R.I.P. Dad Moustache

Nothing gives a man confidence and instant respectability like a strong moustache. Wyatt Earp had one, Albert Einstein had one, Waylon Jennings had one, Magnum PI had one; the list goes on and on. Sure there are some stinkers out there (i.e. Hitler, John Waters), but for the most part I'm a fan of all moustaches. I'd like to take this time to apologize to John Waters for grouping him with Hitler, but he brought it on himself.

Anyhow, if you were born any time between 1965 and 1983, before the whole world went soft, your dad had a moustache...and it was an AWESOME moustache. The Dad Moustache is the best kind of moustache because it exists for no other reason than to put fear into children. Of course by "fear" I mean "respect."

My dad's Dad Moustache was a true national treasure. Here it is, not too long ago, pushing my nephew in a wheelbarrow.

A closer look.

I'll see if I can track down a photo of it's late 70's prime.

I remember how the moustache and I used to play catch in the yard and how it used to drive me to school in the morning. And I definitely remember the way the moustache moved slowly back and forth as the dad-head it was attached to shook in disappointment as I struggled to start the lawnmower, chop firewood or identify the alternator while staring blankly under the hood of my car.

Now, my dad's moustache is gone. After 30-something years of sporting a museum worthy cookie-duster, all that's under my dad's nose is his big gleaming, joe-schmo upper lip.

Here it is in all it's horror.

Remind you of anyone?

It's like looking at the bare wall after the Mona Lisa got torn down.

Perhaps the worst part of the whole thing is that when the old man drinks a beer all the foam will go directly into his mouth instead of making a pitstop in the stache before being vaccuumed out by an extended bottom lip. What's the point of even drinking a beer?

Also, moustache's friend, big burly beard, preceded him in death 20 years ago and, frankly, I was just getting over that.

Of course, I'm taking action. I've instructed my lawyer to find out if it's even legal to simultaneously have a bare lip and a closest full Jimmy Buffet records. I just don't know what else to do.

RIP, Dad Moustache, you will be missed.

European Adventure #7 - Dublin

After visiting places like Paris, Venice and Vienna, coming into Dublin felt a lot like coming home...except the cars were on the wrong side of the road and the food was a lot worse.

The language barrier was gone. No longer was I "danke schoening" when I should've been "auf weidersehening." No longer was I randomly pointing at a menu and getting something strange and delicious in return. No, in Ireland it's the opposite. I knew exactly what I was ordering..and that it would be bad.

Maybe coming straight from the land of perfect sausage was unfair to the sad plate of bangers and mash I ordered at the Quays Pub, but that "banger" was just onions wrapped in sheep gut.

But I'm getting off track. I'll get back to food later.

My point is that Dublin felt a lot more like America than the other places we had been. Please don't take that as me saying I didn't enjoy Dublin...I do, after all, enjoy America.

One thing that makes Dublin like America is all the Americans. Of course, there's the requisite bunch of spoiled American teenagers who are touring Europe to "find themselves" through binge drinking and sexual promiscuity, but there are other Americans as well. Even our waiter at the restaurant where we had our one delicious Irish meal was from Chicago.

Speaking of that meal, and I guess I might as well just keep talking about food, not only was it the best meal we had in Ireland it was also the cheapest as Amber ex-boyfriend, Philip who happens to be Irish, paid for it.

The thing about going to dinner with your girlfriend and her ex when the ex is treating is that you can pretty much order whatever you want no matter how much it costs. Philip was cool and all, but this was a rare situation and I knew I had a free pass. Therefore, I had the mallard, a game pie, a goat cheese appetizer and a delicious dessert. Also, lots of beer. Somehow though, we found the one restaurant in Dublin that did not have Guinness on tap. Instead I got a Guinness from a can poured into a small glass. Sad.

The food was delicious though.

Anyhow, dinner was fantastic and Philip was solid...not just because he paid like 200 Euros ($1,000,000 USD) for dinner but because he also bought drinks at the pub later. Okay, he was a nice guy too.

Here's me and Phil, partying.

The next night's dinner was much different, as we decided to just go to the grocery store instead of risking another bland banger. This is what our hotel room bed looked like after our grocery store trip.

Of course, it was raining the whole time we were there, but I would've felt gypped (no offense, Gypsies) if it hadn't been.

We also visited the Guinness factory where you get to learn all about the beer making process. My experience with Guinness up to this point had been rocky. Sometimes it would go down easy and make me happy and other times it was a rough ride. Unlike the bubbly, watery beers that treat me so consistently well, Guinness was always a sip of the unexpected.

However, at the Guinness factory, and there's a good chance I was just caught up in the moment, it went down like water. Smooth, creamy and delicious.

Even this racially insensitive ad couldn't keep me from enjoying it.

Also, we learned how to pour the "perfect pint" and even earned certificates for our pouring prowess.

For the record, this is how it's done.

1. Use the right glass. It's got to be the official Guinness pint glass with it's curvy sides and the strategically placed harp logo.

2. Hold the glass at a 45 degree angle to the tap with the strategically placed harp logo directly under the nozzle.

3. Pull tap forward to release nitrogen infused beer into the glass.

4. As it fills, turn the glass upright.

5. When the beer reaches the level of the strategically placed harp logo (about 3/4 full) stop filling the glass. Set it on the counter and wait.

If you happen to be at the factory taking the "perfect pint" lesson, feel free to zone out, mesmerized by the beer bubbles, while your instructor is telling you how long it needs to sit.

This is also a good time to dispense some beer directly from the tap into your mouth.

6. Finally, finish filling the glass by pushing back on the tap to release non-nitrogenated beer.

Even though, the beer tasted delicious at the factory, I'm still convinced that the whole process is for show and doesn't really make a difference. It's much too late for them to take my certificate away from me now though. Seriously though, why go through all that effort when you can just pop the top off a High Life?

Here's a little video of me downing a Guinness at a pub much to the delight of Phil who can be heard cheering me on in the background.

But Dublin is about more than drinking beer. It's also about drinking whiskey.

For the record, an Irish Coffee is still called an Irish Coffee even in Ireland. I was kinda hoping that if you just ordered "coffee" it would automatically come with whiskey in it, but I suppose that was unrealistic. It should also be noted that, in Ireland, an Irish Car Bomb is not a cocktail, but a device that blows up a car and, man, are they sensitive about it. Don't order one.

Outside of alcohol, rain and crappy food Dublin is actually a cool place. It looks pretty much how you would expect it to look: Grey and green with pubs everywhere. The River Liffey, St. Stephen's Green, the Ha'penny Bridge, a bunch of James Joyce stuff, plenty of those double decker tour buses, it's all there.

I'd be lying if I said we didn't spend most of our time in the various pubs...which, it turns out, are the same as bars. Here's a picture of some of the beers we drank...and some of the glasses we stole. Gotta make up for that exchange rate somehow.

So we ate our last meal on the bed in the hotel, watched a little Irish reality tv, drank a bottle of Lodi wine we found at the Irish market and Aer Lingus took us home the next day.

Speaking of Aer Lingus, this whole trip would not have been possible if they didn't sell us round-trip direct flight tickets from SF to Dublin for $516 including all taxes and charges and everything. Check into it.

Welp, that's about it. Catch you on later down the trail or, as the say in Dublin, bye.