Beer and football VI — week fifteen

The game: Titans at Patriots
The beer: Josephsbrau Winter Brew Dark Double Bock Lager
The result: Win, 33–16
The commentary: No clickbait this week! I'm still waiting to see the Akiem Hicks touchdown anyway, since the L-team behind Eye-Anne Eagle and Dan "You Might Learn the Rules, Dan, Since You Used to Play the Position" Fouts (he earned the nickname after questioning a non-call for grounding against a clearly outside-the-tackle Brady) were busy showing us the ball-less half of the field. CBS must have poached a Fox cameraman since that network has never captured the first snap coming out of commercial. You have one job! Regardless, by 24–3 I was tweaking my Survivor analysis from Sunday. Tasha deserved better.

The bock was a pleasant surprise. Five bucks for a six-pack at namesake Trader Joe's. Boatswain (I lied), Josephbrau, Trader José… they hold up alright on Beer Advocate. And who is harder to please than a group of half-drunk commenters who submit reviews to Beer Advocate? We're all better for the precision of two decimal places when rating something from one to five.

Their wine though? Trader Jérôme's? A five-dollar bottle will get you to the destination but not taste very good along the way. That's just science. But if you pay, say, twelve, and apply the Trader-Joe's-to-real-world currency conversion rate of 1.00:1.25, you feel pretty good about a "fifteen-dollar" cabernet, right? Especially after trying and liking a sample in the store? Until one of three things happens before you open the bottle later that evening and your wife makes a face after her first sip:

1. The wine paired well with the cheese you also sampled, to the point that it was overwhelmed. Smothered, even. Disguised.

2. Up until the tasting, the bottle you took home was stored for months under a mound of spoiled teriyaki tofu and then wiped down with raspberry sorbet and potato pancakes.

3. The motherfuckers pulled a bait-and-switch, shunning a contract forged over the years by people who offer free sips of wine out of little medicine cups. A. thinks I might have something here.

Fifty-seven degrees in Boston today? Must be Christmas!

1. Freeways – Another Holiday
Boston reverb from the first Polk Records holiday compilation and available here for free. We wish you a shoegaze Christmas.

2. Solomon Burke – A Christmas Prayer
I'm a big fan of these spoken-word pieces, more the impassioned telling than any message. "Demonistic drugs!" Solomon Burke, Johnny Cash and Rudy Ray Moore are a kind of holy trinity in some universe.

3. Tia Blake & Her Folk-Group – Children, Go Where I Send Thee
Also known as "The Holy Babe," this has become a favorite carol of mine. John Fahey played us his "barely recognizable" interpretation back in 2012. Again with the links.

4. Can – Little Star of Bethlehem
An outtake of an outtake, recorded (with Malcolm Mooney) in 1969 and compiled on the "unofficial" Radio Waves. "Correction: going up!"

5. Charles Bradley – Mary's Baby
A cuckolded Joseph proclaims "I'm standing right here!"

Up next: A Patriots win ensures home-field advantage throughout the playoffs. A Jets win increases the chances of the moderately frightening Steelers missing out. Hmmm. Merry Christmas!

Beer and football VI — week fourteen

The game: Patriots at Texans
The beer: Clown Shoes Coffee Pecan Pie Porter
The result: Win, 27–6; Jeremy, 10–0–0
The commentary: Leave it to fantasy origin stories involving turkeys to reclaim first place in the AFC. These past few weeks have become awfully meta around here: repeated self-referential links to a year-old post about the ineptitude of an eventual champion and the compiling of a monstrous space-rock concert are in. The timeline so far…

2014, week four – The Patriots lose to the Chiefs on Monday Night Football, digging their own graves (I did not handle it well, "suffering from night terrors about special teamer Matthew Slater being the Patriots' MVP for the second week in a row") while somehow showing life toward the end. Postgame Belichick talks of the respect he has for his players. Mike Felger and Tony Massarotti commence simultaneous six-day orgasms.

2014, week five – Apparently I've already moved on to understanding that the Patriots, realistically, do not suck. "For at least a week." I seem more concerned about the previous year's loss to the Bengals as it related to a Misfits concert in New Hampshire. More linkhole fodder.

2014, week nine – If I may say so, a marvelous couple of paragraphs about the state of the Patriots, their fanbase and the Boston media. I believe in this team again after the Denver game, which I didn't expect them to win either.

2014, week twelve – "Monday night, I couldn't remember ever seeing a losing team kneel on the ball to end a game. That's what this season is becoming around here."

2014, week thirteen – The last real loss (sorry, Bills) until week twelve this year.

2014/2015 playoffs, week two – The beginning of a thirteen-game winning streak peaking in February but not celebrated until June.

2015, week eleven – This success is getting dull. Let's fuck it up with more Pink Floyd talk.

2015, week twelve – Curse you, Pink Floyd!

2015, week thirteen – Curse you, Founders!

Now today. My reader (!) surely appreciates how this blog circles back upon itself. In all the madness over certain England-based psychedelic bands and/or Michigan-based craft brewers, should I instead have looked closer to home—up the street, in fact—toward a certain New England-based craft brewer that had been waving its arms the entire time? The beer during my woe-is-us nadir: Clown Shoes Pecan Pie Porter. The beer sitting in my fridge for three weeks or so, awaiting an eligibility decision on versioning until precedent was cited (here/here): Clown Shoes Coffee Pecan Pie Porter. Coffee… wake up! I'm here! And all is well again, as Denver, Cincinnati and Houston conspire to transition the Patriots from "Will this team even make the playoffs?" to "Had 'em all the way!" Felger and Massarotti weep. For at least a week.

This season's knock-out pool has come to a merciful end. Since losing in week four (what is it with week four?), I decided against buying back in and, continuing to play offline, "won" nine in a row until "losing" with Denver on Sunday. If I had bought back in there's a good chance I would have repeated, since both remaining players stalemated with losses last week. I'm not too down on myself since I don't know that I would have been bold enough to actually pick the Giants in week five after parting with another thirty units. C'est la goddamn vie.

Tuesday, as teased last week, saw the release of part five of InterContinental VaGina highlights. Not much to discuss because I was sufficiently responsible (four—five?—beers, 9:20 train, no after-party), though as I stood eating shrimp the dripping cocktail sauce that would have fallen straight to the floor a few years ago instead grazed my expanding midsection. Drag. Day-after gossip revealed that I didn't miss anyone, like, getting tossed out of a bar for pouring his own beer. There's always next year.

Survivor! I've had my issues with the city of Cambridge and its residents (however varied) but I was rooting for Jeremy and I'm glad he won. Normally my inner cynic would revolt against what might appear to be a sympathy grab of a closing statement but, as with his (few) other displays of emotion, he was hollering—almost fugue-like—from far below the surface. That thousand-yard stare as Jeff retreated with the votes (unfortunately not toward a winged, ultraviolet mastodon)? It was the stunned realization that he may have done this for nothing. Or else a fine imitation. I believed him.

Tasha was charming and likable but never stood a chance. Much of her intrigue involved the physical wonders of her breasts growing larger while she lost weight everywhere else. Her bikini top also seemed to go through the dryer on high every week. Amazing. On a related note, I once had an in-depth discussion over a few dozen beers (the O'Neill's session) about breast reduction and how the "tissue," like matter, should transfer elsewhere rather than cease to be. (This man—whose company I did enjoy, as will happen when the waitress proclaims "Fucking awesome!" in response to our heavy appetizer order—turned out to be the type who contributes to rising gun sales after mass shootings and is afraid de gubment gone tek way 'is righth! We are no longer friends. I'm unsure if he is yet to single-handedly bring down a shooter and become the hero all gun advocates aspire to be.)

And Spencer, poor Spencer. He competed well strategically and in challenges, appeared to achieve genuine personal growth and received zero winning votes. I'm pleased that Cass apparently grew disgusted with her own behavior while watching the season and came crawling back with "Get a beer after?" His noncommital was marvelous. Anyway, yeah, he couldn't touch Jeremy's soulful birth announcement. I'd like to see him back another season if only I didn't despise when the show rehashes contestants (Rupert!) more than once. These are the problems I create for myself.

Up next: Tenneseein' is Tennebelievin' the Titans can't possibly lose by fifty-nine points again, right? Cheers!

