Beer and football VII — week fifteen

The game: Patriots at Broncos
The beer: Lefty's Barrel-Aged Scotch Ale
The result: Win, 16–3; Adam, 10–0–0; Erin, 4–0–0–0
The commentary: I don't know about the barrel-aged beers anymore. A little rich for me. The Northampton Brewery didn't have Maggie's Wee Heavy on tap last weekend so this "Scotch ale" from Provisions was a no-brainer. Intense! (Are "Scotch ales" and "Scottish ales" two different things?) This is why I chose a tequila shot instead of whiskey at that shitty bar following the company's InterContinental VaGina Christmas party last week. I still made my nine o'clock train and didn't sleep through my stop. For the win.

I personally flexed Sunday's game to a late primetime start, for some reason not getting around to watching until after ten. Oh, the hubris that comes with avoiding updates inside a Trader Joe's full of people wearing Gronk jerseys. As such I ignored all context in an effort to avoid falling asleep on the couch and skipped through from play to play—the opposite of fandom. It was one of those tension-filled games anyway, my desire to know right away if a recovered fumble would be upheld after replay, etc., overpowering competitive interest but falling short of Google. "Just tell me what happened! Almost!" Only toward the end when Devin McCourty made his first above-average play of the season and TJ Ward lost his mind by flexing a post-suplex exclamation point was I confident. Unlike Terrell Suggs & Friends, I want no part of facing the Broncos in the postseason, even away from Denver, and…

"I'm feeling pretty good."
Leno LaBianca
August 9, 1969

Just take out the Giants, somebody. Please. (It's not looking good. Shades of peaking at the right time and the resulting unpleasantness, parts 1 and 2.)

Reality television update! For obvious reasons, The Celebrity Apprentice is officially deleted from our DVR series settings. Two others not (still!) produced by our future Crony-in-Chief have just wrapped up their thirty-third and fifteenth seasons, respectively: Survivor and Project Runway. I'm a goddamn dinosaur.

The Survivor finale was anticlimactic as it became obvious the season-long saga of Adam and his ill mother would have a… happy?… ending. During the final tribal council it was clear that Ken was getting no respect (winning multiple individual immunity challenges does not carry the weight it once did) but frisky Hannah was talking herself up quite a bit, even convincingly so if viewers hadn't witnessed her cunning indecisiveness and bravado panic attack during a challenge she watched from a shady bench. The dream final three of Jay, David and Adam would have been one for the ages and the missed opportunity drags the whole affair down for me. At least Michaela will be back for Game Changers in a few months, even though I hate when they bring back former players. Oh good, it will be a season full of returning players. Goddammit.

On to Project Runway. From last week's warm-up to Friday's showdown I was pulling for Rik because he's a nice guy and I liked his looks the best. Somehow he was the only one to use primarily leather (Laurence plain lost her way) and even though the denim swirlies weren't my favorite—more "She Bangs the Drums" than "A Day in the Life"—his runway show was my favorite the first time through. Upon re-watching, though (because A. had fallen asleep), I preferred Roberi's from beginning to end. He was the artist of the season, riding the creative highs and lows without pretense—enviable in itself. His dresses were cool and versatile and looked well made and styled. Rik was a close second while Laurence's plain-bagel assembly line took the bronze. (She's lucky her medal isn't turd-brown like that one jumpsuit.) And then Erin. More on her in a minute.

From the post-runway critique—we determined the show can't take place earlier than eight in the morning, which makes Michael Kors's shades-wearing appearances extra silly in past seasons—I thought Roberi had it in the bag because everyone loved his collection aside from the closing dress, which I thought was fine (the eighties-wash jeans look was my exception). Similarly, Rik was received with only enthusiasm until, in private, Nina went all "I don't know who he is as a designer" and called him a "chameleon." Unconventional challenges, prom dresses, day/evening wear… Nina, the whole show requires designers to be chameleons! It drives me nuts when the judges forget their own rules. Rik was eliminated even before Laurence, whose looks Heidi and friends universally disliked. Mixed messages all around.

Brief production aside: Runway episodes normally run ninety minutes and that is just right, with ample time allowed for the creative process, the runway, the critique and the bitchy one-on-ones with Cornelius, the biggest waste of a Tim Gunn Save in the show's history. This finale episode was drawn out for two hours and it felt like it, even when fast-forwarding through the nine-minute commercial breaks. I don't care if these interruptions were peppered—or rather, cap-unscrewed, pepper-dumped—with segments introducing us to those participating in the second season of Project Runway Junior, something better served as its own half-hour preview episode in the past. Almost as dreadful a presentation as last week's quasi-blowout Monday Night Football. (Sean McDonough was excellent as the play-by-play guy for the Sox a hundred years ago—before he was run out of town on a low-budget, VORP-stained rail—but even he can't account for bad camerawork, enormous score bugs and fucking Jon Gruden.)

Back to it. Roberi, Rik, Laurence and Erin, in that order. Glorified, inevitable Erin, whose contrived kookiness won the judges over from day one even as her failures were barely worse than her multiple winning looks. (Sure, I'm biased, I recognize and appreciate that the looks she created for episodes eleven and twelve were downright awesome.) During her critique, when it became clear that Zac and Nina were not impressed (even as they admired her whimsy, which might matter in alternate-universe programming Project Potential), I said aloud "Wow, she's not going to win" and forgot the key difference between reality and reality television, here being the influence of Heidi and the producers. (Zendaya? She might as well have said "My new album, Zendacious, is available Friday" every time they asked her opinion. I made up that title but I'll put money on it.) I took back what I said when Heidi admitted she wouldn't wear the banana dress and it still got more camera time than anything else. The fix was in—she could have frozen her own urine for earrings and been lauded—and the only suspense centered around a fake-cry-off between Erin and Zac at the conclusion. Weird.

