Ireland: How To Eat Guinness on a Shoestring Budget

Having survived my puketacular flight and mind-numbing trip through customs (see last month's episode) I arrived in Ireland: a land of captivating castles, amazing abbeys, majestic monasteries, terrific towers, and fantastic forts. The island nation , which is similar in size to South Carolina, is known for more than its crumbling bits of rock formerly owned by famous dead people (whose homes were shown by a direct antecedent of Robin Leach in the medieval version of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous , known as Step On the Groveling Serf On the Way Into The Castle If Need Be, Sire). Kind of a long title, but at least the peasants were made acutely aware of their social standing.
I just recently completed a week-long journey to the Emerald Island, as the nation is called, in part because of the rolling verdant hills and also because the citizenry were all born in May (obscure birthstone joke no one will get). Don't interrupt or stare at the copulating locals during the July breeding season.
Much of my week was spent amongst the ruins of places like Trim Castle, Aughnanure Castle, and Corcomroe Abbey. We also saw Dun Aengus, an ancient rock fort perched on the cliffs of the island of Inishm0re. My cousin threw her father over the precipice and into the water below during our visit. Well, his ashes anyway. The toss was carefully planned to avoid any "Big Lebowski"-like entanglements.
There were also natural wonders like the Cliffs of Mohr, a stunning scene where the land meets the ocean, with an eight hundred foot drop in between. We viewed the landscape of Connemara as well, a stretch of Western Ireland where melting glaciers created a picturesque combination of lakes and mountains that would have given even Ansel Adams a bit of a stiffy. The beauty of the barren was in evidence when our route took us through The Burren, an area which British conqueror of Ireland #75, an underling of famed Ireland raper and pillager Oliver Cromwell named Ludlow, complained, "It is a country where there is not enough water to drown a man, wood enough to hang one, nor earth enough to bury him." There was just no pleasing that fellow.
I won't bore you too much with this portion of my trip, which as a former history major as well as a nature addict, I found fascinating. In a nutshell, Irish history is pretty similar to the plight of the Chicago Cubs in North American baseball. Eight hundred years spent trying to free themselves of the British yoke in a series of failed rebellions finally resulting in victory and independence. As a result, most traditional Irish music involves losing battles, family members dying, and getting drunk as a coping mechanism for the sad reality that everything seriously sucks.
Then, if you are lucky, a famine strikes, killing half your family and forcing you to move to America (Fun fact: Today there are more people of Irish decent in New York, Chicago, and Boston than in Dublin). Makes being a Cubs fan sound much less depressing. The lovable losers couldn't possible continue to fail for seven hundred more years, could they?
Anyhow I imagine the interest factor amongst the readers here at The Industry would probably run a little higher if I moved on to a more thirst-quenching topic. The aspect of Irish culture we are glad to celebrate each and every time March 17 comes around. No, I have to admit, I did not go to Ireland solely for the beer, but the black liquidation with the froth on the top certainly was a nice perk. Delicious Irish beverages of this sort include Beamish, Murphy's, Smithwick's, and Harp.
Then there is Guinness, which is seemingly everywhere - a pub without a tap of the stuff is harder to find than a bar without Budweiser or Miller Light in the States. I believe my big word dictionary says that makes it ubiquitous, but I'll have to ask a professional journalist for confirmation.
Anyhow the Guinness in Ireland must be consumed by all who have only had the North American version. After cavorting with leprechauns on two separate occasions as an adult, I have come to the realization that Guinness brewed in Ireland just tastes better. Whereas those birthed in Canada (home of the North American Guinness brewery) affect the stomach in a way not dissimilar from eating a loaf of bread, the ones originating within the St. James Gate in Dublin are easy drinking and quite poundable. I can't tell you why, maybe something to do with the water, but argue all you want, I have seen the mountain and all I can say is that it was well worth the hike.
Finally, a couple of quick tips for anyone planning on imbibing in Ireland in the near future. First, one for those who do not enjoy the local beer and would prefer another. I learned from the locals that Stella Artois is considered the beer of choice for the lower classes of Europe, the kind of folks we would consider "rednecks"/most of the people we know in our part of the world. Since I enjoy a Stella from time to time, this discovery made me feel a lot less classy, but I can't say I aimed all that high on the social strata anyhow.
Secondly, Budweiser and Coors products are imports over there and as a result, more expensive. At last some justice in the world! Despite that fact I saw some patrons at the pub on New Year's Eve choosing to have that dross instead of a pint of Irish stout. There truly is no accounting for taste.
If your personal flavor sensors vary so much that you would prefer another type of alcoholic beverage, you are still in luck. Ireland is the home of a vast array of wickedly wonderful whiskeys, including Jameson's and Bushmill's. If you fancy a trip to drink directly from the spigot, Jameson's is distilled in downtown Dublin, while Bushmill's is made just north of Belfast on the scenic Antrim coast.
Last of all, why does Guinness have such a dark tint? Rumors that the adult beverage had been engaging in adult acts with Sally Hemmings turned out to be false, beer color is actually a function of malt. The malt is roasted in a kiln, and the darker you roast the malt, the darker the beer. Clearly the brew masters in Dublin were under the impression that black is beautiful and chose to go with the soul glow.
I will part from you all for another month now, but before I depart, let's have a little Irish language lesson. Most inhabitants of the isle speak English, but the Irish language (or Gaelic to the locals) has made a huge comeback over the last century and is a point of national pride. Although for the most part 'tis an indecipherable bit of gobbledygook to me, I did manage to learn one phrase, which I will share with you now. Slainte (pronounced slan che, it means cheers). Have a great St. Patrick's Day and save a frothy pint or two at the bar for me, I'll be there as soon as I escape the filthy clutches of work!