Beer and football VI — week thirteen

The game: Eagles at Patriots
The beer: Founders Breakfast Stout
The result: Loss, 35–28
The commentary: This is where the heaviness sets in. Perhaps my "Before Floyd"/"After Floyd" theory was too broad. Is it, in fact, a Founders Curse? First the All-Day IPA and now the Breakfast Stout: can it be so simple? Or should I recognize the possibility that what I drink after a game is over (recorded and saved for primetime) has no effect on its already determined outcome? I don't know, maybe it's bad coaching again. My man Fred Kirsch from PFW in Progress likened the odd on-side/mortar kick-off to Ernst Stavro Blofeld explaining to James Bond how he will eventually be killed by this laser beam or that school of piranha. You've got the Eagles where you want them—down two touchdowns early—and most of them have checked out mentally. Why provide an opportunity for some to run out of patience for losing? "Fuck this asshole for practicing trick plays on us. Shit, we can still make the playoffs, right? Let's go! Then all back to the Electric Factory tomorrow night!" These against-all-odds comebacks only come around so often and you can't be expected to win every time. The Pats let one slip against the Broncos but they would have gotten away with something had they won on Sunday—might have felt almost unclean. Strange way to manage a dominant team, despite the injuries. The world's smallest violin…

It's the second week of December and that brings Big Doings. The (fake) Christmas tree was erected… and took up the full floor-to-ceiling height in the living room of our new house. I guess we'll be shopping for a new, shorter, priced-to-move (and equally fake) tree on December 26. Work also had its Second Annual Corporate Subdivisional Acronym Holiday Gathering in Boston's Ladder District (née Combat Zone) on Thursday. This time I got in two free beers and some decent room-temperature appetizers before the Corporate Subdivisional Acronym Tab was closed out. It remains stunning when an open bar becomes a cash bar without notice. Talk of ditching for the Beantown Pub (not only a better spot but also closer to the train station) gave me new life as, inexplicably, some co-op student majoring in Disposable Hipness hooked in her iPhone to undoubtedly stream The Very Best of Millennial Bullshit Non-Music Designed to Turn You Into What You Once Rebelled Against, With the "In My Day" This and the "Blue Cheer" That and dribbled the life out of me one programmed Swedish bleat at a time. Follow me! I spent maybe half an hour there, drinking Coke and never removing my jacket so as not to be tempted to wonder if "Maybe the 11:45 isn't so bad after all." I almost pissed myself during the hurried walk to catch the 9:20 but it was worth it.

And this week? And this week! It's all back to the InterContinental VaGina for another Full-Firm Alphabet Soup Takeover Featuring Shrimp and Architecturally Brilliant Dessert Offerings. (Full-Firm Takeover now playing in back-alley theaters across the country.) I remain exceptionally proud of that CUNT CONT photo. Also to come is my sixth (short) holiday playlist, consisting of MP3 files that I own. Oh, twenty-somethings.

Up next: The football gods conspire to break JJ Watt's hand before the Texans host the Patriots. The queue to rail against injustice forms in the comments section of Pro Football Talk. Cheers!

Beer and football VI — week twelve

The game: Patriots at Broncos
The beer: Founders All-Day India Pale Ale
The result: Loss, 30–24
The commentary: In comparing and contrasting Vince Wilfork and Logan Mankins, beyond the obvious black/white and offensive line/defensive line, one result is obvious: Wilfork's career with the Pats was bookended by Super Bowl victories (2004 to 2014) while Mankins's spanned the full trophy-less period in between (2005 to 2013). Fascinating! "Before Vince" defines a period of success that was not yet over; "Before Logan," a period of success that, though unknown at the time, had already terminated. "After Vince" is a period of renewed success, to which he contributed, with hope for more; "After Logan," this team hadn't won a Super Bowl in nine years.

Similarly, two distinct whens may have emerged in the Biff/Bang/Pow sector of yonder World Wide Web. "Before Floyd" raised a white flag where "three hours of entropy in Kansas City" marked the end of a run of sustained dominance—since 2001—that had not always been measured in championships. Darkness overwhelmed as gradual worsening seemed inevitable. Until it reversed. Another trophy and ten straight regular-season victories later, I decided to revisit the moment of panic and alter not only a silly playlist but also, perhaps, fate itself. Are we now rutted in "After Floyd"? Is the team doomed to futility until, say, Wilfork signs a one-day contract to retire a Patriot? Will fans forever debate the merits of "The Embryo"? What have I done?

No matter. You (!) haven't even listened to the whole thing anyway.

Oh, undefeated season. Your kind is certainly hard to grasp, though did I ever really believe in its possibility after the unpleasantness? Twelve wins is commendable and fourteen is attainable but who gives a shit once the final win comes in February. That remains the goal.

Sunday night, in which Brock Osweiler reminded everyone of the Brady/Bledsoe debate and Gronk scared the living shit out of a fanbase that immediately jumped to "Why can't Belichick surround Brady with more talent?!" panic (they have a point, this time), the game really was remarkable in that it took a hostile environment, injuries, bad officiating (on both sides) and overtime for the Broncos to win. I have to hand it to Brady (and Gostkowski) for coming back in regulation but also to Osweiler for not throwing up on himself. It will be interesting to see how everything plays out at five thousand feet over the next ten months. (Said altitude had to be what caused Collinsworth to pronounce "breadbasket" as "bread-bahh-sket" when Tavon Wilson slammed Osweiler to the turf. You can only suppress your Dayton Brahmin heritage for so long there, Chris.)

The "All Day IPA," which I edit to a hyphenated "All-Day IPA" because it is a compound goddamn adjective, was perfect for an extended Thanksgiving weekend with the in-laws. Session beer is a must when presented with ten hours of football and puzzling halftime performances. (It also prevents a morning-after hangover from snapping at your hosts when your four-year-old daughter is allowed to wander into a living room where Fox News is showing the fallout of another mass shooting and declaring that all is well.) I had a weird discussion with A. last night after Coldplay was announced as this season's Super Bowl act. Who cares? Who tunes in just for the halftime show? "My mom and I always did." Really? I haven't missed a Super Bowl since XVII in 1983 (Redskins–Dolphins, family room floor, Chinese food) and I remember two halftime shows from before February (Katy Perry, and just see if I remember her a year from now): U2 during XXXVI (Hector's house, Ivan's infant daughter in my arms) and the Wardrobe Malfunction during XXXVIII (first night in our barely furnished Cambridge apartment, pizza, Steve). Two Patriots games. Two situations in which I was compelled to watch. Likely, the two most high-profile performances in decades, what with the 9/11 tribute and the nipple. Those first two are the reasons I saw them at all and the last is why I remember them still. But what others? Since U2 and prior to Katy Perry, the good guys have appeared in four others, and I can't name or place a wrinkled rock band, lip-syncing R&B superstar or jingoistic country hack. And yet there are people out there, maybe even people I've married, who can. I know nothing about—or around—football.

Oh, and that bit last week about McCourty and Harmon "perfecting the bad angle" and "whenever we do lose it will surely be their fault"? Local knower of things Mike Reiss offered some rare pointed criticism along those lines in a piece titled "Tackling in Patriots' secondary a top issue to address from loss": "safeties struggled to tackle and shed blocks"; "Harmon having a chance to bring Anderson down at the 30 and failing to do so because of poor technique"; "McCourty missed a tackle in the backfield"; "Harmon bounced off Anderson while attempting a touchdown-saving tackle"; "Harmon's poor angle on Ronnie Hillman's 19-yard touchdown run in the second quarter"; "McCourty taking heat from former teammate Talib about all those live kittens he once ate on a dare." I left out the deserved scrutiny of Butler, Ryan and Chung (who usually plays more like a linebacker) to focus on those who are specifically on the field to defend against the big play. It's a wonder how much Pro Bowl talk McCourty gets during national broadcasts from people who don't have to watch him every week.

Up next: It's either "We got a lot, a lot of culture" or "I ain't no goddamn son of a bitch." Cheers!

Beer and football VI — week eleven

The game: Bills at Patriots
The beer: Ballast Point Black Marlin Porter
The result: Win, 20–13
The commentary: "I'm not emotionally prepared to write about the state of my football team." Lo, had I joined the loathsome rabble? Remain I there? Surely not, so long as ours is somehow a top-twenty defense.

I've recently… acquired… a copy of the bootlegged unauthorized Pink Floyd live set Meddled, which itself seems to be an unauthorized spin on the unauthorized Meddler. Recorded at the Paris Theatre in London for a session with John Peel in September of 1971, I'd be remiss to let its high fidelity pass without revisiting last season's week of panic to retcon myself an improved three-hour-plus concert à la that business with Nomar Garciaparra and the interrupting cow. John Gruden, feel free to listen along while reviewing the game film in your continued search for Sammy Watkins, who is right there at the top of the screen, you buffoon! To recap…

1. Astronomy Domine
2. Fat Old Sun
3. Atom Heart Mother
Smoking Blues, November 1970

4. Grantchester Meadows (a.k.a. "Daybreak")
The Man and the Journey, September 1969

5. Green Is the Colour
Electric Factory 1970, September 1970

6. Careful With That Axe, Eugene
Live in Montreux, September 1971

7. Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun
Electric Factory 1970

8. The Grand Vizier's Garden Party (a.k.a. "Doing It")
9. Cymbaline (a.k.a. "Nightmare")
The Man and the Journey

10. Echoes
Live in Montreux

11. Interstellar Overdrive
Electric Factory 1970

12. Pow R. Toc H. (a.k.a. "The Pink Jungle")
13. The Labyrinths of Auximenes
14. Behold the Temple of Light
The Man and the Journey

15. A Saucerful of Secrets
Electric Factory 1970

16. More Blues
Smoking Blues

Pretty solid! OK, my work is done. But wait! Three Meddled songs are coming in through the window! Alright, let's sit around the fire with a few Pecan Pie Porters (available again) instead of Monday's adequate Black Marlin (and certainly over last week's Coronado Blue Bridge, which tasted of disappointment more than coffee or stout) and see what we can do to stretch this thing out even further.