The right four made it to fashion week but it was all for show once Erin's fate was decided weeks earlier (as with politically correct Ashley last time) by someone High Up. Drag. I mean, those shorts she wears. The eye make-up. Prospective "Cambridge type" status. "Dope." Enough.

Up next: "Fuck this game" becomes a rallying cry and the Jets keep it closer than everyone expects, just not close enough. Merry Christmas!

Beer and football VII — week fourteen

The game: Ravens at Patriots
The beer: Northampton Conundrum Black Lager
The result: Win, 30–23
The commentary: It's always satisfying to beat up on the Ravens. This was a blowout all the way—those fluky fumbles had me emailing my dad the next day with an understated "It would have been a tough one to get over if the Ravens came back to win"—and Terrell Suggs's "You better hope you [don't? di'n't? ain't?] see us again!" warmed my heart. They learn nutrition at the NFL level and post-loss brattishness from John Harbaugh.

This past weekend was an early Christmas all over. On Saturday we drove—and drove—to Springfield for the "Bright Nights" spectacle we missed out on two years ago, with the rage and the disappointment. A late start reversed the agenda and Springfield was stop number one, in order to avoid the traffic that crippled us last time. It still took awhile and probably wasn't worth it but it was satisfying—as in realized—nonetheless. Never again, likely, but anything is better than having to tell G. "No." Dinner at the Northampton Brewery followed and then the girls went to Thorne's Marketplace while I split to sell more CDs at Turn It Up and buy a few bombers from Provisions, discovered during a summertime 2013 visit. It's a great town and I miss it—déjà vu and so on. (Little did I know that Shea McClellin would leap over the center to block a field goal on Sunday like Jamie Collins did two years ago. On the same weekend!) Again with the familiar looking-for-a-parking-space loops and the clean air and the old coots, this time at Turn It Up where one couldn't stop raving about the Stones' new Blue and Lonesome. Man, I was born just in time for them to suck forever.

On Sunday afternoon we finally got a Christmas tree and it's my first real one in forty-two years. Oh, the days of inserting color-coordinated "branches" into matching slots. It's still a little too tall and I remain surprised by the amount of sap it produces but it looks and smells great. Perhaps I'm converted. I'll just need to remember to ask the guy to take a few more inches off the stump next year.

Since real trees don't come pre-lit like, you know, something from a box, we had to shop for lights. At Target I found a nice Frozen-esque light blue, which was labeled "cool white" on the box for some reason even though the sample display so clearly shone blue. Well, they are actually cool white. Oh well, they're a huge improvement over the omnipresent pale yellow that passes for "warm white." Speaking of warm white, A. picked up some of those warm white LED window candles a few weeks ago. She cleaned Target out of their last six, leaving us with two undecorated windows on the side of the house that looked neglected. Cue Lalo Schifrin because finding numbers seven and eight was Mission: Fucking What the Fuck! After checking all the local Targets and learning that their website's location-specific "limited availability" translates to "jack shit" I resigned myself to ordering online.

Days later I receive this cursed email: "Something from your order has been canceled." Indeed, even the cloud or wherever Target.com stores their wares had limited availability. Drag. So we received one instead of two and that's almost worse than zero. The house and its symmetry was compromised and it bugged the living shit out of me until obsessive compulsiveness and a phone call rewarded me. I asked A. "Is it crazy if I go to New Hampshire tonight to get a candle?" and justified the forty-minute drive by reasoning that it takes twenty to get to "our" Target and, hey, twice as long is only twice as long. (Plus: cheap alcohol.) Accompanied on 95 by those Around the NFL bastards who propped up my hopes a few weeks ago I was relieved to finally obtain the elusive fucker—I bought other stuff we needed too, give me a break—but didn't let myself exhale until I got home, loaded it with (three double-A!) batteries and switched it on. I won this round and hopefully will have forgotten the entire affair this time next year when we bring the Christmas shit up from the basement and the candles are busted. Goddamn Philips.

Lots of driving and decorating means lots of Christmas music! Feliz Navidad, baby!

1. Bert – All Dressed Up
We must have listened to this ten times over the weekend. The version you can buy—or stream, or whatever you leasing youngsters prefer—strips out the dialogue for some reason and, therefore, a lot of the context. Between that last "galosh on my head" ("galosh," I love that) and "gloves on my ears," the Sesame Street Orchestra stretches out for ten seconds before everyone returns with "all the clothes on the right places." What happened during those ten seconds? If you watch the clip you'll know that Bert goes all "Fuck this shit!" and sets everyone straight, otherwise it's a beginning and an end without a middle. Luckily I know how to rip from YouTube.

2. Hep Stars – Christmas on My Mind
Collected on the improbably named Santa's Got Soul, as if Sam Cooke and the Impressions were also contributing. I guess Percy Sledge counts but Jeffrey Speight does not, particularly considering the subtitle "A Groovy Collection of Rare Soul and Psychedelic Rock Christmas Songs." Right. Sweden's own released Jul Med Hep Stars ("Christmas With the Hep Stars") in 1967 and most of it is lousy, but "Christmas on My Mind" is sped-up Farfisa joy.

