he raised three sons: Jay, Mac, and Wilson. A family friend, Joe Calvin, gave John the nickname “Papa John” while Joe was in high school, and the name stuck – he was known as Papa John to his children’s close friends and his three grandchildren, Bradley, Ellen and Leland.

Outside of his family, John’s greatest joys in life were his involvement with his church,  his active participation in outdoor life, and studying local history. John was a member of Westminster Presbyterian Church, where he served as a deacon, an elder, a Sunday School teacher, and Clerk of the Session. John served as the moderator of the Presbytery of Middle Tennessee, was a commissioner to the 213^th General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (USA), and served on the advisory board of Columbia Theological Seminary.

In a 1990 letter addressed to the then senior pastor of Westminster, John wrote “I stand in awe of God’s creative power and take seriously the stewardship implied in the grant of dominion over the earth, its growing things and creatures.” Because of his appreciation for creation, John loved the outdoors, and enjoyed hiking, backpacking, and long horseback rides. He was particularly proud of his efforts at conservation and saw these efforts as an extension of his faith. He served two terms as President of Friends of Warner Parks and received its Best Friend Award.

John served two terms as a member of the Conservation Commission of the State of Tennessee and one term as its chairman. He was one of the four citizen members of Governor Alexander’s Safe Growth Team and a member of the Tennessee Outdoors Commission. For more than a decade, he served as a trustee of the Tennessee Chapter of the Nature Conservancy, and three terms as its chairman. He received the Nature Conservancy’s National Oak Leaf Award for effective leadership and outstanding service. John was active in the effort to save Radnor Lake from commercial development and served for a number of years on the board of Friends of Radnor Lake. During the mid 1990s, John and his youngest son Wilson founded the informal Full Moon Walking Society, leading unique hikes and monthly walks though the Warner Parks on the Tuesdays closest to the full moon. 

John enjoyed local history and civic affairs. He was a director of the Tennessee Historical Society, served four years as its president, and was a significant contributor to The Tennessee Encyclopedia of History and Culture. John frequently addressed school and civic groups on Tennessee history, often in period attire and sometimes notably in the persona of James Robertson.  He served as a commissioner on the Metropolitan Historical Commission and was an alumnus of Leadership Nashville. In 1976, he participated in the reenactment of the 1779 flatboat trip lead by John Donelson from Kingsport to the banks of the Cumberland River settlement that ultimately became Nashville.  

John enjoyed story-telling and southern folklore, and was particularly fond of the Jack Tales, a collection of Appalachian folk tales that he often told over campfires to audiences of scouts, adults, and lucky passersby.

John graduated from Montgomery Bell Academy in 1954, where he was president of the student body in his senior year. He graduated from Vanderbilt University in 1958 and the Stonier Graduate School of Banking in 1972.  He began his banking career at the Nashville Bank & Trust Company, which later became known as Nashville CityBank. John concluded his banking career as Vice Chairman of the Board at Dominion Bank of Middle Tennessee in order to become president of the H.G. Hill Realty Company. While at H.G. Hill, he spearheaded the development of the property on Post Road in Nashville now known as Hill Place, lead the redevelopment of parts of Hillsboro Village,  and at the end of his career was involved in the early planning of the redevelopment of the H.G. Hill grocery store property on Hillsboro Road into the open air pedestrian shopping mall known as Hill Center.

Honorary Pallbearers:  John Amidei, Thomas G. Andrews, William L. Bainbridge III, E. Warner Bass, Wentworth Caldwell, Jr., James S. Frazer III, James W. Granbery, Robert E. Harwell, Jr., Harold E. Jackson, Jr., Richard W. Lenderman, Joseph P. McAllister, George F. McCanless, Jr., Neil C. Parrish, Edwin P. Voss, William M. Ward, John S. Warner, M.D., W. Ridley Wills II, and C. Prim Wood, Jr.

