Whether or not you've seen the actual show, you are by now probably aware that Jason Lee's "Earl" (as in "My Name Is ____") is the most extravagantly moustachioed man on American television since Tom Selleck last drove a Ferrari. Earl's moustache is his calling card, a point of pride, the silent punchline to every joke the show doesn't have to tell. Lee plays Earl as a lovable rube who happens to be wiser than he realizes (strangely, though, exactly as wise as he lets on), and the moustache lends him an air of redneck enlightenment I'm hard-pressed not to associate with the bristly-lipped philosophers of years past, sage old souls like Confucius and Groucho Marx and Ned Flanders.* In a recent episode Earl's camped in a tree outside a little boy's window, talking the kid through a fear of the dark and the boogeyman that Earl himself unwittingly created during a botched robbery (long story, and the reason God created reruns). So while Earl's out on a limb (literally here) playing surrogate father to the kid, answering questions about life and such, the question of Earl's moustache comes up in the course of conversation. The kid asks something to the effect of "Do you like your moustache, Earl?" To which Earl responds:"Let me tell you something. As soon as your body is ready...grow one."
It's not the sincerity with which the response is delivered that makes it so spit-take funny, it's the way Lee imbues those last two syllables with the wisdom of the ancients, as if he's passing on a well-guarded secret more boys should be hearing at that age. I'm wondering if high school yearbooks for the Classes of 2012 will feature more than the usual amount of facial fur, the eyes above their fuzzy upper lips twinkling with all the honeysweet secrets of time immemorial. It's a fine image, if perhaps too optimistic a view of today's youth. Alas.
There's been no shortage recently of moustaches in American comedy, and Earl's is only the most frequently visible incarnation. The Will Ferrell vehicle Anchorman is a prime example of the trend, as is "Reno 911" (and "COPS," for that matter). And (although I'm ashamed to cite it) in the Farrelly Bros.' Me Myself and Irene, the flashback scenes are indicated as being such not by the standard devices of wavy dissolves or a different film stock, but by showing all the male characters looking exactly the same as they do in the present, but with moustaches. These cases all get at the root of why the moustache is making a comeback, but they also ask the question of whether or not it counts as a comeback at all. You see, the moustache is funny in the above because it's an anachronism. It's a choice, and an ironic one at that. When I referenced "Magnum, P.I." earlier it was no accident. It's really been that long since the solo moustache was a cool thing to have (not unlike a T-Top '83 Firebird, Linda Evans, or a Members Only jacket). Anchorman was set in the mid- to late-70's, "Magnum" was a hit in the early 80's, and cops everywhere just stopped evolving at some point in the Paleolithic era. That they can shave their foreheads is a fucking miracle. They'd get the moustache too, but they haven't yet invented a stone tool that can handle those delicate spots under the nose.
The fact is, outside of Queen tribute bands and the homosexual arena** there's very little place for the moustache in today's cultural landscape. Sure, rock stars rely on creative facial hair to establish themselves as being anti-establishment. Of course there are an assortment of other artists and Hell's Angels and thinkers and the like who don't have to endure job interviews in suits and ties. And it's a given that the occasional woman enjoys a bit of a tickle (not a scratch, mind you) on the ol' Ship's Captain (you know, when it's her birthday or you're just really enthusiastic about being down there, you know, facially***). But by and large, the people seem to be past the 'stache in our go-go modern era.
Who knows, maybe the moustache'll make a real comeback someday soon. The youth are out there, and they might be watching NBC (nobody else is, that's for sure). I've been sporting a semblance of one for a good while now, but it's more out of the aforementioned sense of irony. You'd be amazed the kind of shit you can get away with saying when you've got a goofy-looking distraction under your nose. It's accompanied at the moment by a Guy-Fawkes-lookin' stripe heading chinward that's (I guess, technically) a modified Soul Patch, or what Kinky Friedman once called a "White Man Hater." But times are changing, people. We may soon see the return of a bearded President of the United States. As the old (though long-abandoned) saw goes, you vote for the most convincing moustache. Just think, our Idiot-In-Chief could hide behind his facial scruff instead of finding a safe place behind bullshit rationales for war and a cabinet of theocratic yes-men who'd rather suck a tailpipe than get off the military-industrial gravy train. One thing is for certain: no culture with so many names for the various permutations of hair below the hairline can go long before the pendulum swings back in favor of Mr. Flanders' "Fuzzy Neighbor." I'll be waiting there at the crossroads, my brothers, waiting for Earl and Ned and Freddie Fucking Mercury to show us the way to the Promised Land.There'll be donuts, ginger ale, and fondue for anyone interested. BYOB.
*: Buddha was clean-shaven, but I like to think it was a choice he made to match the belly and the chrome-dome. We all know how Mrs. Buddha loved the round, smooth type.
**: Really the same arena, and quite an arena it is. The speakers are constantly thumping out Cher's latest and greatest, every stall in the men's room has multiple handlebars and a bidet, and the rainbow pennants hanging from the rafters are just FAHbulous. If the Moustache Pride movement developed a logo, it'd be a rainbow (because it's kind of that shape, you see?), dazzling the eye in a dizzying spectrum of blonde, dirty blonde, brown, black, and grey.
***: And believe me, ladies, I've got enthusiasm to spare. Though I've always secretly thought cunnilingus was kind of like Vietnam must have been: it's hot and wet, you're not really sure if your being there has a purpose, and after all the bombing and shelling you can't even remember the alphabet.
