voices carry

I am still very much in the laying low mode, and certainly am not interested in all of the death and macabre aspects of Halloween this year. I'm still in the graveyard basically and it's not all that fun. However, I do love Halloween, and spending time with friends and dipping my foot in the fun is preferable to sitting at home. I had just the right amount of Halloween this weekend—meeting my friend Reindeer Jim early to snag a window seat at Twin Peaks to watch the crowds and costumes on Drag Saturday. Police had put barricades around Jane Warner Plaza and their Mobile Command Unit, and were calmly and politely keeping the streets clear and sidewalks safe. It did seem that they put the barricades around Jane Warner Plaza while people were still sitting there and barricaded these people inside. Like good Castro community residents, they merely adjusted their seating to turn the plaza into a parade viewing stand for the nights festivities.

We spent hours visiting with friends passing by, and those who planned to meet us on a seemingly never-ending schedule of festivities Saturday night. Neither of us were interested in a long, raucous night, nor SoMa, nor the big Trannyshack, not the GLAAD masquerade ball. Basically we wanted three things: festive, costumes, and walking distance from home. ("Cocktails" is included with the "festive.") We were early enough that we were also able to call ahead to our host friend at Harvey's and get seated for a proper dinner, which also lasted hours as we had a good perch, good food, a full bar and even Scream with closed captions on the screens.  And we got to get the hell out as the Castro filled with early-twenties straight people.  At least the bulk of them were in costume and as long as they were participating I could sort of endure them.  So much better than past years of thousands descending and very few in costume.  Cops were out in force, and the streets were constantly hosed down, but by the time I left the crowd seemed to remain well behaved.  And while the streets were certainly dominated by B&Ters, the recent Halloween danger element didn't feel nearly as strong.  My patience is pretty much gone for interloping aliens—those who invade the Castro as if it were a zoo and not a community.

Reindeer Jim was under the top and perfectly adorable in his child-like superman costume, well except for the red leather bondage cuffs (but you have got to love a guy who buys a kid t-shirt so it will be all sexy and tight, and it is STILL too big).

My favorite drag troupe rocked it in their stewardess looks, and photos will be duly added when I upload them.

For costume this year, I sewed an angel doll on one shoulder, and a devil on the other. Very "cartoon man with a dilemma."

By the end of the night I had a new caption for my costume.

To my voices of conscience, I had affixed a ball gag to the angel and gave the devil a megaphone.

The caption should read, "Well, this explains a lot."

Simon Pierro's Halloween Magic

A prestidigitous horror tale using the iPad...

Office scene

I just thought the office could use a little something today.

Boo.

This video sort of got me back into the Halloween spirit. I love the boo game!

stocking stuffers

Okay, nothing has put me in a better mood or broken the sad spell quite so spectacularly as this post on Regretsy (side note, "Etsy" is a DIY craft website where people feature and sell usually cool stuff they make.  Regretsy is a blog about stuff other people make proudly and offer for sale, but are creepy crap and duly ridiculed by the exceptionally funny April Winchell.  Tyical to her genius, she refers to her site as "Where DIY meets WTF." She also seems to have taken a new nom de plume: Hellen Killer).

So some lady person invented this shield for her lady business:  it's a female athletic cup of sorts—a shoehorn to hide bulging lady bits and prevent the dreaded camel toe.   This post is so full of awesomeness it's all I can do not to copy and paste the whole thing here.  This has really made my day.  Which should disturb all of you, except for the fact that if you've read IJS this long you are well past disturbed and over the county line right with me.

My favorite things about the NoMoCamelTo Regretsy blog post:

• It's filed under "vaginas."  Seriously.
• The apparent translation for "protruding vagina lips" is "Bajingo."  I now want to refer to national vagina pride as "Bajongoistic."And I think there should be Bajingo parlors for the elderly.  And drag queen fundraisers.
• The phrase "engorged, rubbery poon" appears in this post.
• That the current events/topical humor joke "Your cooter is too big to fail!" is in ALL CAPS.  
• Also notable: I have, in fact, aways thought that your cooter was too big to fail.  And yet...

Honestly, I am feeling so much better now. And inspired to productivity.

Shouts to Adriana whose comment was "Uh, okay, I thought it was going to be a joke, but this is a real product? Wow. Christmas shopping just got easier!"

And a full standing vagina monologue to Alert Reader Coco who shouted out: "Stocking stuffers!" LMFAO.

dealing

Hi.  I'm still not feeling very social or humorous or chatty, and so not so much in the way of posting.  My snark runs so deep that I don't expect it will be much longer before sunshine and snide comments return to the blog.