Pallbearers: James H. Armistead III, William G. Bainbridge, James F. Baxter, Jr., Joseph H. Calvin III, Scott W. Campbell, William G. Crook II, Charles K. Evans, Carrington N. Fox, T. Hartley Hall V, Christiansen N. Hardcastle, Jonathan M. Harwell, Elizabeth R. James, Margaret P. McAllister, W. Paul Wallace and J. Sloan Warner, Jr., M.D.

A Service of the Witness to the Resurrection will be held at Westminster Presbyterian Church at 2:30 PM on Monday, October 10, 2011, with a visitation with the family at the church preceding the service, beginning at 11:30 AM.

Memorial gifts may be made to Westminster Presbyterian Church or Friends of Warner Park, earmarked for the renovation of the historic WPA-era shelters in which John shared many stories and rested during many walks.

Funeral arrangements by Mount Olivet Funeral Home and Cemetery.

more jury duty notes

Shilps was on jury duty last week; I'm up after Labor day; and my sister-in law Steff was called up and served while I was home in Nashville.

And via e-mail from her this morning, their business has concluded and she can share that she served on the jury with former Nashville Mayor and former Tennessee Governor Phil Bredesen.  Kinda cool.

catching crabs in the social net

I am one of those people who actually enjoy using location-based social networking apps.  To an extend.  I won't use Facebook check-in or Gowalla or GayCities or Looped, but I do like FourSquare.  I like playing the game with my friends and "checking in" to places to let my friends know where I am if they want to join the party, or to unlock a local deal.   I will also say that their merit badges, mayorships and competition among friends can be useless fun too.

Now on the gay side of things there is the no holes barred (poor choice of words) location-based and hook-up-friendly app Grinder which crossed the line into mainstream press (and is locked out of NSFW content by Apple's app restrictions.  Boo.) No self-respecting or self-debasing gay man has a smart phone without Grindr.  For those not in the know, You set up a small profile on Grinder and when you launch the app, it lists the other users around you in order of distance, and you can browse their pic and interests and send them a message.

This is the future now of cruising.

I cannot imagine growing up or coming of age in this level of technology and digital social connections.  I'm not even that old and come from a time that we relied on clever looks, codes and finely-honed gaydar to find other members of the community.  Now, as they say, there is an app for that.  While the stated purpose of Grinder is to be a location-based social networking tool, it's pretty much an ad for hookups.  Even though we all fire it up to see who's around with no intention of following through.  Most of the time, it's window shopping.  Of course, those are usually the daylight hours.

The success of Grinder has spawned similar apps, such as Scruff, which is basically Grindr for bears with more features.

I have both apps on my phone and use them.

I feel as if I should be in a circle of strangers whose last names are unknown when I type that.

I do find Grindr and Scruff fascinating though when I travel.  In SF, it's fun to see who's around, who you know, and who you'd like to know.  I have never hooked up on Grindr before, but I have made some virtual and real life friends/acquaintances.  In Nashville it's a little more disturbing as the gay social scene is so much smaller and incestuous.  If you launch the app while in the bar, you see basically the 30 people around you whom you could see face to face if you would just look up from your goddamn smartphone for one fucking second and paid attention to me.  Also, depending on who is looking over your shoulder, you can see not only the 30 other gay guys in the bar who have smartphones, but pretty much any socially active local can tell you the sexual history of any one there pictured.

It's a small community.

Notice I did not say that it's a tight community.  Ahem.

The real value to these apps, I believe is for (1) the traveler and (2) the lost rural soul.  Can you imagine thinking you're the only freaking gay kid in a town of 1,200 in a state where it's 150 miles of lonely road until the next town of only a thousand people?  This app must be a magic lifeline—young men can actually see and chat with other gay guys and not kill themselves in a fit of isolation.

However, when the lonely and desperate gay tweenager whose parent's don't know that that iPod Touch grandma gave him is now filled with gay porn and websites starts chatting up older, skeevy men who are into younger boys, Grinder becomes the windowless van of location-based social networking.  I would advise young guys to chat up other young and/or verifiable guys and be vague about their real name, location etc. at all times.