3. Leslie West – Silent Night
The unrealized solution to a fragile, selfish, Cream-disintegrating Eric Clapton plugs in exactly halfway through his instrumental "Silent Night" and reminds of my midlife crisis collecting dust. I should sign up for guitar lessons already.

4. He 5 – Jingle Bells/In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida
Korean rock from the 1969 album Merry Christmas Psychedelic Sound. A minute forty of "Jingle Bells" followed by a sort of "My Girl" bridge, nine minutes of the jam and drum solo from "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" and a couple of premature (and ignored) "One, two, three, four!" count-ins before closing with a "My Girl"/"Jingle Bells" reprise. The greatest gift of the young holiday season.

5. Pilgrim Travelers – I'll Be Home for Christmas
Four volumes of Blues, Blues Christmas are waiting for you so go to your local library, sign up for a Freegal account, log in and download five songs a week for free. It will only take you eight months to get all one hundred seventy-six songs! Make the wonderful "I'll Be Home for Christmas" one of the early ones, for nothing captures the holiday season better. (Just don't check out The Dark Half. I wish it were The Dark Half As Long. Har! Har!)

Up next: The Patriots travel to Denver because the Patriots always travel to Denver. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week thirteen

The game: Rams at Patriots
The beer: Ipswich Riverbend Pilsner
The result: Win, 26–10
The commentary: Last week, before the sad talk, I really got into it with potential tiebreaker scenarios for my ex-knockout pool. The raving led to a "Rooting for ties!" ecstasy that betrayed its improvised roots earlier in the same sentence. You see, I defined "a loss or a tie" as one point deducted, not added (opposing two added for a win), and this fact went out the memory hole twenty-five words later. Old age is a bastard.

The realization hit when introducing my "perfect" plan to A. later in the week during a conversation that, since it would decide nothing in our favor, interested her not at all. She twice told me "I don't get it"—she had a point—and misinterpreted everything as "So you assign different points to each game?" And there it is: genius! Indeed, should I be approached for ideas that do not crumble under minimal review, I will volunteer a confidence-pool solution, which I love even more than I did my heralded (by me) attempt before its unraveling.

Let's revise: "Some games would sort of cancel each other out so let's award two points for a win and minus one for a loss or a tie—if I'd lasted, I'd assign the fewest points to those—as things stand now, if I'd lasted, both sides of week seventeen games Baltimore at Cincinnati [another fuck-up: I played Cincinnati in week four] New Orleans at Atlanta, Dallas at Philadelphia and others other low-tier affairs would be in play and I'd root for ties in each case to earn two points instead of one assign the fewest points to these. Rooting for against ties! I fucking love this idea. Enacting it and dissolving the golden ticket are my special-interest issues next season, if President Trump hasn't killed us all in the meantime."

Much better. That is, unless Trump does his Trump thing.

Up next: Tonight! Patriots! Ravens! Deer antler spray! Deeecepppshunnn! Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week twelve

The game: Patriots at Jets
The beer: Two Roads Roadsmary's Baby Ale
The result: Win, 22–17; Seahawks/Jarrod lose, 14–5
The commentary: Fourteen to five? Five? In which our hero tests whether or not "There's nothing I can do about Russell Wilson having an off day" is a philosophy he still trusts. I am. Hard to believe I never used that "Big Road" joke when visiting the Jets.

Weep not for me! The thousand units would have come in handy, sure, but I remain several hundred in the black from my 2014 winnings. And the Giants won anyway. My exit handshake with the organizer yesterday allowed me the opportunity to suggest, subtly, that the "golden ticket" idea is going to backfire and some kind of playoff involvement (messy) or tiebreaker scenario will be necessary at or before week seventeen. As uninterested parties we threw out ideas and I liked a couple of his. The first, assuming multiple people survive the regular season, asks everyone to complete an NCAA-type bracket through to the Super Bowl victor with a point total. In the second, survivors choose two or more games in week seventeen, maybe with total-point or point-spread consideration. The former is the better idea and will probably succeed, though I offered a spin on the latter: put everyone's remaining teams in play on New Year's Day. Exciting! I like the added strategic element of people wanting to keep stronger teams (like the Seahawks, huh?) for that last week. Some games would sort of cancel each other out so let's award two points for a win and minus one for a loss or a tie—if I'd lasted, as things stand now, both sides of Baltimore at Cincinnati, Dallas at Philadelphia and others would be in play and I'd root for ties in each case to earn two points instead of one. Rooting for ties! I fucking love this idea. Enacting it and dissolving the golden ticket are my special-interest issues next season, if President Trump hasn't killed us all in the meantime.

Sunday afternoon my extended family celebrated my aunt's seventieth birthday. She suffers from Alzheimer's disease and it was the first time I'd seen her over the three years that the condition worsened—my mother has admitted to "protecting" me. The assisted living facility was a pleasant environment with a somewhat cheerful staff and it still reeked of the Springfield Retirement Home's desperation and malaise. The bathroom floor had only one smear of excrement that I noticed. Navigating the hallways was difficult and I'm guessing it was designed so. In order to leave you needed someone to unlock the door with a keycard like I have to do when I go to work. At work, a keycard lets in those of us who belong and keeps out those who don't. At my aunt's facility, if you can even find the exit, keycards similarly indicate who belongs and who does not.