To start things off, I continue to favor the "Astronomy Domine"/"Fat Old Sun" pacing (and breadth) already in place. But the new 1971 version of the latter is superior, due as much to the recording as to the playing, so it slots in as the new number two. "I am not a number! I am a free man!" David even manages to keep his shit together this time. The transition back to Smoking Blues's "Atom Heart Mother" isn't as fluid but we're talking about recordings of indeterminate goddamn origin here.

The other edits are the additions of two songs and about seventeen minutes. In retrospect, this doesn't seem to be as big a deal as it did when I originally set about recompiling a bunch of Pink Floyd songs on a blog that no one reads. Onward. "One of These Days" breaks up the Waters-y, doom-y "Careful With That Axe, Eugene"/"Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun" block that bogged down the early middle. Hard rock has a place in the world. On that note, I really tried to slot in Smoking Blues's "The Embryo" last year but it just wouldn't happen—perhaps my officiousness demanded an even, divisible sixteen. But now? But now! The vocals are much stronger a year later and Meddled wins out again over the distracting crowd chatter of Smoking Blues. "Aw man, I sat in gum!" Those children's giggles creep me out too—what is this, The Re-Deadening?—and the seagull effects were later rolled into "Echoes" with great success. Redundancy in two-hundred-minute territory is, after all, an offense only slightly more criminal than a hampering WNEW station identification.

Considerations were made for replacing Montreux's "Echoes" with this new one but the opening "Ping!" isn't as well done, for I remain proud of that "Nightmare"/"Echoes" transition. And rightly so! Lastly, Meddled's "Blues" is actually "More Blues" and sounds too, I don't know, produced. It doesn't satisfy as a closing track and I can't be bothered to blow this thing up—clearly, since I haven't really done much to it other than replace one song and add two more. You might even say that's exactly what I've done. And a selection of sane gentleman might even agree with you. You Swiss are just angry that I inferred a "Ze!" ahead of "Pank Floyt!" to serve a comedic agenda.

New! Improved! And may G. kick this godforsaken virus to Ibiza.

1. Astronomy Domine
2. Fat Old Sun
3. Atom Heart Mother
4. Grantchester Meadows (a.k.a. "Daybreak")
5. Green Is the Colour
6. Careful With That Axe, Eugene
7. One of These Days
8. Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun
9. The Grand Vizier's Garden Party (a.k.a. "Doing It")
10. Cymbaline (a.k.a. "Nightmare")
11. Echoes
12. Interstellar Overdrive
13. Pow R. Toc H. (a.k.a. "The Pink Jungle")
14. The Labyrinths of Auximenes
15. Behold the Temple of Light
16. The Embryo
17. A Saucerful of Secrets
18. More Blues

Up next: The league is less interesting without Peyton Manning. Happy Thanksgiving!

Beer and football VI — week ten

The game: Patriots at Giants
The beer: Coronado Blue Bridge Coffee Stout
The result: Win, 27–26
The commentary: It's getting eerie around here. Undefeated (though not nearly so) as in 2007, visiting "New York" to play the Giants in one for the ages. And remaining undefeated through it all! Is this a sign of what's to come? Is that a good thing?

People have been talking around here about an undefeated season since week two, which is admirable even for this fickle fanbase—if we'd blown that lead to the Bills the same people would have called for Belichick's head and #JimmyTime would have blown up the internet. Just see tomorrow morning if Brady plays against type. (Meanwhile, McCourty and Harmon are perfecting the bad angle in the presence, and continued mastery, of Professor Brandon Meriweather. Whenever we do lose it will surely be their fault.)

It's wonderful to have a yard big enough to host parties, ponies and jungle gyms. With a yard, though, comes the hell of fallen leaves. I've complained of our old condo sporting a yard just big enough to maintain for appearances but useless in any other sense, other than collecting flying sheets of that Globe Direct bullshit that you cannot opt out of.

Sunday afternoon the three of us made what might qualify as a dent in the process of filling two barrels plus a dozen yard waste bags with leaves and leaves and leaves. So much remains that A. is demanding we hire a landscaper to take care of the rest. Lesson learned, I suppose, that next year I should not wait for every last leaf to fall before picking up the rake.

It's not all bad.

Big week for health news in our household between virus-related grossness and, oh, this. Whenever you are lying on the bed and your four-year-old daughter is jumping up and down next to you, listen as your brain screams "End this now!" Otherwise it's your own damn fault. Skull met skull and somehow G. didn't hurt herself too badly. I needed to find a local dentist anyway.

Lastly, here is something G. insists is not a self-portrait. Coy smile and all-pink outfit? Riiight. I made the mistake of describing it to A. as wearing a pink tutu, a pink top and pink pants when G interjected: "A tutu and a shirt. No pants!" Never question an artist.

Up next: Tonight! Rex Ryan! Without a net! Cheers!

Beer and football VI — week nine

The game: Redskins at Patriots
The beer: Smuttynose Rhye India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 27–10
The commentary: I thought for awhile that announcers Kevin Burkhardt and John Lynch (sure, John, it was your decision to leave the Pats in 2008) were deliberately avoiding the name "Redskins." With so many awkward uses of just "Washington," a Burkhardt reference to them as "Washington football" and Lynch audibly cutting himself off at "Redsk" later on, it seemed an evident editorial decision. I have no problem with the effort because it is a despicable name, though I question their motivation since ignoring the problem (if Fox feels it is a problem) seems an odd way to solve it. Shouldn't one overemphasize and call attention to the name in order to force viewers to consider it themselves? Anyway, I eventually noticed several awkward uses of "New England" and "New England football" so I suspect the two are just lousy announcers. Shocker.

Speaking of lousy, how about this prescient jewel among an otherwise silly post from 2006? "I'm not PC thug, but it's about time to retire the name Redskins; the team's baseball hats have a cool R they could adopt as a new logo, and they could become something else that starts with R like the Rapscallions or the Republocrats." It was a poorly conceived exercise by a man nine years my junior but, lo, such mature civility shines through! My "Fuckers" analysis of the Broncos and a hot take on 1987's Predator as "a symbol of American triumph" also showed signs of future life. Em dashes and I have come a long way together—how did the ten-year anniversary pass without another visit from Charles Napier? Not the actor!

To football. Not the blowout everyone expected, which I'll chalk up to the game being a glorified (sloppy) practice session for Tom Brady and company. An onside kick ahead by a touchdown in the first quarter? Tighten it up! Two similar outs in a row to Brandon LaFell late in the game? Stay frosty! Jimmy Garoppolo entering the game without notice in the third quarter? Uh, let's not go nuts. Unfortunately for us it was full contact and Dion Lewis is done for the year. Shit. Vollmer banged up, Edelman getting knocked into apparent concussion protocol, Gronkowski slow to stand after a fourth-quarter reception and tackle… everyone deals with injuries and this is where relatively poor draft success might catch up to some teams. On top of that, my "Rhye IPA" exploded out of the bottle and it took several paper towels to clean up the mess. The smallest violin. Things are tough all over when you're undefeated halfway through the regular season.

The beer drama happened last night during the season three premier of Curb Your Enthusiasm (no spoilers!). I nursed an iced coffee during the game, which made it extra rewarding every time Pierre Garçon dropped a catchable ball/made an athletic first down and I shouted—to an empty house, with the girls out for fun—"Garçon, coffee!" Pretty smarrr-tah.

I watched on a slight delay while transferring files to our new laptop, for it was that kind of game. Overdue since our last (still kicking) is as old as Lynch's "retirement." The interesting phase is yet to happen: early in August I dropped my "shock-proof" external drive and ever since it emits unsettling grind-crunch noises and won't fully backup to the cloud. Some files, at least, are since corrupted—files like pictures and songs, for what else is there? Tonight I will begin downloading from said ether an archived version from Before Gravity and, at close to six hundred gigabytes, I figure on a week. Drag. Once that's complete I'll compare everything (mainly MP3s, I think) to After Gravity, see what newer files are missing and hope I have copies at work, where I download most of my music. Wish me luck. The post-millennial surely laughs at my predicament while listening to Spotify on his or her iPhone, decked out to look like a Sony Walkman because eighties. Revelation will come once their favorite bands delegitimize the current state of streaming as a business model and pull all content, leaving Brayden and Brianna to realize that "transferring files" is meaningless because they own nothing. Alas, kiddos, Steve Albini will always be right.

Up next: The Giants are all over the map again this season. Will our worst fears be realized on Sunday? In February? Cheers!

Beer and football VI — week eight

The game: Dolphins at Patriots
The beer: Ipswich Ruby Red India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 36–7; Kelly Ashley, 4–0–0–0
The commentary: Halloween is a big deal in our new hometown. Our previous home was closer to Boston but also closer to madness and the exponential suburban shift has resulted, somehow, in a community more plainly vibrant. As evidence I present October's "Arts & Illumination" weekend (see week seven), with floating bonfires and Tangled-esque candles on the river, live (good) music, face-painting, a shadow theater, ice cream (!) and general merriment. "Would you believe! It's a happ-ah-nee-ying-ying!" Well said, Magic Mushrooms! Fresh, cold Autumn air fueled us that Saturday as G. and one of her best friends led our exploration of new (to us) streets, finding interest around every corner. A wonderful (and late) night that only turned dangerous when we accepted a half-mile ride home in a car without an extra child safety seat. Know that I held on tight.