The other group that gets the most benefit from Grindr/Scruff (I mean other than sluts) is the traveler.  Don't know where to go as a gay guy in this new town?  Want to meet a friend or order in room service?  There's an app for that.  I have found it particularly useful when visiting non-metropolitan areas.  When Grinder was new, I logged in while in Rosemary Beach with the family and desperate for a drink and maybe another gay person to hang out with.  I don't think Grindr had reached it's tipping point yet as all of the guys online where the closeted type who wanted only other gym-toned hard bodies who were "straight acting" and "need to travel" or on the down-low because they were all on vacation too with their wife and kids, and looking for a little "release" away from their regular "buddies" at "home."

Hey Alex, I'm going to pass on the "Self-Loathing" category, even for $200.

Grindr and Scruff are also fun in airports on layovers.  Other guys are cruising online, generally seeking a drink to kill time during multiple hour delays, and checking in at such specific locations such as "Terminal 2, Gate 12."  Then there are the Larry Craigs.  I am not judging.

There are also the boys who may as well be escorts, looking for love and hinting at compensation.  While not a rent boy per se, I was amused by this profile which popped up while I was in the Denver airport on a layover.  He's a young guy who is ripped and clearly knows his value as an accessory to the more established gay man.  You may read this differently, but this read to me as a cocky young gym bunny looking for a little sugar daddy. Albeit a "daddy" under 30. Maybe he just needs some sugar. Although clearly not the sucrose kind, judging by those abs.

This last trip to the lake with the family was the first time any of us had any cell service, much less data service with our iPhones.  This lake house is right where the borders of Mississippi, Tennessee and Alabama come together, and in the middle of friggin' nowhere.   One night it occured to me to launch Grindr and see what the gay scene was like, if there was any, as there was not a "downtown" to speak of for a good half hour (even 45 minutes) in one particular direction.  (By the way, I am counting the nearest liquor store as "downtown" in this case.)

Grindr was HOPPING.  Holy crap was it active.  I logged in once, was amused for a minute or two and turned off the phone.  I launched the app again later and had messages from over a dozen guys.

I have received maybe four messages in SF.

It was fasinating.  There was an underground gay community of sorts out here, and I can't imagine how wonderful it must be not to have to seek each other our in secret bars or parks, or furtive looks across the high school hallway, or the checkout line at the Piggly Wiggly.

Here's the thing though, the vast majority of Grinder users in this area were 18-23.  Of course, you have to be at least 18 to use Grindr so many of them may have been lying about their ages, which is supported by the youthfulness of their photos, clearly taken in their parents' house.  I can't imagine being out to myself in this part of the country much less cruising online at that age.  But I did not come out myself until I was almost 24.  I could not bring myself to respond to a lot of the very young guys who seemed to still be in high school.  I felt very much wash wash wash, can't get clean.  For some of the more plaintive, I would reply with a "Nice to meet you.  I'm here with my family.  I fly back to SF in a couple of days.  Have a nice weekend."  Like Facebook, Grindr can get a little addictive when you start engaging people.  I started checking more frequently whenever we drove out to a new town just to check out the demographics.  Still, the majority of profiles were of guys under 23 or 24 years old.  I did make one friend actually, and we continue to correspond.  He reported that he has a hard time dating there as he is a man's man, looking for a man's man, and most of the men he has managed to meet are into really young guys.  At 37, he is apparently over the hill.  Even with the abs.  I don't get it.

The Scruff profiles were a bit older and almost all exceptionally heavier.  But such is the Scruff demographic.  Now, after all of this rambling, is the inspiration for this post.  I came across this profile as being "near me" when I was in the backwoods of Tennessee/Mississippi and I found it disturbing in all sorts of ways.  When it comes to sexual lifestyles, I say: have at it as long as it doesn't hurt anybody else.  Personally, I am ridiculously vanilla when it comes right down to it, but I have been in the SoMa community long enough to salute and cheer when the freak flag flies.  But this...this one weirded me out.   I wanted to share this profile, name redacted (he uses his first and last name instead of a nickname which astounds me) because, seriously, WTF?!