There was no clamoring for the exit. It seemed to be one of those things the hovering residents recognized and understood but ignored like bad art. Instead, they wandered the halls, some in pairs, some with vigor, some beaming at your five-year-old daughter. Some wandered into the conference room where we celebrated and then they stood among us, like family, looking at what or whom everyone was looking at. Eventually someone would find them and escort them back outside. Outside the room, not outdoors. Maybe never outdoors. One of them must have found interest elsewhere. The other came back, and then again. Her hair was braided like Elsa's and she used a walker.

When it was time for cake, my aunt had to be reminded over and over to make a wish and blow out the candles, purely foreign concepts to her, and so she pointed at my cousin and said "She can wish, she looks like a good wisher." We were all pronouns because she didn't know our names or personalities or blood relation. We wished for her but insisted she blow out the candles, and though there weren't seventy she did fine. Except for the two candles she missed and forgot about, forgot why. My cousin took care of them. The heartbreak was ours but my aunt seemed happy. Leaving, I gave her a hug and said "I love you." She responded "Yes it is!"

Up next: Jeff Fischer continues to perfect the relationship between presumed extortion schemes and inevitable contract extensions. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week eleven

The game: Patriots at 49ers
The beer: Berkshire Hoosac Tunnel Amber Ale
The result: Win, 30–17; Giants win, 22–16
The commentary: The Pats played the late game and the Giants and Bears warmed me up on Fox before then, presenting a rare opportunity to watch my knockout contest. It was not a comfortable experience as the Bears made it too goddamn interesting. I have now entered the phase of my relationship with the Bears when, formally, I am pushing my luck. This week I considered the sub-five hundred Titans visiting Chicago but that smells of a desperation to keep the Seahawks in my pocket another week. Six remain with no losses last week so we're inevitably targeting New Year's Day and even beyond, however that would work. I was also on the Bills (five wins, five losses) over the Jaguars and the Ravens (same) over the Bengals but is that how I want to go out? A. and I enjoy Project Runway every week, in spite of an uninspiring current season, and the auf'd designers who show pride in what failed them instead of regret over unfinished/unrealized concepts are not as emotionally wrecked. If (when?) I lose, I hope my remorse stems from "There's nothing I can do about Russell Wilson having an off day" and not "I guess the Ravens still kinda suck."

I also liked the Lions and the Cowboys on Thanksgiving but I feared they would turn into the nail-biters they were and, stuck in rural New Hampshire with no cell signal, I didn't want to retire away from the family every five minutes to check the broadcast downstairs. I'm a better son, husband and father for it.

Now that organizer Leon (not his real name) is eliminated he's OK with emailing everyone's picks before Sundays because that's not shady at all. And this will be the week that was: as much as I nicknamed the Giants' Landon Collins "My Man" because he was so much a defensive star to make me hope he played on special teams as well, I will be rooting heavily against him this week. For three people chose the Giants (in New York) against the winless Browns. And not just any three people, no, but the three who possess the godforsaken "golden ticket" that I will rail against next year. Should the Giants lose, which all four Around the NFL heroes predicted—with the understanding that it's difficult to lose sixteen games and the scraping-by Giants are one of two winnable games left for the Browns—then everything changes. Such an achievement would be wonderful karmic retribution against said advantage (shit, I'd be undefeated too if the Dolphins hadn't given Roethlisberger's knee the what-for in week six) and put all of us on a level, single-elimination playing field. They'd be crazy not to buy back on five-to-one odds (Jim Morrison weeps) and the extra seventy-five units would top us off around a thousand. Nice. However, if the Giants do win, it's difficult to see myself outlasting all three at this point. Drag. (The other two picks? Aforementioned Bills and Titans. If the Seahawks win in Tampa I'll surely be thankful.)

The Hoosac Tunnel ale was a welcome break from themed this and imperial that. Last month, in the midst of a period of prolific literacy not seen since I chose a series of Stephen King novels over homework throughout high school, I worked my way down the stacks to a couple of hokey "local hauntings" collections entitled Ghost Stories of New England and Cape Encounters: Contemporary Cape Cod Ghost Stories. Here is a representative conclusion of every… anecdote?… in each: "Bob and Sandra surmised that the spirit was that of Hannah Thomas, although they had no way of confirming their suspicions." Thanks for disavowing everything for which you stand over several hundred pages. The former volume devotes five pages to the Berkshires' own Hoosac Railroad Tunnel, a.k.a. "the Bloody Pit" that claimed almost two hundred lives during its construction. "The victims died in fires, explosions, tunnel collapses and, in one case, at the hand of another worker." Compelling! Well, maybe it was murder. Can a suspected vengeful ghost be so charged? Other Hoosac tales relate a "battered and incoherent" hunter who "told of hearing voices that instructed him to enter" the tunnel. "Upon entering, he was confronted by several ghostly apparitions." The end. See what I'm talking about?

Up next: Thomas Edison, Grover Cleveland, John Fenwick, Joyce Kilmer, Clara Barton, Vince Lombardi… Walt Whitman. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week ten

The game: Seahawks at Patriots
The beer: Heavy Seas Greater Pumpkin Imperial Ale
The result: Loss, 31–24; Cardinals win, 23–20
The commentary: More pictures of my girl, please! I didn't go black last week because the Pats lost. They didn't even play. No, I mourned another loss or, more accurately, a non-win. Maybe the minority (har! har!) of voters didn't elect Trump because they are racists and/or sexists but rather because they have no problem with casual racism and/or sexism. There's a word for that. It's called the 1950s.