I have been laying low these days.  I was thinking that upon my return I would deal with things emotionally by throwing myself into work and working out.  Not so much.  It's more along the lines of chilling at home, preferably alone, with movies and comfort food.  I really did think I would be more driven and proactive upon my return, busying myself away from quiet contemplation, but it turns out I am just a frilly white dress away from becoming Miss Havisham.

(I said white dress.  Assholes.)

While declining most if not all social invitations since my return, I did feel the need to step out Friday after work for happy hour.  It had indeed, been a week, and I was inclined toward a little bear festival that is now Friday's at the Midnight Sun.  Hunter was kind enough to escort me and it turned into a fun pub crawl with the Sheepish Lion and we still managed to make it an early night.  It was nice to be out, and I did get to visit briefly with good friends* who either did or didn't know and offered their condolences without making me lose it again. And I had just enough reasonably consumed cocktails to enjoy the silliness that Friday happy hours often devolve to, including taking photos that really shouldn't ever, ever be shared.



*ridiculous amount of hugs to David O.  Thanks man.

you with me

I was talking with someone today about my Dad's final moments.  At one point Mom looked lovingly upon Dad lying in the hospital bed, unresponsive, and choked out to her sons, "I've loved him since I was 19..."

The conversation turned—today's conversation not the one by the bedside—to the impressive nature of my parents' marriage, and our personal relationships, or rather lack thereof, of our singleness, and the fear and/or likelihood of "dying alone."

I used to joke that because I have hard time finding a relationship which lasts longer than milk, but now I have a new response to those sorts of questions:

"Do you think you're going to die alone?"
"Me?  No.  I'm not going to die alone...  I'm going to take all of you bitches out with me."

Photos of Papa John

As I collected photos for the slideshow to play during the visitation, brother Mac sent me this pic snapped just weeks ago with a camera phone.  It sort of encapsulates the coolness of my Dad. And seriously, Leland in the driving goggles? How ridiculously awesome is that?

Best. Funeral. Ever.

I am back in SF.  I hesitate to call it "home," but I am eager for the solace of my San Framily.  I was a little troubled as to what to title my first post back at the blog, but this was my tweet immediately after the service and I think it still stands.  The celebration of my father's life that was the Service of the Witness to the Resurrection was amazing. Sure, I was choked up and near sobs, voice quivering, during my entire celebration of life portion of the ceremony, but it was one great funeral.  I am again in awe of my brothers and their talents, and of the life and work my father inspired.

I am hanging in there.  I worry about mom a lot.  And in the calm, quiet moments, when peace begins to find me, I cry again.  I've decided that's okay.  Like now, typing this.  But that's not what I want to post about.  It was, as you might imagine, a deeply moving couple of weeks and I have much to reflect upon and write about.  But I believe I will wait a while, let some of the pain scab over, before I explore the experience by writing about it.  Like most of life's richest moments, it was a deep well full of both tears and laughter.  Two faces, same coin.  Intense joy for what was, intense sorrow at its loss, and celebration of the continuing legacy.

So, back to that.

Best.  Funeral.  Ever.

The music was incredible—Mom and Dad are heavy into the Dixieland Jazz scene in Nashville, and the incomparable Sam Levine, performer and member of the Church, arranged the musicians and all of the music for the ceremony, including the hymns requested by Dad: A Closer Walk with Thee, How Great Thou Art and Amazing Grace.  The music was so moving, the congregation applauded at a funeral—a first for this church and perhaps many others.  Ellen, my ridiculously talented niece, composed a piano piece in celebration of Dad and performed it from memory at the service.  I was, as you might imagine, a bit of a wreck.  But I found grace and comfort in a simple truth during the service:

You just can't cry in the face of a banjo.

The three sons each took 7-10 minutes to celebrate the life of our father.  We did not compare notes beforehand, and each of our expressions were as unique as our personalities, and reflected our own individual relationships with our father.  It never occurred to me prior to that point that, of course, we all would have a different relationship with Dad.  I just thought of him as "Dad,"  but each son brought to the dynamic his own time, trials, tribulations, and tributes and so naturally we each had a slightly different yet shared perception of "Dad."

Okay, I'm processing and narrating again.  This is supposed to be a brief post.

The service was awesome.  So much so that I started jotting down sentiments overheard as we were leaving the church.  Such as "That was so much fun!" "I would go to that funeral again tomorrow!"  and "If they were selling DVDs of that service I would buy one!"

In his typical superlative fashion, John Beasley merely wrote, "No one in Nashville dare die for at least two years."

Dad requested long ago that his service be full of music and laughter, and we honored that request to trumpets and banners.  So many friends and family have contacted us requesting copies of the sons' "performances" that I have made a website for people to visit and share.  I remember thinking that morning that I wish I could video record the service, but dared not vocalize that desire as it did sound exceedingly eccentric.  After the service we were surprised and grateful to learn that the church keeps an audio archive of each service, and they were able to burn for me a CD.