Sweet.

My super awesome and diminutive niece turned 16 in May and I flew in just in time for her family birthday dinner.  She is so non-materialistic and charmingly low key, so shopping for her can be a challenge—so after she opened her presents, I offered her a shopping trip of her choice in case there was something she really did want.  It was a present for me too as I got to spend some quality time with her and talk about her life, school, boys, what's the what these days.  She broached the topics of teen drinking and gay-friendly attitudes herself, both topics of keen interest to me.  Some of her friends, and a lot of kids from another high school, got up super early to protest outside the State Captiol against the "can't say gay" bill (can't mention any sexuality other than heterosexuality in Tennessee schools) which just passed a TN Senate committee.

I loved taking Ellen shopping, but felt awkward at Forever 21 trying to manage the "I'm your fun uncle participating in the teen fashion selection" and not looking like "creepy guy in the teen girl store in the mall."  And not looking at the high school boyfriends of these girls who were little A&F models.

Family dinners are always fun and I loved it, and how little Leland bowled past Franna and Papa John to run into Uncle Wilson's arms.

Ellen is very musical, plays piano, writes her own songs and such—and for her birthday asked for a ukulele.  Franna gave her a nice one, and reminded us that growing up, Mom used to play the ukulele all the time.  So awesome.  Had I had the known, I might have asked Seattle Bill if he could have gotten his good friend Charo to sign it for her.

Happy birthday Ellen!




And, while I'm at it, here's some mockery of the above mentioned Tennessee Republican "Can't Say Gay" nonsense:

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
We're Here, We're Queer, Get Newsed to It
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor & Satire Blog The Daily Show on Facebook

TN Governor loves bigotry more than good business

In are you fking kidding me?! news, the governor of Tennessee has signed a state law overriding and eliminating Nashville's equal rights and non-discrimination ordinance, and banning any and all other municipalities from taking any measures to protect LGBT citizens from discrimination unlawful for any other group, minority or citizenry.  The backwater redneck Christianist wingnuts pretty much make up all of the non-urban areas and self-identify as both Republican and sanctimonious (not that they can spell sanctimonious mind you), and with the exception of the four urban areas, the Tennessee legislature is ruled by these King James Bible-tumping backwater bigots, aka Tennessee Republicans.

And my Nashville family continues to wonder why I don't want to move home.

Steeplechase will be all the buzz!

I leave at the crack tomorrow for another week of quality time with the family, and another hopefully fab Iroquois Steeplechase.  However, Alert Reader and Pseudo Sister Margaret sent me the following alert last week:  It's year 13 of the 13-year cicada cycle.  And they are due to peak on race day.

Holeeee.  If you've never experienced a cicada cycle, it's a B-movie terror.  While I generally find them more annoying than terrifying, the level of swam and noise and non-lethal attacks could send someone unfamiliar with the experience into a mad panic.  Cicadas are about two-inch long flying armored insects that emerge from ground every so many years to molt, mate, and return to the earth.  Seriously.  B-movie stuff.  And they are unbelievably loud.  The noise they make is their mating call.  And they're competitive.  They swarm lawn mowers and other machinery of similar sound/decibel level.  And their users.  They've been known to "attack"  (meh, "swam in small numbers around and possibly land on or nibble") passers by, particularly women with hair big enough to get caught in (this is, remember Tennessee) or early-teen girls.  Which was hilarious the first cicada cycle in my memory, which was in 1985 and I was in 8th grade.  Cicadas were handy tools for pestering girls, and boys would fight with them, or use the eating of one as high-stakes dare currency.

But these things are nasty.  And omnipresent.  And leave their crunchy shells—remember they are molting—everywhere.  And Dear God, you think the Grinch had it with all of the Who's noise, noise, noise, noise!    It's like the summer air is heavy with humidity and a deafening radio static.

I have yet to come up with an angle for my Nfocus Steeplechase stories this year.  I considered writing a fictional B-movie script based on events of the day, but the artists at the Anderson Group may have beat me to that punchline.