Enough. We're still alive! I speak of the knockout pool, obviously, for what else is there? The Cardinals made it interesting but a three-point win is as good as anything. In other positive news the fucking Dolphins took out the Chargers in San Diego by forcing four fourth-quarter interceptions. Maybe they're for real after all. Maybe that Sunday in the Stop & Shop parking lot was a mirage. (By god, it sure wasn't.) With Philip Rivers went two other competitors and, including me, we're down to six. Three still have the godforsaken, successful-through-week-eight "golden ticket" that allows them to buy back after a loss even though we're beyond the period when the rest of us can. Drag. It's a bullshit rule when you have thirty competitors and I will campaign my ass off against it next year—I didn't need that shit when I went undefeated two years ago. Regardless, I'm watching and (shudder) rooting for the Giants against the Bears as I write this. If the Bears win I'll be out and will have been knocked out by their victory for the third (1, 2) time in four tries. "Three out of four! Yes, it's a dynasty." What's the opposite of a dynasty? Wait one presidential term and see.

"Ohhhh, Sunday niiight. Ooohhhhhhhh Sunday niiiight!" Thanks Carrie, you hack. And you NBC producers. Zero percent of viewers watch Sunday Night Football for your nonsense. Objective fans would call this a great game and they'd be right. Me? I'd call it a great game aside from Julian Edelman's killer fumble—you are not Gronk and the extra foot or so you might pick up is not worth the risk—and Belichick's defense being fully exposed for what they are: a skillful menace who deserves a long-term extension and can single-handedly affect a game's outcome (Dont'a Hightower); a legitimate talent who is not as good as his hype suggests (Malcolm Butler); a bewilderingly expensive, middle-of-the-road safety in need of more instructional videos (Devin McCourty); a living example of Pro Football Focus's lack of relevance (Logan "Fucking" Ryan); a player whose pass-rush potential is inversely proportional to the effectiveness of Jabaal Sheard, Rob Ninkovich and a fourth-generation Multiplicity copy of Chris Long (Trey Flowers); and a bunch of dudes not named Jamie Collins. Maybe he wouldn't have made a difference in this one but I still wish he were on my team. We'll see how they respond in San Francisco following a week of media scrutiny. (I've been critical for years but Patriots VP of Media Relations Stacey James has blocked the Biff! Bang! and Pow!—in all its Roman numerally busted-link glory—at Gillette. Greater good and all.)

Bears making it too goddamn interesting with two minutes remaining. I know nothing about football.

Up next: I wonder if any visiting Patriots went to Alcatraz twice in one day like I did. Happy Thanksgiving!

Beer and football VII — week nine (bye)

The beer: Clown Shoes Third-Party Candidate India Pale Lager
The result: Chiefs win, 19–14; Trump wins, 304–227
The commentary: This is my two hundredth post. I am close to dropping an overdue essay regarding the importance of Trout Mask Replica (currently entitled "Tight also"), having reserved its epic for a weighty round number, but it can wait.

Earlier this week, the country I call home elected as its next president a man who colored recent history with the following on-the-record remarks:

"An 'extremely credible source' has called my office and told me that Barack Obama's birth certificate is a fraud."

"[John McCain] is not a war hero. He's a war hero because he was captured? I like people who weren't captured."

"I am being proven right about massive vaccinations. The doctors lied. Save our children and their future."

"NBC News just called it 'the Great Freeze,' coldest weather in years. Is our country still spending money on the global warming hoax?”

"It's freezing and snowing in New York—we need global warming!"

"If Hillary Clinton can't satisfy her husband, what makes her think she can satisfy America?"

"You know, it really doesn't matter what the media write as long as you've got a young and beautiful piece of ass."

"I've said if Ivanka weren't my daughter, perhaps I'd be dating her."

"You could see there was blood coming out of [Megyn Kelly's] eyes. Blood coming out of her… wherever."

"[Emigrating Mexicans are] rapists. And some, I assume, are good people, but I speak to border guards and they're telling us what we're getting."

"I have a great relationship with the blacks. I've always had a great relationship with the blacks."

"Just had a very open and successful presidential election. Now professional protesters, incited by the media, are protesting. Very unfair!"

"I have never seen a thin person drinking Diet Coke." (I do like this one.)

In my head, before Tuesday, week nine's post was to begin along the lines of "Did you vote for a third-party candidate? Did you throw your vote away? Well, I didn't. But I did drink the beer." I did not vote for Gary Johnson even though Hillary Clinton was a shoe-in. Massachusetts, a.k.a. "Don't Blame Me, I'm From Massachusetts," a.k.a. "Except We Did Vote for Reagan Twice," was with her, but why risk it? I even took my five-year-old daughter into the booth with me and said, more or less, "You're helping me elect the first female president… isn't that cool?" It's a cliché but I was excited about what this meant for her and her future, even if I didn't think Clinton was much of a candidate or were to be much of a president.

Not only is none of that the crux here, I also never drank the beer. A cheeky name moderately tied to any old election was enough for me to buy the eleven-percent lager a few weeks ago with the intention of cracking it open once Clinton's victory was assured. By nine o'clock, if we were lucky! That's what the polls and analysts said, anyway, neither of which I will ever trust again. I know nothing about politics.

Instead, as CNN declared that Trump had won Florida about ninety minutes after I did (and two hours after reporting that the Clinton campaign had "increasing confidence" there), I had to keep telling a despondent A. that Ohio, Pennsylvania and Michigan were what mattered. When the first two went red and Michigan was looking awfully pink—about half past one at this point—it was time to go to bed. I typed "who won" into my iPad so that when I awoke in a few hours I could just hit enter and learn, formally, the bad news. Drag.