Overall it was a celebrated warm-up to Halloween itself, falling conveniently on another working-parent-friendly Saturday. (And, by god, the Saturday before featured a chowder-tasting contest!) Daytime trick-or-treating started downtown at noon, with local businesses handing out candy and competing in a "decorate a telephone pole" contest that leaned heavily on whimsy and Minions. Again: vibrant! And then—and then!—the local brewery (huzzah!) introduced its new "Ruby Red" IPA, which is decidedly yummy if dark brown rather than red. A. sampled their Pumpkin Porter, which I didn't even know existed, and it was difficult to tell them apart by appearance. First-world problem. Two four-ounce servings may be a flimsy qualifier for beer of the week but it's my goddamn blog.

Later on during proper trick-or-treating we technically went through seven bags of candy, though some of that can be accounted for by (likely) punk kids (likely) emptying the bowl since both of us wanted to accompany G. up and down our new street for part of the evening. And I thought we were crazy to buy that much in the first place. G. did well as a winged mermaid, acquiring accessories along the way in beaded necklaces and a headband bow that added a "flapper" descriptor to her multi-layered costume. She adores the headband, an alarmingly cheap mash of plastic, pins and rayon that A. wants to ditch. I hope we don't accidentally "lose" it like we have two Pete the Cat volumes. Have you read this reheated garbage?

Here's the shot I called on Thursday before the watching the Project Runway finale, in anticipation of the producers not veering toward political correctness: "Hooray for Kelly from Project Runway! It's easy to root for the local girl when she's likable on top of being a good designer. One last trip to the Basketball Hall of Fame for her and she can bust the hell out of Springfield as every resident should aspire. Never again tempt the suicide dash from the 291 offramp across 91 to the West Columbus Avenue exit. You're free now!"

You remain free, as I expect you'd do well whether or not you were robbed almost as badly as Mondo in season eight. Whatever amount A. and I "trust" a reality show, it's slipped a notch because the supposed (and, perhaps, genuine) importance of presenting a fashion show for plus-size women, no matter how banal, is more deserving of praise and reward than a truly cohesive and chic collection that put guilt-free smiles on everyone's faces. I hope the judges purged extra well after dinner.

Up next: The Patriots close out a three-game home stand tomorrow with a visit from the Washington Kikes Niggers Redskins. This is the twenty-first century. Cheers!

Beer and football VI — weeks four, five, six and seven

Week four (bye)
The beer: Oskar Blues Pinner Throwback India Pale Ale
The result: Raiders/Jarrod lose, 22–20
The commentary: Jay Cutler, of all people, has made me a better father. The Pats were off and my gambling hopes rested on, rested all over, the Silver and Black Attack. Or, precisely, rested against the Bears of Chicagoland. The undefeated Falcons tugged on my sleeve to ask "Are you sure?" and I answered "Of course! I'll save you dirty birds for a later date as I remain unconvinced of your significance." Were it more likely for the Bears to remain winless than for the Falcons to remain undefeated? And were it likely for the Raiders to ascend to 3–1 before correcting to an inevitable and representative 3–2 next week against the Broncos? I thought so on both counts. In the playground behind the elementary school—G. on her belly down the slide, G. spilling off the pint-sized suspension bridge—I wondered how to break it to A. that the fucking Bears (them again) just won on a last-second field goal. Forty-five dollars later the run to repeat is over and, as a result, I am able to be more present as a parent the next several Sundays. "I take care of my kids." You're supposed to!

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Week five
The game: Patriots at Cowboys
The beer: Newburyport Yeat! Extra Special Bitter
The result: Win, 30–6
The commentary: "'Yeat!' is a colloquial word used in Newburyport, Massachusetts at least before the Second World War (1939–1945), allegedly shouted from one naval ship to another to identify a resident of Newburyport." Sailors were just floating around the Mediterranean shouting "Yeat!" at one another? Looking for Bobby from Plum Island? How did we win this thing? "Also used to show both affirmation and disapproval." You clarify nothing and doom the Allied Powers.

Despite this, life Up North is certainly easy on the event calendar. After a trip to Portsmouth (and the Portsmouth Brewery, where yonder Pinner outshone the flagship offerings) last weekend to sell more CDs and cash in a used bookstore credit, this one found us attending the eighth annual (though our first, after 2014's week-too-late visit left me staring in horror at an outdated banner) Chili Cook-Off & Craft Beer Fest. The beer was an afterthought—decent offerings, but at two ounces a pop how can you really tell? I'm sure the Jack's Abby's "Fire in the Ham" bacon beer would have graduated from tolerable to disgusting halfway through a pint. The chili, though, was good all around, even if David's Tavern (my favorite) didn't place. Drag. At least our quarterback didn't break his collarbone. At least our quarterback isn't Tony Romo in the first place. And at least the Browns gave up on their forty-five-year-old first-round draft pick after two seasons.

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Week six
The game: Patriots at Colts
The beer: Stone Enjoy by 10/31/15 India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 34–27
The commentary: The Colts game started with Tom Brady running onto the field to a chorus of boos… and to channel 4's embarrassing Steve "Thee Crazy Eyes" Burton snapping pictures of him on his iPhone. This is the man who shoots dim, short-sighted daggers at my guys Mike Reiss and Paul Perillo whenever they have the nerve—the nerve!—to forecast single-touchdown victories for the hometown team at the end of Patriots All Access every Friday. (On a related note, my favorite part of Patriots Game Day each Sunday morning hits at prediction time when the "season records" of Scott "Murdering the Legacy of Edward R. Murrow on a Weekly Basis" Zolak, Levan "Ignorant and Spoiled Homer Representing an Ignorant and Spoiled Fanbase" and Dan "Seems Nice, but What Exactly Is His Role? Fantasy Bullshit?" Roche match whatever the Pats' record is so far. Strong critical analysis informs those picks, I'm sure.

As for the game: fuck yeah. The entire Colts organization and satellite media deserved a botched fake punt and can eat a bowl of dicks. (Yes, I still think Brady ordered the balls improperly deflated.)

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Week seven
The game: Jets at Patriots
The beer: Berkshire Russian Imperial Stout
The result: Win, 30–23
The commentary: Rebel IPA, Rebel IPA, Coke, Rebel IPA, Coke. This pattern served me well at the Beantown Pub on Tuesday and, subsequently, I did not miss my train and I did not sleep through my station. The 9:20 was the plan and the plan was realized. Were it a Thursday? Who knows, maybe I decide "Shots, you say? And so the 11:45 will do for me!" An outcome most foul! (Please pardon as I just finished The Turn of the Screw. I fear its parable is more classist than supernatural… and that its length could be halved.) And—oh!—an evening of stick-and-ball most certainly did provide for fine entertainment. That is to say, among my peers and friends and otherwise, said tournament upon the greenest felt, played fairly and leisurely though nonetheless competitively, produced much laughter amid a Black (Sabbath) and Pink (Floyd) cacophony. How the "Echoes" do echo!

My team of two, calling ourselves "It's in the Way That You Floozy," showed well against a series of strong players and progressed further than expected. The brains behind the bracket, though, realized too late that ten teams do not break down evenly round to round, so four (of which we were one) were made to compete in a play-in round after poor—nay, dreadful!—showings in a Halloween-themed word-search puzzle. Drag. Said opening round: win. Proper round one, against one of the better teams: win. I was playing as well as I had in years. Semi-final round, all the darker: scratch on the eight-ball! Lo, what hath bewitched my mastery o'er physics! O'er geometry! One ball away, and the opponents played defensively to tuck the cue behind their remaining stripe and leave me a shot I would not make in ten tries. Try I did, aye, and nearly succeeded on a four-banker toward the near right corner before excess force—physics!—and misjudged angle—geometry!—conspired to drive the Pale Orb into the side pocket. Drag. With a cry of "Motherfucker!" I set my stick on the table and accepted our fate, evermore, as spectators during a final, well played match. I would still pick against the Bears—and again—and I would still take that shot.

Up next: The Pats and Dolphins preempt Project Runway as the resolution of Edmond's contrived limbo is postponed, via DVR, until tomorrow. Happy Halloween!

Beer and football VI — week three

The game: Jaguars at Patriots
The beer: Samuel Smith Oatmeal Stout
The result: Win, 51–17; Seahawks win, 26–0
The commentary: Returning to my roots, I beckoned Samuel Smith from oversea adventure among the whores and skyscrapers of southeast Asia in order to lubricate a week-three, buy-back Seattle victory. Thank god those guys are checked off the list—only twenty-six points against the worst team in the league (seriously, I'm thinking of taking the Raiders this weekend in Chicago); in a must-win game; at home; for Kam Chancellor's return. That's what you could muster? Surely, Sam, you were my safety net as I neared the bottom. Surely, too, it's looking like the Packers, the Cardinals and then everyone else in the NFC.