A Game For the Ages

The smell of spring: flowers bloom, the insects buzz, the grass glistens an emerald green, and the stage is set for the boys to step on to the diamond. The lines have been drawn at Woodwinds Field, and the distances marked. The cooler has been wheeled out and placed like an altar behind home plate. The Allman Brothers tune,"Sweet Melissa," shouts its enchanting melody from the speakers of Steve Murray's car. A winter's worth of intense twelve ounce weight training has led up to this moment - a chance to prove oneself on the greatest stage of all - Pi Kapp whiffleball has begun.
Founded sometime in the distant past by a fraternity at that time known for some reason as Pi Kappa High, Pi Kapp whiffleball is a sport unlike any other. Only bowling can equal the utter lack of movement combined with mass alcohol consumption that takes place during the course of a game. In fact, laziness and drunkenness, which are usually considered vices in our society, are celebrated in this sport. The number one rule requires you to have a beer in one of your hands at all times. Anyone appearing at home plate to bat without a beverage is considered automatically out. There are no exceptions to the rule. Forgetting to bring your beer with you is an unforgivable sin. The can should be attached to your hands at all times like a magnet. Go ahead and super-glue it there if you are using a cup, you can always have it surgically removed one day if absolutely necessary. Anyone without a can of frothy delight that makes contact with a ball as a fielder is immediately castrated (actually we just call it a hit). Given time, you will become a Busch Light Cyborg, part man, part liquid refreshment.
Fortunately, in a game invented and played by stoners, consideration was made for diminished lung capacity. There is no silly running around the diamond like in baseball or softball. Singles, doubles, triples and homers are all based on where the batted ball lands. Lines are marked on the sides of the field to indicate the amount of bases allocated for each hit. Having a fence to indicate the home run area is a perk, but not crucial. For a ball to be in play on the ground it must roll at least to the pitcher’s mound, otherwise it is considered a foul ball. Any hit that falls on the ground in fair play, short of the double line, can be fielded off the surface for an out, but only if the defensive player picks up the ball cleanly and before it has come to a complete stop. Outs can also be recorded by catching fly balls, and bonus outs are awarded if you pick one from the sky with chopsticks. If you strike out, congratulations, you have taken sucktacularity to a heretofore unattained level (unless you are toasted and then consider your result par for the course).
Our happily high whiffleball founding fathers also decided that fielders must concentrate at all times on making minimum effort to attain the ball. Running or diving is considered against the spirit of the game and any out made under these circumstances will be taken away from the defensive team. Being kind of a spazzfest, I always had trouble with that rule. Pitchers also must take it easy. All pitches thrown must have a defined lob to them – if you are a budding Roger Clemens or Randy Johnson, PKW is not your game. The game is designed with hitters in mind, there should be none of those mundane 1-0 pitching duels. Potheads and drunks have one thing in common – they get bored with inaction easily and if the ball isn’t flying around the yard, nappy time fast approaches.
Games can be played for nine innings or until a team manages to score ten runs. If you lose track of the score don't worry, it wasn't that important anyway. Contests often take an hour or more, so smoking is allowed during play. If holding a cigarette causes you to run out of hands, those are the breaks. Use of other banned substances before and during play is encouraged, although I tend to avoid steroids since the last two things on my Christmas list are a hairier back and smaller balls. Teams are made up of four to five players each, but you can play with as few as seven people total if you have an all-time pitcher.
The sport has expanded since those early days of playing games behind the Woodwinds Apartment complex. There is now an annual tournament, where ten or more teams gather south of Asheville during the last week of July for a festival of whiffleball greatness. Although, the North Carolinians have tinkered with the rules some, the basics are the same. A small entry feed includes your beer, hot dogs, and a minimum of two games per team.
So get your butt out there and have some fun. If there is a way to garner more good times with just a beer and a plastic ball, I am unaware of it and most likely such a thing would be illegal anyway. If you have any questions concerning the rules, just drop me a line. And remember kids - never mix whiffleball with sobriety!