For several weeks, and this is our poor parenting judgment, we occasionally discussed with G. that candidate Donald Trump was mean, a bully and whatever euphemism I invented for a "fear-monger." Had other parents put it into their kids' heads that, I don't know, it was OK to grab kids by the pussy then we surely would have been critical: "How could you?? They're just kids, they don't get it!" But we did the same, albeit with more humanity and soul. (I would add education if you believe the polls, which I no longer do.) Does that make us bad parents? No. Did we do something we would criticize others over? Yes.

G. woke up Wednesday morning and came into the bathroom as I was about to brush my teeth. She was half asleep with thumb in mouth, the picture of innocence. "I need to tell you something, honey. Trump won. He's going to be the president." I hugged her and she almost cried. Mama was still in bed so I tucked her in there, saying everything would be OK (it's kind of my role) though not believing it. A sad start to a sad day.

The rest of Wednesday played out the same. The train ride was eerily quiet as I shoved my nose into Andrew Loog Oldham's Stoned, for the North Shore was Clinton country aside from a few outliers (both wealthy and struggling communities). I resolved to "give him a chance" because I don't have a choice. I'm not going to protest in the streets of Boston from nine to five as that seems to underscore general anti-Obama claims that unemployment is a problem. I'm not moving to Canada, as much as we love Montréal. I never believed Trump would ensure that everyone has enough guns—the modernization and/or destruction of the Second Amendment being my and A's top-priority issue, which is why I was pulling for Martin O'Malley all Winter over Clinton's wishy-washiness and Bernie Sanders's plain, upsetting indfference—or shut down Planned Parenthood. I also didn't believe that lo, these many months, he actually wanted to be president, and it's amazing how this remains a topic of conversation. Will he step down before January 20 and hand everything over to Mike Pence? It that better or worse? Worse, I say. Very much so.

At the least, it appears inevitable that Trump will let down everyone who voted for him by not killing Obamacare on day one, not nuking Iran on day two, not proudly calling someone a nigger on live television on day three and not applying ceremonial mortar to the last "Brown Brick" of a Mexico-funded wall on day four. They will turn on him and threaten everyone unlike them—Muslim, homosexual, employable. Then they'll go back to those burgundy pockets with their rusted-out dooryards and frayed American flags that stay out all night without being illuminated. Trump has both the House and the Senate but do they get along? Can all that hostility just go away in favor of common (?) big-picture goals? Will a blown-up party of Democrats reemerge as they did in 2008 and come on strong in 2018 and 2020 (under the inevitable "Hindsight 2020" campaign slogan) when, I thought, it was the Republicans who would have to start over instead? Will Massachusetts be a progressive buffer or will I and five other commuters be shot after buying coffee one morning? Is this worse than Brexit? Is America crumbling as foretold by past empires? Is my family safe?

As Ivan said Thursday night over beers before we decided to ditch the twenty-seven-dollar Helmet show, "What the fuck is going on with the Celtics?" Maybe nothing changes after all.

Up next: Fifty-one percent of fifty-five percent of Americans get on with their lives by drinking beer, watching football and maybe writing about it. For now, I'll be one of them. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week eight

The game: Patriots at Bills
The beer: Southern Tier Warlock Imperial Stout
The result: Win, 41–25; Broncos win, 27–19
The commentary: I have had enough of rooting for leading AFC rivals in order to advance week to week in the knockout pool. The Steelers and their injured rapist cost me twenty-five units a couple of weeks ago and the Broncos last night had me considering another thirty. Luckily it never came to that as the Chargers threw four times from the two to discover yet another way to lose a close game—try following that shit on your phone. Regardless, because "irregardless" isn't a word, had I lost I would have been unable to buy in again because the cut-off was last week. Or maybe it's this week. It's not the most clarified or transparent league—for example, I won't know until tomorrow night what teams everyone picked. Plus my wonderful and all-knowing (and coded, since it's maintained at work) Excel spreadsheet called shenanigans on a friend who mistakenly picked the Bengals for a second time last week. I had no choice but to point this out to the commissioner and hope for a transcription error. It was not and so we are one fewer, not "less." He split the pot in a cowardly act last year anyway.

I'm hoping yesterday morning's London tie between the Bengals and the Redskins eliminates some more because ties are the same as losses, for the object is to "pick a winner." Indeed, I feared a Charger touchdown and a two-point conversion would send my game to a fruitless overtime and was a heroic father reading through—and quite well!—Fox in Socks without interruption when my phone vibrated, signifying either the end of the game (with the Broncos likely winning in regulation) or pure, sweet hell (the aforementioned comeback scenario). Once my tongue and I concluded with "a tweetle beetle noodle poodle bottled paddled muddled duddled fuddled wuddled fox in socks, sir"—an enviable achievement!—it was mama's turn to take over for Oh, the Thinks You Can Think! and I could not check the alert quickly enough. "We're good," I told her. For now.