The website for the Service of the Witness to the Resurrection for John Bachman Hardcastle is split into five pages:

1)  The Transcript: the program of the service with the written portions of each son's celebration of life.
2)  The Service in Sections: The service, with transcripts from the celebration of life, with the audio track of the service broken into discrete sections so you can pick and choose which element you would like to hear.
3)  The Service as a Whole:  One long audio file of the service that you can listen to uninterrupted, in its entirety, with the transcript below.
4)  The Service with Slideshow:  Same as the previous page, but this audio recording of the service is accompanied by a slideshow of photos of John Hardcastle throughout the years.
5)  The Obituary: presented in a readable format.  The newspaper and the obituary website is convoluted with no line breaks.  This is just much easier to read and share electronically.

So, with no further ado, here's the site.  http://www.wilsonhardcastle.com/JBH/

Share.  Comment.  Enjoy.  You know, enjoy it for what it is.  It may be the best funeral ever, but it is still a funeral and I still can't listen to it without crying.  But you also won't be able to get through it without laughing.  I recommend listening to the brothers' bits (and Ellen's piano piece).  Those really are meant to be heard and not read.  After you listen to Ellen's piece.  So beautiful.

Raise a glass to Papa John!

   
I am planning a "funeral listening party" to celebrate the life of my father.  This will be small and intimate and if you think you are likely to be there, you may choose not to listen and rather wait until that time so you may hear the celebration with fresh ears.

Thank you all for your love and support during this time.  That may sound trite, but it is true.

For the next several weeks, I will endeavor to post snark and City observations as much as personal introspections.  This may appear to feature a little split personality disorder, but it will depend on my mood and what interesting things catch my eye.  Things other than tears.

One last time around the lake

Here is the home movie from our last family vacation with Papa John, this past June at Emily's family's place on Pickwick Lake.

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.

We love you, and goodnight.

John Hardcastle left the party today just after noon, surrounded by his wife and sons, and departed as peacefully as could be hoped.  The love he brought to this world was tremendous.

Visitation with the family will begin at 11:30 Monday morning October 10, 2011 at Westminster Presbyterian Church. The Witness to the Resurrection will be at 2:30 p.m.

We ask that donations be made in his name/memory for the Warner Parks Shelter Restoration, specifically the preservation and restoration of the Indian Springs Shelter, where Papa John told many stories and led so many groups of hikers, walkers, campers, scouts, and friends of the wood.

singing it

I inherited many things from my father: tendency towards the narrative, my hairline, my waistline,... my singing voice—which is on par with the hairline and waistline. Even in six years of forced church choir, I was often asked to be a "listener." Dad has asked for music at his memorial, and I can honor him best by not singing.

But there is a song that I always imagined I would sing at his funeral, or would ask my friends to do so. The closer the time comes the less I think I will cite the song, save for the opening lines. I remember vividly the first time I heard Suzi sing this song: I was with Jennifer Farnette, Patsy Reed, and Mary Jo Freeman at the Douglas Corner Cafe to hear Suzi Ragsdale, Verlon Thompson, Darrell Scott and Jelly Roll Johnson sing in the round. It was maybe 1994. I teared up then, and I almost full out cry when I hear it now. One of my absolute favorite of Suzi's songs is My Father's Eyes (link opens in iTunes). She has a keenly beautiful voice, and the lyrics cut a little close to the heart as well.

I was born with my father's eyes,
and my mother's disposition.

Now and then, in a town this size, it's a cross to bear the resemblance.
Once I ran away to Memphis, to find someone different to be.
But all I could change was my address.
And now I know, I'll always see through my father's eyes.

yeah my Dad, he;s still going strong, and she still in love with my mother.
I just know we could last that long if we work things out together.
If this world is any indication, it's a longer than longer shot.
But I think we could be the exception.
Hell, I just can't see why not through my father's eyes.

Though we may travel fast and travel far,
One thing we can;t get past is who we are.

If someday we should have a child, I hope he's just like his father:
Heart of gold, and brilliant smile and a perfect sense of humor.
Or maybe some combination of the best that we both can be.
And wouldn't it be amazing, to see him looking back at me through my father's eyes.

Sure, the parentage line takes on a twist with the whole "my kid would have two dads" thing, and I don't think all of Dad's friends would be able to work through that bit so it's best left out, no matter how powerful a notion I find it to be.

crossing the line

You know that whole "students taken by hostile governments" thing?   Like the two hikers just freed from Iran?