The Den of Inequity

During my four years amidst the haze of college insobriety, I had the occasion to live in several different domiciles. Some of these residences, especially the legendary B102 apartment where I spent my junior and senior campaigns, were less than desirable to say the least. I even made a map of B102 showing all the places inside and outside where party-goers had used the contents of their stomachs to do a little bit of interior decorating. There was also the time that we moved the couches to discover to our surprise that the color of the carpet was actually not originally brown. One would think, then, that I would have been prepared by my previous experiences to exist in any sort of hellhole, regardless of how foully polluted. How wrong you would be to think that.
Circumstances beyond my control, involving some sort of very bizarre breakup, which I will not go into at this time, led to a last second need for a place to lay my weary head. Or simply put, my dumb ass was homeless and in desperate need of a bed. My friend Chris was kind enough to lend me his extra room for two weeks as I awaited an opening at the adjacent complex, which we had nicknamed Hoodwinds over the years. Trust me, Hoodwinds was a major upgrade over what I was about to endure. If I had dropped my shit on the ground and crashed there for a few days I probably would have been a lot happier. It only took me a few minutes inside my friend's abode to realize that I had made a major mistake.
To take in the entirety of this monstrosity would cause even the most heartless bastard to run screaming from their computer monitor, so I will go over with you one step at a time the extent of this anti-cathedral, this insult to all that is holy.
The first thing I saw upon entry was the living room, which was dotted with trash and beer stains. The adjacent kitchen was blessed with a sink overflowing with dishes and circled by fruit flies. Nothing I hadn't seen before. There was even a perk. A Playstation gaming system where we could entertain ourselves! So much beer had been poured onto the Playstation, however, that you had to put an object on top of it to get it to properly close. The machine also had a dual purpose - due to its stickiness it was a great flycatcher.
Flies were not the main problem in the living area, though, the floor was the domain of the fleas. They were everywhere. It took only a short time and a few red bite marks on my legs to realize that I could not walk around the apartment without wearing at least a pair of socks (and no I wasn't naked otherwise you dirty bastard). The fleas of course, were a feature of the whole house and their existence emanated from my favorite part of my bedroom.
The bedroom closet was the location of a boogie monster that haunted the first few days I spent in my temporary home. Chris, it so happened, was fond of keeping pets. He usually had a cat, but the last one had run away or committed suicide, so when I moved in he had a lovely ferret. This unfortunate animal was locked inside a cage and enclosed inside the closet. In my bedroom, not his. Sharing the ferret's enclosure was a pile of his own feces that made the Great Pyramids look like lame two story condos - it reminded me of the pile of skulls Tamerlane the great would erect from the corpses of his vanquished foes. Lucky for me and probably for the creature itself, the poor beast did not have to share accomodations too long, as it died on my third day there. I was, of course, forced to tell the animal's owner of the sad event of its passing. That conversation went something like this:
Me: Chris, I think your ferret is dead
Chris: No he's not, he is just resting. Beautiful plumage, the Norweigan blue.
Me: All fucking day? That's quite a nap. (Chris goes into the room and pokes the ferret with a stick)
Chris: I guess you are right.
So where could I go to escape this madness? The hall bathroom - I could just draw a bath and hide from the horrors of the rest of the house amidst a heaven of bubbles and hot water. Upon entering, it quickly became apparent that my soapy paradise was not to be, for thriving in the tub, and the sink as well, was the most impressive exhibit of mold and mildew I had hitherto seen. In fact, it is a sight I hope will never to be surpassed should I live to be as old as Liz Taylor looks. The brown scum that encircled the inside of the shower was feet thick in spots. I was scared to even approach it for fear I could be pulled inside and devoured by it and turned into a mold-covered zombie dedicated to destroying the human race for all its crimes against the fauna of the Earth. Needless to say, although there was plenty growing, the water sure as hell wasn't flowing. Any hot water excursion I would be taking would have to done in the master bathroom.
Compared with the horror I had just witnessed in the hall bathroom, Chris had an almost pristine place to shower. There was no mold in the bathtub, no mold in the sink, and the water actually worked! Yet another miracle of modern plumbing in action. Since I am sure you are waiting for the other shoe to drop, here it comes. Are you ready for it? Certain? There was a huge mass of vomit on the floor - right in the center of the room. The kind soul who had deposited his insides there had been considerate enough to dump a considerable volume of Comet onto the puke. This mess could have been easily cleaned up, but it was a matter pride for Chris that the perpetrator finish the deed himself. After a week it became clear to myself that the previous owner of the barf, who we will name Scott for the purpose of this exercise, was not going to be paying us a visit any time in the near future. Yet still the mess sat there, taunting us into inaction. Why I ask you, should I be the one to deal with the issue? Caught in this web of laziness and stubbornness, I finally broke free and forced Chris (with my help) to clean up the apartment - and then, with my two weeks of purgatory over, I moved on to my own den of iniquity over at Hoodwinds. I had escaped, but the memories still wake me screaming to this very day.