The pickings going forward will be slim. Through eight weeks, the percentage of "experts" (and arbitrary rulers such as best defense, home team, etc.) I—in part—relied upon as collated at NFL Pick Watch hadn't dipped below ninety-three until yesterday, when the Broncos were determined to be the favorite by eighty-one percent. So ninety-four, ninety-four, ninety-seven, ninety-three, ninety-six, ninety-seven (wrong!), ninety-four, eighty-one. It's a real outlier—I didn't believe when I sent my pick in Thursday night that Aqib Talib would sit—and a sign of things to come since most of the league's few (loosely) elite teams are no longer available to me: Patriots/Broncos/Packers/Steelers. The Seahawks remain and are as trustworthy as anyone outside of New England and excepting injuries (to them, the Steelers and the Broncos), underwhelming quarterback play (same three) and douche karma (Packers). But are they good? Are the Falcons for real or is another series of season-crippling losses inevitable? Is it time to move past my fear of picking for or against the Cowboys with Tony Romo out of the picture? Should the Vikings really win with ninety-three-percent certainty in Chicago tonight against a horrendous Bears team that could scrape out an ugly win in support of Jay Cutler's return (nah) or in solidarity with the Cubs (realistic)? As witnessed a few years ago when the Ravens won Super Bowl XLVII and the out-of-contention Orioles refused to concede parking privileges for the following season's celebratory kickoff game in Baltimore—forcing the Ravens to play (and lose) in Denver instead—organizational pride is never to be overlooked when it comes to who is the Hot Shit Home Team. Unless you're the Browns.

In a bewildering season of subpar football one thing is (probably) true: a classic Rex Ryan nosedive, foretold by his concession of the AFC East—one can hope November 8 is so smooth following Hillary Clinton's blowout victory—and the permanent dejection that follows every loss to the Patriots (despite his "Fuck it!" bravado over the strange challenge-flag dustup following the Bills' garbage-time, dildo-free touchdown) will undo any good that came out of his team's impressive four-game winning streak that started in New England against an injured third-string rookie quarterback. "It's just ten guys playing one thing and somebody else playing something else. And even if you're not singing out of the same hymnal, it looks bad and sounds bad." The man is no poet. Whoever hires him next year will find out if he's worth the "all-in" shitstorm.

Let's discuss the beer because I haven't much this season. Warlock stout is part of the "Blackwater Series," written by Patrick Simmons and propelling the Doobie Brothers to the top of the singles charts in 1975. The label brags that it was "brewed with pumpkins" as if no one does that every Autumn. The first ten-percent-alcohol sip was delicious but the Warlocks didn't record "Heavy Bomber" for nothing—after awhile I just wanted to be done with it and find a scary movie on Netflix to fall asleep during. I awoke with a clear head so that's something.

End beer talk. Jamie Collins was traded. Drag. Go Cubs!

Up next: I will spend the entire bye weekend admiring our new fence. Happy Halloween!

Beer and football VII — week seven

The game: Patriots at Steelers
The beer: Mayflower Daily Ration Session India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 27–16; Packers win, 26–10
The commentary: "You stink. You stink. You stink!" Brandon Bolden, the special-teams ace who knocked a punted ball from the six yard line into the end zone for a touchback, did not earn my respect by dropping a key third-down pass that my five-year-old daughter could have caught with her feet. Marcus Cannon, Jonathan Freeny, Bolden… what do they have on Belichick? And can Trey Flowers and Anthony Johnson get in on it? I just want to know if they're any good.

Had the Steelers won then Bolden's drop would have been the turning point, though Julian Edelman had a bad one as well. The Pats never had a firm grip on the game and looked iffy for three hours, magnifying how spoiled we fans are in showing concern over twenty-seven points scored. I don't care what the statistics show, I'm never comfortable when Belichick is pitted against a rookie or little-seen quarterback—the game plan against Roethlisberger would have been more sophisticated so why not stick with that against an inferior quarterback? I know nothing about football.

Commuting this week, I twice sat near someone who got on the wrong train. It happens, though somehow not to me yet. Sure, I once drunkenly mistimed my destination by one stop after a Christmas party and plain "slept" through it last September but at least I got on the right trains each time. After work every night I confirm the correct track number up to six times—six!—to ensure I'm heading home and not elsewhere: on the display at the entrance to North Station, on the big board inside the station, on another display at the door leading to the platform and, assuming Sir Lord Baltimore or Thee Oh Sees aren't blocking out the world, by listening to recorded announcements inside the station and aboard the train as well as proclamations by several conductors. If I end up in Concord or Winchester then it's my own fault.

Even so, I should never make it that far before realizing my mistake. A few minutes from departure the tracks split in all directions, particularly my line along the coast. Do I see, you know, the Atlantic Ocean? Are the Mystic River locks on the left (good) or the right (bad), or are they nowhere at all (awful)? Nighttime is difficult but the new parking garage, the wind turbine, Costco? It's all lit up! We're not in Littleton gloom.

Monday night, in the middle of the (quite lovely) conservation marshes leading up to River Works in Revere, with North Station twenty minutes behind us, the first woman only then realized her error and called some poor sucker in Haverhill (her actual destination) to pick her up in Newburyport without considering an alternative. And Wednesday, here we go again with another woman bound for the elusive Haverhill, wondering with a conductor's (lack of) help what was the most default option. I'd stick to bottled water at home, ladies.

I like to think I'm a problem solver. One of four caster snaps off the rolling clothes hamper? Wrap the bolt in plumber's tape and zip-tie the shit out of it. My daughter throws up all over the front of my jacket? Soak it in vinegar for an hour to get the smell out before washing. Renaming beer-and-football posts with Roman numerals breaks a bunch of links? Set aside a half hour here and there to comb through my blog and fix everything to keep my reader (!) happy. Got on the wrong fucking train even though a blind ape could have managed OK? Well, maybe I don't have to put anyone out. Maybe doubling back to North Station is a waste of time. Maps… taxis… Uber… maybe Melrose Highlands is only eight miles from Lynn. Maybe Malden Center is four from Chelsea. Maybe you'll catch the last ten minutes of Dynasty.