Yeah, Dad did that shit old school. From the The New York Times, August 10, 1958:

That's some cold war crazy right there.  And while the Czechoslovakian "authorities" claimed that Dad climbed over barbed wire fences to pose for photographs, Dad reports it was a country road and an open field in the middle of nowhere and soldiers jumped from bushes to take them, claiming the board was somewhere "over there near a rock" and that he was two feet on the wrong side of it.

Family friend and U.S. Senator Al Gore, Senior, helped get Dad out.

The last time some American students were taken in Korea, E. Thomas Wood reported on Dad's experience in the Nashville Post.

the time has come, the Walrus said

to talk of many things.  Of shoes and ships and sealing wax.  Of cabbages and kings.

I remember this line of Lewis Carroll's clearly as they were painted elaborately on a rough hewn greeting card I bought years and years ago to write a letter to my parents telling them I was gay.  I never wrote the letter (I did come out, obviously), but I think I kept the card in my old desk.  These lines keep ringing in my head this week as, sadly, the time has come.

Papa John is in the hospital with pneumonia.  Last week it looked like the beginning of the end and I bought a seven-day advance ticket home to Nashville.  We weren't sure which way things would go and I was told to "wait and see."  I bought a ticket anyway.  Today, it looks like the end is very definitely nigh.  I am still getting conflicting advice regarding either to get an emergency ticket home asap or to keep my Wednesday flight plans.  Some argue that I can't do anything even when I get there, so not to over-rush it.  But there is value in being present, and I want to be there with him if only to be there with him.  I'm seeing what I can do with flights now.  And packing.  I have't worn a suit in years (California living) and had to buy one Friday.  The alterations won't be ready until tomorrow.

Jay and I have been writing the obituary.  I have been trying to rehearse a eulogy in my head but can't get though it without sobbing and can't imagine getting through it with a congregation.

I worry a lot about Mom, maybe more so as she has been the stalwart so far.  I fear that when the bough breaks, the cradle will fall.

Sharing experiences with my San Framily, I am struck by how fortunate I am to have such a close, loving, and honest relationship with my parents.  That is not nearly as common as it should be.

With the ever-advancing Parkinson's, I thought I had been able to prepare myself bit by bit, saying goodbye to pieces of my father as they left us.  Preparation was an illusion.  I can only think that while my pain is acute it is because it is pure, and I can be comforted that it could be worse as our relationship was relatively uncomplicated.

I have no unresolved "issues" with my father.  We say "I love you" as often as we can, and furthermore we mean it.  I know that he is proud of me and he knows how much I have admired him.  We touch.  We talk.  We hug.  We hang.

We have left nothing unsaid. ("Of course not, you're a Hardcastle." I hear you jest.)
yet, there are tales left to be told.  ("Again, of course you'd say so.  You're a Hardcastle.")

I regret that I have not partnered in time for him to meet the love of my life.

And where are my father's lectures?  His history lessons?  Or his monologues on the extended genealogy of anyone and everyone he may ever come across— now that I want to hear them?  Those were taken from us first, and far too soon.

The blog will be dormant for a while.  Unless I feel the need to vent snark as part of my process, don't expect many postings for the next several weeks.   Updates and details may be posted here as appropriate.

Peace out.


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resistance is futile

I suffer from obstructive sleep apnea to the point that I wake up frequently gasping for air during the night. This has been a life-long affliction as my earliest recurring nightmares are always of suffocating or drowning.

My snoring is epic.  I have been asked to move campgrounds before.  And it may have something to do with my inability to form lasting romantic relationships.

I had originally planned to have surgery to deal with this, and had the first of two sets successfully performed.  As the second set of surgeries required a six-week recovery period and a lot of pain, I put it off for years.  When the time finally did come, I caught a cold the morning of and had to cancel—never to return.  Later, doctors told me surgery wouldn't have the 80% success rate previously estimated, but more like 20% to 30%, which really didn't seem to be worth the pain and effort.  I finally caved and returned to the pulminologist for a proper, in the la, sleep study to determine my current level of apnea and the possible use of a CPAP as a remedy.

Holy crap that was a lot of wires.  Here I am getting jacked in for the sleep study.




The tech was wonderfully charming and just a baby. As he added more and more wires, I said, "We have the technology. Make him stronger. Faster." Nothing. Did not get the reference. And explaining it made me feel really old. Maybe a Locutus reference would have been better.

After attaching more leads to my scalp I said, "I hope the governor calls." Nope, still nothing. Maybe clemency is granted by tweet now.

Long story short, I loved the CPAP and look forward to getting my personal one fitted and running.  I may not have ever had a good night's sleep in my life.  I am looking forward to this, even if it severely dampens my dating life.  It's one thing to be all "Who's your Daddy?"  It's another to wear a face mask with asthmatic sounds that more along the lines of "Luke, I am your father!"