After twenty of us—twenty!—were knocked out of the pool during week two and nine of us bought back in, eleven of the original twenty-five remain heading into week four. At this point last year only ten of nineteen remained so I'm feeling pretty good.

"I'm feeling pretty good."
Napoléon Bonaparte
June 24, 1812

For the most part I was successful in avoiding Patriot updates at G's friend's birthday party. It takes a special brand of… [undefined]… to schedule anything at one o'clock on a Sunday, especially in a year when we Pats fan (for I had to have been the only one in attendance, right?) didn't luck out with Sunday or Monday Night Football this time. (Indeed, children's parties are my future.) Unfortunately I did suspect a blowout when someone emerged from the house and declared "The Pats scored again," at which point I covered my ears and barked aggressively so as not to overhear more than that. Somehow I was the only one recording the game and planning to watch later with virgin eyes, whereas the rest were content to go inside here and there to see a few plays and report back. Patriots fans are the worst.

As for the game, the results speak for themselves. The most surprising thing was Sergio Brown eliciting this exchange after an admittedly strong pass breakup:

Kevin Harlan: "What a defensive play by Sergio Brown!"

Me: "Pardon?"

Bill Belichick: "Pardon?"

Here's my multiple-source summary of his career in New England, written after Gronk threw him out the club last year: "For two seasons I progressively referred to him as a disappointment who celebrated accidental success, made Patrick Chung look like a superstar and teamed up with Brandon Meriweather to form an ongoing nightmare." The pregame analysis declaring him the best player in the Jags' secondary foretold, clearly, the fifty-one goddamn points they eventually gave up.

The least surprising broadcast development was Rich "League MVP" Gannon complaining about Walt Coleman and the tuck rule. I could listen to Gannon complain about that call for a lifetime. This game's fumble/incompletion mix-up looked like a fumble to me, even as multi-million-dollar safety Devin McCourty jogged right by the ball without worry of falling on it. Just to be safe, you know. "I should've probably scooped up that fumble on the strip sack, and Bill let me know." Easily the most overpaid, overrated guy on the team. I do love his "Free Safety Advice" bit though. "Smart decision with the hat to block the sun. Keeps the sun away." I wonder if there's a "Free Free Safety Advice" video for him to watch.

Up next: You really couldn't wait until the bye week to rent a bouncy house, huh? Cheers!

Beer and football VI — week two

The game: Patriots at Bills
The beer: Ipswich Route 101 India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 40–32; Saints lose, 26–19
The commentary: "You guys mind if I run back inside for the last minute of the game?" With my mom visiting we retired to the back yard, the Pats seemingly in control with eight minutes remaining and an eighteen-point lead. But then the noises—"Gah!" "Noooo!" "Fuuuuuuck!"—were heard from neighboring homes. What's their problem? Did they pick the Dolphins or something? Might as well check my phone to see if the Pats game is over yet. "Gah!" Five minutes left and the Bills down by five? Refresh! Refresh! I could barely stand it at the two-minute warning and eventually begged off, leaving A. and my mom to watch G. hop around the yard and climb all over her new jungle gym (which was not assembled in time for her birthday party because, I don't know, weeds).

Minutes earlier A. and I were mourning the Saints' loss and my resulting exit from this year's knockout pool. "Well," I told her, "if only one of my teams could win today I'm glad it was the Pats." Next thing I know I'm muttering to myself on my way up the steps, wondering how it's possible for both teams to lose. TV: on. Sole hope was for Tyrod Taylor to continue exposing himself as not the bearded droid—now winning games in Jersey—Bills fans are looking for. And… wait for it… interception! Rex Ryan's hubris can have a strong influence on the weak-minded.

And the Saints? The Saints! Apparently they suck this year, as they did last year despite my lucky week-three victory before the hopelessness set in. On Sunday they took down ten of us. Ten! Ten! Others went out on the Seahawks in Green Bay, the Ravens in Oakland, the Titans in Cleveland and the fucking Dolphins in Jacksonville. All away teams, you say? The first two I can understand, as it's hard to believe both the Seahawks and the Ravens are winless. Still too risky this early. And the Titans? Who impressed the world by beating the (mostly) godforsaken Bucs last week? They're worth a pick? No. But hats off to the guy who trusted the barely-beat-the-Redskins Dolphins. Come on, man. Just admit you can't smell what the Rock is cooking.

The Saints, though, were This Week's No-Brainer against the lowly, Titans-fearing Bucs. One hundred percent of "experts," as collated by the helpful NFL Pick Watch, confirmed my decision and favored the Saints. I figured I'd move on to week three with, say, nine other people who were fine to play it safe like Swapnil in Project Runway. (Listen, Swapnil, I've liked your stuff so far but if you don't win one of the next four challenges you're going home after Laurie, Merline, Lindsey and Lindsey's ironic granny glasses. God, I hate her.) It's hard to be angry over a fluke result. Drag. However, with only two people (two!) moving on to week three unscathed (Bruno is officially out, wishing he'd saved his ridiculous Bucs pick for Sunday), I figure now's as good a time as any to throw twenty-five more units on the fire and keep things rolling lest my superior tracking spreadsheet go to waste. I have A's permission and I'd already sketched out the next three weeks anyway. Hubris indeed.

Up next: Oh good, someone scheduled a kid's birthday party on Sunday afternoon. Cheers!

Beer and football VI: You know, he shaves his eyebrows

Week one
The game: Steelers at Patriots
The beer: Samuel Adams Brick Red Ale
The result: Win, 28–21; Dolphins win, 17–10
The commentary: Where were you when Tom Brady's suspension was overturned? I was working from home so diligently that four hours went by before I broke for a late lunch and skimmed headlines on my phone. Oh, Roger. Already with the appeal. That was the best goddamn peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich I've ever had.

Thursday evening was spent at the Beantown Pub, where so many nights have turned ugly over the years. This was no different as I slept through my train station after midnight. Oops! We got out of work early to participate in some Amazing Race action—for the second straight year—and got soaked in the rain—for the second straight year. This time I remembered an extra pair of socks. Normally I would have ditched early to be able to concentrate on the game at home but I thought it would be cool to watch in a bar for the first time since the Misfits invaded New Hampshire. The outcome was much better this time, even if I had to leave before it was over and didn't actually catch up (all the way through again, since much of the pub time was spent asking if I was stripes or solids) until Sunday. What is there to say? Brady, Gronk, Edelman, Dion Lewis, even Amendola. Throw LaFell back in there in a few weeks and we're scoring thirty-five a game. But the defense? The defense! We might give up thirty-two. I'll leave the complaining for another week as this is one of celebration.

Celebration, yes, for the Dolphins defeated the Redskins in inglorious fashion. What is this, December? You're supposed to own September, fishies! It was a risk to rely on them in mark three of the knockout pool and I'm glad to never again be tempted. Twenty-five of us are competing this year and six others went along with me so I hope my practice of picking against losers doesn't catch on. Fucking Bruno, though. Bruno! He got knocked out last year in week one by trusting the Buccaneers and then ran some numbers, swallowed a shitload of pills and picked them again this year. Knocked out! This was my competition over the final four weeks? Good lord, you know he's going to buy back and take Cleveland or something this weekend. And probably skate by. Anyway, the no-brainer pick last week was the Packers over the Bears and three morons decided to blow those loads. Congratulations, you'll have to pick the Dolphins at some point if you go anywhere. Two more lost on the Seahawks and probably haven't bought back so we're down to me and twenty-two other stiffs. It's painful that four people should have gone out on the Cowboys—I will never, ever choose that team. At least two more are probably out after Chief–Broncos the other night. It feels like one of those games where people would have taken either team (rumors of Peyton's death may be exaggerated), but I can't know for sure because our administrator won't email with everyone's picks until after the weekend. That's a little shady, right?

In other household news (because the above action is riding on twenty of our household's units), G. has begun her second year of preschool. It's a new school in our new town and she has new (pink, stuffed) doggie Pickles to keep her company. "I'm nervous," she told me as we left the house. I was a shy kid too. Still, she put on a brave face and danced around the driveway like there were more ponies in the yard. It gets easier, baby.

Up next: Welcome to Super Bowl 50 in beautiful Orchard Park, New York. Cheers!

Beer and football VI — training camp/the all-important third preseason game

The beer: Samuel Adams Rebel India Pale Ale/Dogfish Head Indian Brown Ale
The commentary: Welcome back! Is your favorite team the reigning Super Bowl Champion? Is your favorite team-oriented podcast making "Highway to L" jokes? Has your daughter not yet outgrown her team apparel from two years ago?

I'll keep this short with kickoff a week away. Training camp was all sunshine again as my dad met G. and me in the shadow of the Dana-Farber Empower Field House. To celebrate the Pats' fourth title, I will limit each photo caption to four words.

Imminent Super Bowl letdown?

Forget that, let's roll!

Again! Again! Again! Again!

Let me get that.

Is Joe Flacco elite?

Neat flowers. I'm hungry.

Dessert? Tuck in, then!

I impress even myself.

