Beer and football IV — week eight

The game: Dolphins at Patriots
The beer: Wolaver's Pumpkin Ale
The result: Win, 27–17
The commentary: Several weeks ago, the local Whole Foods teamed up with a neighboring liquor store to hold a Fall beer- and wine-tasting event in the parking lot. Needless to say the liquor store, who cleverly (admirably) provided attendees with checklists to keep track of what they liked (and competitive prices to encourage them to shop), were the clear winners, while Whole Foods's minimalist participation—I showed up about forty-five minutes before closing and sampled all of one kind of cheese—was plain embarrassing. Especially since they seemed to do all the heavy lifting in terms of promotion! Oh well, I was half drunk when I left so who cares. I enjoyed a lot of good beer but the main takeaway was a confirmation of what I already suspected: the Wolaver's Pumpkin Ale I bought a week earlier was the discovery of the season. I like a pumpkin beer to not taste like a pumpkin doughnut or a pumpkin latte—I want a nice, tight ale (or stout) with a mild pumpkin influence. Cambridge's Great Pumpkin was (and probably still is, especially on tap at the Cambridge Common) my favorite pumpkin beer. But Wolaver's came out of nowhere with that farmer and that pitchfork and—shit!—how it satisfied the September yearning. Even the Long Trail guy at the Whole Foods parking lot event had to admit that Wolaver's was the winner, and not just because Long Trail's version tastes like manure.

Also on the agenda: one New York-based wine rep who, when a woman asked him to recommend a red, responded "I don't recommend anything. I grew up in New York so we drank French wine. California wine is too fruity. Fruity!" And then he punched her, he punched her right in the mouth, and as she picked her teeth up off the pavement he opened his emasculating little backpack, those weird drawstring ones you see the kids wearing these days, and he just started chucking grapes and apples at the poor woman. "Here's your fucking fruit! Choke on it ya trash! I'm from Noo Yawk! Fraaaance!" Seconds later I looked at the handy liquore store flier and said "I'll try the fifty-dollar wine." "Well it's not wine," he said, "it's (x)," that being whatever you call an expensive version of Jägermeister. "Do you know Jägermeister?" Here I am, a man obviously (barely!) in his thirties, and I have sideburns—sideburns!—big, American sideburns, and he's asking if I know what Jägermeister is. If you're picturing him with a shaved head, black-framed glasses and about one hundred twenty pounds of near-man then, by golly, you've nailed it. Oh, and that stuff tasted like manure.

The afternoon was a bit of a bust, except for the part where I drank a bunch of free beer and wine. Our original plan had been for the three of us to meet another family of three at the event, because who doesn't want to have their underage daughter toddling around a liquor store parking lot? Unfortunately G's failure to nap—note the common theme to this football season?—meant one of us (A.) had to stay home, and by the time I got my shit together our friends were long gone. Oh well. More time to focus on tweaking uptight eggheads.

Fast forward to Halloween, when we went trick-or-treating with that same family. Their little girl (only eight days older than G.) was seriously the cutest cowgirl there ever was. The boots? The boots! They live up the street so we stuck close to home. I'd have included pictures of her if it weren't so weird to ask her parents "Hey, do you mind if I put a picture of your daughter on the internet? I write a series of blog posts about the Patriots, except I don't write much about the Patriots, it's mostly about how people should be lining up to buy my amazing—amazing!—music collection. I also compare the logo for the InterContinental Hotel to a vagina on an annual basis. Wanna buy some Hawkwind?" That arrest warrant writes itself.

Guess who dressed as a cupcake? Ever seen one balance on a stack of books? OK, so it's not completely unexpected. At least we got her a costume this year. Check out the home-grown photography in the background: of the three framed pictures, A. took the middle (the Alcatraz water tower's spiral staircase); I took the one you can't see (some beautiful trees on St. Lucia, where we honeymooned… and honestly my favorite print of the three); and neither one of us will take credit for the unfinished Bermuda church at left. We're each convinced the other snapped it. Anyway, that's our display. Bidding queue forms to the left.

The preciousness will drive you mad. Accessorize.

I promise we're not standing in the middle of the road here, it's just the end of a driveway. Anyway, if one of us was going to be hit by this passing white car it would have been me, alright? So put the phone down and stop trying to involve the authorities all the damn time.

Up next: It's always a competitive game against the Steelers, except when it's not. Cheers!