The practice session was tough to make out from afar, though my dad and I agreed that Gronk looks enormous from any distance, like he's fifty feet closer than anyone else. One drill seemed to focus on blocking field goals, to the point where either Gostkowski was deliberately kicking them low or Jabaal Sheard's blocker was deliberately letting him through the line. He looked like Lawrence Taylor out there. Hey, I'm just impressed my dad recognized who it was before I did. Who's the reader-less blogger in this family?

The above dessert was enjoyed at Gillette Stadium's Red Robin. I always thought it was a take-out burger joint but it also doubles as the only affordable restaurant within the Kraft Kompound (last year's Olive Garden and its authentic, straight-from-Palermo cuisine was a tad overpriced). To my surprise they had a decent beer selection (the Rebel IPA is nice), red balloons that hold their helium for days and weekend dads at the next table who put their phones down long enough to order a Whales Tale and then revert to Coors Light when the waitress says they've run out. The pro shop set me back a few bucks once G. spotted new family member "Huggle Buggle Bear," a hot pink bear in a Pats shirt that has already been stripped off. It was inevitable. I'm still looking for the simple "XXXVI XXXVIII XXXIX XLIX" shirt the waitress was wearing. Drag. Hey, speaking of shirts, PFW in Progress is jerking us around by claiming to choose from submitted designs for a shirt of their own. Here's my entry, followed soon by one that reads "Hey Fred, how's that bullshit shirt contest coming along?"

I impress even myself. I remember nothing of the all-important third preseason game. Do I ever? I am, however, fully aware that I have a four-year-old daughter and we rented ponies for her backyard birthday party. "That's a high bar," I told our friends who also have a four-year-old daughter.

Honest-to-god ponies! The novelty of a proper backyard at our new house, as opposed to our previous strips of lawn that were significant enough only to mow, may never wear off.

Bow and hat? Indeed!

Was it worth it?

Yes. (But never again.)

Up next: Tom Fucking Brady. Cheers!

Beer and football V — playoffs, week fiveSuper Bowl XLIXPart 2: You say there was a game?

The game: Patriots vs. Seahawks
The beer: (See part 1)
The result: Win, 28–24
The commentary: Specific memories of the play-by-play have fogged over but I can't exactly have a "part 1" without a "part 2" and maintain my dignity. Who am I, Remo Williams? Fingers crossed that my T-shirt design is chosen by PFW in Progress and I win a copy of the season's Three Games to Glory on Blu-ray. A fine refresher! Then I'll just have to buy a Blu-ray player, as an already-earned, shrink-wrapped, dusty copy of Help! awaits as well. "There's more here than meets the eye!" Except when there isn't. Here are some shitty Shaughnessy-esque bullet points regarding the greatest Super Bowl of all time.

It should have been roughing the kicker on Allen's punt after the Pats' first drive. Even Jon Spencer couldn't believe it. "Plant leg, babeh!" The good guys got away with something later on that I can't remember so it probably evens out. At the time though: "This shit?"

Vereen averaged fewer than six yards per catch and each of those plays possessed the excitement of a six-yard play. Important first downs, though I don't think he broke a single tackle—lots of scrubs throughout the league could have been as productive in that role, which can be said for most of his tenure here. Amendola is one of those scrubs and looked like a dynamic all-pro in comparison. (This is not homer-ism because I felt the same way before Vereen signed with the Giants. They can have Amendola too if they want.)

Al Michaels still doesn't know how to pronounce "Hooman." He must have the over.

Brady's pick in the end zone might have been the second-greatest contribution to the win. It sucked, but I was pleased with how he was moving the ball. Meanwhile, Lane's arm looked like was wrapped in a golf bag afterward.

"Are you hyped for halftime??" I skipped it live but did watch the second time around. Katy Perry justifies my standing as a twenty-plus-year popular-music divorcé. Anyone older than ten who genuinely or ironically enjoys her spectacle should, plainly, drop dead. Please note that I have seen Kiss in concert six times and will jump at the next opportunity.

It was likely part of the defensive scheme to contain Wilson but the Pats' pass rush was nonexistent in this game. It's been so frustrating to track the degradation since McGinest and Vrabel were killing it every week. Unless Chandler Jones makes a huge leap (which he would have by now if it were going to happen) or Jamie Collins evolves into an unstoppable X factor (don't rule it out) I will be terrified during every opposing pass play, especially in a year when we play the fucking Giants. (On that note, it's confusing why I'm the only person who thought Belichick's number one target in the post-Revis draft should have been a cornerback. Even if he had reached for Darryl Richard in the first round instead of the seventh I would feel a little better. Only since then has everyone recognized how bad this secondary has the potential to be. I know nothing about football.)

Remarkable what knowing the outcome does to a promising drive that ends in a turnover: "Fuck it."

LaFell's touchdown was fun all over. Perfect route, perfect throw, perfect celebration boogie.

That Dove for Men commercial was the biggest waste of all I hold dear as a father. The kid on the monkey bars nearly brought me to tears and it was just pitching deodorant?

Party-goers who don't watch for the game were also treated to The Rise and Fall of Men Who Buy Nissans in its entirety. "Son (Age 5)" is a shoe-in for best supporting. Good day for child actors!

Slight detour to the non-blogged draft: Shall we ponder ESPN's use of "Superfly" as a theme song during their coverage? "The aim of his role was to move a lot of blow." Hold on, I get it. I remember Boys Will Be Boys.

Plus a Deflategate sidestep: The fallout from what is likely a league-approved conspiracy will get worse before it gets better. Cockroaches dream of Goodell's resilience and any—any—outcome of this "independent appeal" of an "independent ruling" based on an "independent investigation" is possible. Hangings. Bowling tournaments. A full Misfits reunion. I still think Brady was in on it.

Back to it. Mark Wahlberg, Will Ferrell, Steven Tyler and Paul McCartney in attendance. I wonder if the last three are also trying to wipe clean their hate-crime convictions.

"Nice pass breakup by Logan Ryan to force a three-and-out," said no one ever.

I basically put my phone down during the closing minutes because a game that's been in the books for four months is still tough to watch. Uptight! Here is the shorthand: "Not again!" "Malcolm, go!" "Encroachment!" And then…


Indeed. Your New England Patriots are world champions.

Up next: We're on to 2015. G's jumper should still fit. Cheers!

In which we multiply by three and divide by four

This may be my shortest playlist essay yet ("more probable than not"). I poured everything into those goddamn Super-Biffys after we lost Chloe. Considering the starts and stops since that post's infancy in 2014—I'd originally planned it as a literal January 10 anniversary piece to 2010's wasted clickbait opportunity—I'm pleased with the results. It was fun to beat up on notable fucktards Peter King and David Wallace-Wells again, and is there such a thing as too much Charles Napier? Surely not! Live-blogging the draft was beyond me and another year of Ten Commandments jokes will have to wait. (No need to order ESPN for a day, it turns out. They and the NFL Network streamed coverage of the first round over the Roku.) Then there's the continuation of a Patriots' fucking triumph once I dodge the outrageous Deflategate madness (I warned you, but this punishment is out of hand) and finish re-watching the best Super Bowl in years. Plus another short story in the works, emphasis on "short." Har! Har! And Beefheart. Oh, Beefheart.

In high school I took a basic computer literacy/programming class using one of those blue-background Commodore 64s. One thing I remember was constructing a Canadiens logo out of rectangle keystrokes and goto-ing it around the screen. Epic! We also (possibly in a different class) learned how to insert clipart into "Word" documents (or the 1991 equivalent)—I latched onto an odd black-and-white illustration of a yak and used it to play with planar relationships and scale whenever the lessons slowed. Eventually I printed a dozen copies with the legend "Congratulations, it's a yak" and handed them out to friends. Sure, young man, ignore your interest in graphic design a good decade early. You could have saved yourself a lot of headaches.

Have I achieved midlife crisis? Will I live to eighty-two? In case of doubt, I relive the past and introduce a new yak friend. Congratulations! (And you thought we were having another baby.) Gone are a dozen tracks but only thirty minutes of music. This edition sequenced itself without fuss and I will not ruin the flow just to fill out a five-year mold. It'll save my reader (!) a few bucks anyway. Dig that sweater!

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1. Jaime Brockett – The Legend of the USS Titanic
Thirteen minutes? "I'm gonna mooove you, baaabaay!" Past inhibitions of "alas it's too long even for me" are exorcised in full as Jack Johnson returns to declare "I'm black alright, I'll never let them forget it" and dance the eagle rock like it's going out of style. You want another toke, cap'n?

2. Kiss – Strange Ways
I saw Kiss with Hector and Ivan last Summer and kicked myself for not loading an appropriate playlist onto my phone so we and our open containers could listen in the parking lot of whatever Great Woods is calling itself now. Internet service around Mansfield is spotty at best and Ivan's cloud let us down hard, which is why I will never stop hoarding "hardcopy" MP3s. Anyway, "Strange Ways" was not part of the set, of course, but it's a great Ace song with a good (for once) Peter vocal. That night, Paul and Gene leaned heavily on Creatures of the Night, of all albums, in what I suppose was an embrace of the formal fracture of the Ace-less (boo!), Peter-less (yay!) era. "Still nowhere near as good as an anonymous handjob on the bus." Oh, Pitchfork. What once was.

3. Death – Politicians in My Eyes
A. and I enjoy yelling at Jim DeRogatis and Greg Kot during Sound Opinions once a week in the car. Greg is OK (David Yow's repeated mockery of his calling all Jesus Lizard songs "Blah-Blah-Blah" is worth a listen—"just so happens the son of a bitch is a goddamn mouth breather") but Jim is one of those (like me) who thinks he knows everything about everything and then (not like me) refers to "Rain" as the A-side and "Paperback Writer" the B-side. It's also clear that neither of them actually listens to rock & roll for pleasure, only so they can ask "Hey, have you heard of this band Death?" Well, I hadn't, so thanks guys! And those jazz tips two weeks ago were… something else? Lastly, might I suggest Johnny Cash's "The Ballad of the Harp Weaver" for 2016's Mother's Day show. Apologies in advance if its tragic (though inspirational) parable isn't whiny enough for John Lennon and Roger Waters. What were you thinking?

4. DJ Shadow – Napalm Brain/Scatter Brain
Ur-T. Rex outfit Tyrannosaurus Rex, featuring "Steve Peregrin Took" (god bless the sixties), make an appearance two and a half minutes in with 1969's throwaway "Pon a Hill." DJ Shadow is the first to find value in its seventy-five noodling seconds. Took moved on to productive relationships with the Mick Farren/Twink sect I will likely poke at with more urgency now that the "electric Miles Davis" box has been checked. Relax: only two instrumentals this year.

5. Shellac – Dude Incredible
Dude Incredible beat out Ty Segall's Manipulator (check back later) for last year's Biffy^® in a photo finish. For now, at least. If I had a nickel for every edit I've made to that list I could afford up to two new carbon monoxide alarms. "Riding Bikes" and "All the Surveyors" were contenders in this spot but the title track's opening riff is this album to me, hearing it over and over as I decided "Yes, I will play Dude Incredible again." Easy to do at thirty-three minutes. Steve Albini was on Kreative Kontrol before its release and, at Vish Khanna's request, offered single-word "encapsulations" of all nine tracks. "Dude Incredible" produced "Monkeys." The Miracles weep.

6. Jimmy Smith – Main Title From The Carpetbaggers
A coworker recently made an eighties mix for another (younger by a dozen years) ignorant to anything outside of recent history's top forty. Now he randomly inserts names like Echo & the Bunnymen into conversation just to get a laugh. It works every time. Since I'm unqualified to recommend what people mean when they talk about "eighties music," despite entering 1990 as a high school sophomore (the evidence is there in my old playlists), I followed through on a drunken boast/threat to make the two of them a sixties mix that ballooned quickly into a four-disc boxed set. Over five hours of action! The collection was called Earth, 1960–1972 (I allowed a loose stylistic guideline) and it took about ten minutes to collate. Source material overflowed and Jimmy Smith's "Main Title," collaborating with Lalo Schifrin (whose Bullitt is one of my favorite soundtracks) on 1964's The Cat, made the cut there and here because it's action-packed and gorgeous. Our sweet, sweet Chloe even traveled back in time to pose for the sleeve. I miss her daily.

7. Johnny Thunder – I'm Alive
Of Village Green fame? Johnny Thunder's (not Johnny Thunders's) raw "I'm Alive" was featured as well, alongside non-Volume 7 tracks by Donovan, the Bar-Kays, Sweetwater and several blasts from the Biff! Bang! Past! The portion most likely to be skipped was a forty-five-minute stretch of John Coltrane's "Africa," the Mothers of Invention's "The Return of the Son of Monster Magnet" and Iron Butterfly's… yes… "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" on the "weird" fourth disc. I await the Elephant's Memory non sequitur with glee.

8. Digable Planets – 9th Wonder (Blackitolism)
"So Butterfly, is this a sequel to '8th Wonder' or something? Some-body-let-me-know!" "Nah, Doodlebug, it's a commentary on the black man's—or woman's, sorry Ladybug!—place in American society." "Hmm." "Yeah, right?" "You mean it's not a sequel?" "Dude, it's not a fucking sequel." "Can we emphasize that somehow? Like a subtitle maybe?" "Hmm…"

9. Almighty Defenders – I'm Coming Home
Germany 2009? Bullshit. Peru 1968. Wikipedia calls the Almighty Defenders "a supergroup consisting of members from the Black Lips and the King Khan & BBQ Show" as if families sit around the dinner table listening to "Fish Fight."

10. Kurt Vile – The Hunchback
"Expect something from Vile next May as I dig into his discography following the show. It will be Loud Song No. 1 'The Hunchback' or Loud Song No. 2 'Freak Train.'" Correct! Though I thought I'd pick the EP version rather than this… peppier?… one from Childish Prodigy. After killing at Turn It Up and financing many beers at the Northampton Brewery (G. was with grandparents) we stumbled over to Pearl Street, experienced the most ridiculous pat-down since the fall of the Berlin Wall and wound up behind J. Mascis for a spell while our ears turned to mush. I wish Kurt would ditch the studio drum machine—his full-band live sound runs circles around anything I've heard on the albums.

11. Neutral Milk Hotel – Little Birds
This one is tough to listen to. It makes me consider fatherhood and what it means to be responsible for someone who isn't quite ready to learn about, never mind be confronted by, the evils of the world. Bullying? Rape? Terrorism? What can I do to combat any of that? When G. awakes crying I tell her she is safe. When she screams after seeing a spider on the car window I tell her she is safe. "I just want to swallow up and promise to protect them." Yes. Above anything in the world, I want her to be and feel safe until the end. The alternative would break all hearts.

12. Lebanon Opera – Plave Perle i Kosti
Hoo boy. Allow me to cop out in the heavy aftermath with a song ("Blue Beads and Bones") in another language. I once followed the blog Vibrant Sound of Acid (a little on the nose) that was based somewhere in central Europe and is now replaced with a "blog has been removed" disclaimer. The contributors reviewed albums and made enormous ZIP files of copyrighted music available to download. Good idea? Sometimes they seemed to get permission from local (to them) artists, like Croatian outfit Lebanon Opera, but others? I guess they slept through the whole Napster era. Blogger's is a violent fist.

13. The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion – Skunk
The Common Ground in Allston is not what it was. Gone are the old-timer Irish bartenders my friends and I could never understand. Gone is Booty, who is playing in Dewey Square outside my office next week as original incarnation the Swinging Johnsons, where Hector, Ivan and I might shout ourselves hoarse demanding "Highway to Hell." Christ, gone even is shepherd's pie from the menu. In their places are stools slightly too short for the bar and strapping, tattooed bartenders who refuse to flirt with gay patrons who instead flirt with me. All this I learned before the Blues Explosion show across the street last week, where the band slayed during a shorter set than they ever performed in their—and my—youth. It was mainly the new Freedom Tower ("Freedom Tower! Freedom Tower! Brighton, Massachusetts! Brighton? Allston? Boston? Massachusetts!"), of course, as well as 1996's Now I Got Worry. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!" It was fun to watch new fans scratch their heads over "Skunk," "Identify," "Wail," "Fuck Shit Up" and "Chicken Dog" while I shouted along to all the words. Seriously, me! All the words!

14. Jack Bruce – Boston Ball Game, 1967
Jack Bruce, hero, passed away in October and no one cared because Eric Clapton, super-fraud, shat out another fakebook two months earlier. While people (and institutions) with bad taste desperately reach for qualities that demonstrate Clapton's relevance (I maintain that the Yardbirds and the Bluesbreakers improved with his replacements and that Cream could have as well under Leslie West, admittedly disregarding the uninspiring West, Bruce & Laing collaboration), they should join me in exploring Bruce's post-Cream artistic success. I finally picked up Songs for a Tailor, celebrating Carl Yastrzemski and Jim Lonborg, and look forward to checking out follow-up Harmony Row plus his subsequent time spent with West, Bruce & Laing and the Tony Williams Lifetime. Such a rich, non-MTV Unplugged history, with nary a project disowned after a bad review in Rolling Stone.

15. Kim Chu-Ja – The Man Who Must Leave
I've downloaded several songs from the Shin Jung-Hyeon compilations Beautiful Rivers and Mountains and From Where to Where and knocked myself out trying to tag those fuckers. Shin Jung-Hyeon? Shin Joong Hyun? Donkeys? Yup Juns? The Men? Plus all the South Korean artists whose albums he guested on? It's hard enough sourcing Western songs, never mind ones with album sleeves I can't read. From what I can tell, Shin Jung-Hyeon and his band the Donkeys are supporting Kim Chu-Ja (Kim Choo Ja?) on the 1969 album Kim Chu-Ja With Shin Jung-Hyeon & Donkeys (der), even though I don't hear a woman's voice anywhere. I give up.

16. Chrome – Sun Control
The foreign mystery man above bleeds nicely into the foreign jibber-jabber at the front of "Sun Control." Chrome's magnificent underwater guitar and unearthly percussion is all over the classic initial albums The Visitation, Alien Soundtracks and, of course, Half Machine Lip Moves. Too bad they lost me after that.

17. Ex Hex – Don't Wanna Lose
Starting with Pirate Prude, I've been listening to Mary Timony for over twenty goddamn years. Twenty! I am forty years old. Forty! Ex Hex performed on Late Night With Seth Meyers last Fall, which reminds me that Letterman is retiring in two days. Two! (Drag.)

18. Crushed Butler – It's My Life
"Take nine? Fuckin' hell!" Guys, it was worth it! I love that it took them nine takes to reach this level of polish and fidelity. "I tink we shouldna done that." "No, man, no!" I agree, that was great! Nineteen fuckin' sixty-nine!

19. Mission of Burma – Learn How
Peter Prescott used to work at Mystery Train Records on Newbury Street. Maybe he still does, if it's still there. A looong time ago I sold a stack of CDs to him, took the cash over the store credit and made the mistake of browsing after the transaction was complete. What do you know, I found an Australian copy of Mudhoney's Let It Slide EP on blue vinyl. When I brought it to the counter I said "On second thought I'll take the credit" and he responded along the lines of "Tough shit." That's OK, he could never spell Customized anyway.

20. Flo & Eddie – I Been Born Again
More adventures in free music. I follow a music site (unnamed here, for fear of more "blog has been removed") that offers several downloads a week, mostly focusing on my 1968–1972 rock/soul/funk sweet spot. Lots of unknowns but also deeper cuts from established artists like Al Green and the detestable Simon & Garfunkle. Plus: Flo & Eddie, a.k.a. Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan from the Turtles, whose "If we don't get credit we sue" attitude toward a four-second loop behind a minute-long interlude almost destroyed rap music. There is the smallest chance in the world that I will meet these… gentlemen… because I know people who are friendly with them but, if so, I hope to have a copy of 3 Feet High and Rising handy. The autograph request of all autograph requests! "I Been Born Again" is some good progressive rock and I'm immeasurably pleased that neither Flo nor Eddie will receive a red cent from me.

21. Michael Yonkers – Sunflower
"Sunflower looked at me eye to eye. Sunflower smiled a smile so wide. That it was the biggest smile that could ever be, I wanted to pick her and to take her home with me. But if I picked her she soon will die. So I decided to leave her thrive." Flowers are just about G's favorite things in the world and every stroll this time of year in New England is all "Look at those flowers, pink and purple and blue!" She's always picking dandelions (no chance of them not thriving) and handing them out to everyone with the expectation that it's all we ever need. Oh, monkey. You're the one.

22. Ty Segall – The Hand
Last year's Manipulator almost earned Ty Segall a second appointment with the dentist after Goodbye Bread (a recent retcon) scheduled the first. Segall's catalog is so intimidating but I dove in with Amazon gift cards a-plenty and feel good about our relationship. I enjoyed his interview with Marc Maron on a fairly recent WTF podcast where listeners learned that the answer to "How can he record and release so much material?" is "Because he comes from wealth and isn't inconvenienced by employment." The richest one percent produce ninety-nine percent of the country's psychedelic garage rock… something like that?

23. Circle Jerks – Live Fast Die Young
Supposedly a reworked "Cover Band" by Redd Kross. Why will I stick with Off! and never explore seminal southern California punk bands—outside of Black Flag and the Circle Jerks—like Redd Kross, the Adolescents or the Descendents? Let's ask Wikipedia. "The Adolescents have influenced many notable punk rock, alternative and hard rock/metal groups, including Bad Religion, NOFX, Face to Face, Good Riddance, the Offspring, Pennywise, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Fu Manchu, Mudhoney, Blink-182 and the Vandals." This sentence, minus the Mudhoney exception that proves the rule, will soon be published as Bands I Would Like to Strike from the Record, Vol. 1.

24. Unwound – Said Serial
I had every intention of including something off of Repetition after downloading the bonus tracks from its deluxe reissue this year. "Fingernails on a Chalkboard" was sitting there with that look, you know that look. "Skkreee? Skkreeee?" Sorry, baby. I still love you.

25. Sir Lord Baltimore – Woman Tamer
"Woman is a man's greatest temptation! Oh! Capable of multiple ruination! When she sets your mind to believin'! Oh! That's when the proof can be most deceivin'!" Ladies and gentlemen, justification for all the bullshit we have to tolerate regarding Brooklyn this-and-that. Legacy and stereotype are sometimes the same and can be wonderful.

26. Belle & Sebastian – The Stars of Track and Field
"But when she's on her back she had the knowledge to get her what she wanted." There it is: the sexually suggestive line found in every Belle & Sebastian song written by Stuart Murdoch (you know, the good ones). I love the conjunction "but." It's a beautiful setup. You can sing anything after "but." "But… tits!"

27. Pridjevi – Pjesma o Drveću
"Song of the Trees" is another Vibrant Sound of Acid selection. Their compilations were spotty, with overly "branded" artwork featuring detailed in-house design attributions—it's never smart to diagnose and label one's own pattern of international piracy—but I don't know how else I would have discovered two Croatian gems this year.

28. White Stripes – Why Can't You Be Nicer to Me?
Paul Henry Ossy played electric violin here. I always wondered what that sound was. According to the liner notes, Dominique Payette played "the world's smallest violin" on De Stijl's earlier "Jumble, Jumble," further mocking my lack of draft coverage this year. Jack is a regular reader and I'll be hearing it from him for years. Kathleen too. Hey Kathleen. What's up?

29. Bar-Kays – Son of Shaft
G. and I heard this in the car once while mom was picking out a toaster oven or whatever adults shop for in Bed, Bath and Beyond. She asked "Can you put this on my playlist?" and I responded "Great!" before the Greek chorus advised "Shut your mouth!" So the Bomb Squad announced "We'll take it," Chuck D warned "Your general subject—love—is minimal" and the Turtles knee-jerked "Sue!"

30. Yo La Tengo – Deeper Into Movies
Fresh out of college, driving up 128 to my cousin's wedding in Manchester-by-the-Sea. Running late at eighty miles an hour in my date's Jetta. Recommended! Should have known I'd grow up to live on the North Shore (and to miss a manual transmission).

31. Donovan – I Love My Shirt
G., upon hearing this for the first time: "Daddy, what is this song??" It's been a mainstay on her playlist ever since and she always smiles when I sing "I love your boots, I love your boots!" Other regulars she insists on hearing every day, on top of the ones mentioned last year, are current favorite "Carrie Anne" by the Hollies, "You Send Me" by Sam Cooke, "Mary, Mary" by the Monkees and "Young Folks" by Peter, Bjorn & John. Regarding the last two, we heard "Young Folks" on Songza one afternoon and G. asked "Is this 'Mary, Mary'?" Listen to the first few seconds of each and you'll wonder the same thing. I am so fucking proud of her.

32. Birds – How Can It Be?
The patience in this song is astounding for 1965, an era when record companies routinely chopped ten-second stretches of Donovan and Pete Townshend guitar solos to make singles "more commercial" because they knew pop music fans to be low-attention-span idiots. "You will… ya-use me. You will… abuse me." Even the riff pauses to carefully consider its next move. I like the full-stop ending but a thirty-second fade would have been appropriate.

33. Deltron 3030 – Nobody Can
The only song I downloaded from the sequel to the best album of 2000. Do not put your money on a 2013 correction in Event II's favor.

34. Sweetwater – Compared to What
I love the distinctions within Woodstock: "first performer" Richie Havens, "first band" Sweetwater, "first overrated drunk" Tim Hardin. Nansi Nevins's vocal contributions really dropped off after Sweetwater's first album and I'm not sure why—I'll take her every day over Janis Joplin and Grace Slick. Shut up, Grace.

35. Comets on Fire – Blue Tomb
Hard to believe I got into these guys after reading a review of Blue Cathedral in the goddamn New York Times one morning in the Summer of 2004. Hours later I pissed on the Bronx (in a Yankee Stadium restroom) and then the Red Sox ended an eighty-six-year championship drought at the end of the season. Productive visit!

36. Guided by Voices – The Goldheart Mountaintop Queen Directory
Wait a minute… no Six Finger Satellite this year? No Groundhogs? No Can? Am I on the wrong inter-net? One of several 6FS numbers would have made the cut were I to push ahead to forty-eight but I really do dig the "minimalism" of thirty-six songs. Bob Dylan's "Maggie's Farm" also could have found a place after we heard it in the car and A. asked "What is this song even about?" "Well," I said, "he doesn't want to work on Maggie's farm anymore." You're welcome. Instead, another white man's afro bears a recorder and takes a bow with a melancholy Bee Thousand drone. Wikipedia says Robert Pollard found inspiration "after having an LSD-triggered psychedelic experience in which he perceived his own face in a mirror changing into his son's." Goddamn drugs.

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Three-quarters the breadth, four-fifths the length: nine songs from the sixties (five from '69), seven from the seventies, two from the eighties, eight from the nineties (should be prevalent again next year as I continue to work through the purged), four from the aughts and six from the teens (five from '14). Three songs under two minutes and three more over nine. Take us out with a joke, honey. "Knock knock!" "Who's there?" "Banana orange pie." "Banana orange pie who?" "Cow poop!" God bless you, daughter. May you always be safe.

More furious madness: Volume 1 | Volume 2 | Volume 3 | Volume 4 | Volume 5 | Volume 6