Up next: Richie Incognito blames the tablets and a lack of stomped balls after his team loses by thirty. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week six

The game: Bengals at Patriots
The beer: Wachusett Horseshoe Ale
The result: Win, 35–17; Steelers lose, 30–15
The commentary: Hell is rooting for the Steelers and watching them lose. Fuckers. Enjoy four to six weeks of your team falling out of contention, Ben.

The good news is the Pats should cruise to victory Sunday afternoon. The bad news is I was knocked out of the pool and had to cough up another twenty-five units in order to run with the Packers tonight. I don't love the pick—Aaron Rodgers looks shaky, almost like he can no longer overinflate his footballs—but they're hosting the Bears and I need a cheap win to stay alive. I'd love a stress-free weekend.

The lesson—maybe?—is to never pick against the Dolphins after relying on them to win (barely) once before. And a second time? Gamblor does not approve. I will keep clear of the Bills this week whether or not they're due to fall to Earth.

Oh, Bengals. I wasn't feeling good early on and wondered how I would react to both the Patriots and my knockout team losing on the same day (I watched the Pats on tape delay). Then Tom Brady realized "Oh yeah" and Gronk realized "Fuck yeah" and Vontaze Burfict realized "Fuck this" and it was over. Injured Roethlisberger, struggling Broncos… it's good to be the Patriots.

Up next: Don Caballero, affectionately called "Don Cab" or "The Don" by fans, formed in Pittsburgh in the Summer of 1991. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week five

The game: Patriots at Browns
The beer: Lagunitas Bitter Oats Ale
The result: Win, 33–13
The commentary: Ten point five percent! Who drinks so heavy a bastard during a one o'clock game? I'll admit I didn't notice until checking the bottle after my first sip—I was so caught up with the "Bitter" name that, of course, had to represent Brady's return from an unjust overreaction. You know I took the full three hours to drink it though—no sense in slurring my way through Candyland and Uno before dinner. Look for other event-themed beers in the coming weeks—what a time to be alive!

Yes, I picked the Patriots in the knockout pool this week. After five games we're down to thirteen out of twenty-eight… contestants?… and the pot has ballooned to eight hundred ten units, which is more than I won two years ago. I'm already spending the money in my head and I need to knock it off.

We're a few posts away from two hundred. Unbelievable—legitimately so once longtime readers (!) realize we'd be way beyond it without the death of quick sizzle. (It did make a bitter curtain call the following year when I referred to those behind "Biff Bang Pow," a web marketing blog, as "dirty rat cocksuckers" and critiqued their design aesthetic by wondering "Maybe I should force-justify all my post titles because that looks real sharp." That post's deletion is for the best.) I feel I need to hustle to compose and publish the Trout Mask Replica bullshit in order to salvage any remaining inter-net credibility. Like when Coltrane's Ascension was the actual one hundredth post? That was the real shit. So deserving a subject. Since said pruning it's now a basic beer-and-football affair, albeit with a contemplative four-month-old G. and some embarrassing Tim Tebow analysis. Beefheart as two hundred would be an achievement on par with a five-year-old suddenly doing the monkey bars by herself, even getting up there. She's the best. I wonder if she'll read all this one day.

Up next: The royal Bengal tiger is the national animal of both India and Bangladesh. In Indonesia it's the Komodo dragon, the largest member of the lizard family and a filthy liar. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week four

The game: Bills at Patriots
The beer: Newburyport Melt Away India Pale Ale
The result: Loss, 16–0; Bengals win, 22–7
The commentary: It's another outtake from week one, just like two years ago after the shellacking in Kansas City. No Pink Floyd talk this time though. No playlist modification either! That surely fucked us all.

"Oh, Bills." Drag. My confidence level eclipsed even Rex Ryan's in the wake of his team's win over the Cardinals, whose loss knocked six more out of my pool. After a must-win effort his feet weren't touching the ground and the odds were good he'd forget there was another game to prepare for. And then? And then! "Rex, another thing you say a lot is you refer to yourself as an above-average coach but, you know, you look at Bill Belichick's winning percentage against everybody else and against you and it's– it's higher against you. Can those two things make sense to you, that you're an above-average coach but, you know, the record doesn't really say that?" Ptooff! My man Paul Perillo, "the Sultan of Soda" according to Mr. Lif (though I always thought it was "the Salt in the Soda," which works even better), had poked the fat bear. Ryan responded with "Yeah, well, I don't know, I guess that's the way it is… you guys would know better than me" and littered the phrase "above average" throughout the rest of his interview with New England media. Would the bitterness set in?

Fast forward to Sunday. With an afternoon birthday party a half hour away I was prepared (and OK with) recording the game and watching it later on. I'm used to it anyway and actually prefer this when a media blackout is possible—skipping through Peyton Manning commercials, etc. I had the pregame on before leaving the house and witnessed the fracas between Malcolm Mitchell and every punk-ass bitch on the Bills, which equates to ninety percent of the team. Any doubt I had over the outcome was fully eliminated at that point—if Ryan emphasized chippiness over schemes then the blowout was already in effect. I couldn't wait to watch that night.

Alas, we arrive at the party and the game is on the big screen. Oh well. But… what?? Bills up thirteen over the scoreless Patriots? This must be one of those onscreen typos. After all, the Patriots Football Weekly television show has been labeled Weeekly since last season. But no! The godforsaken Bills came to play. And the Pats' defense is even worse than I feared. At least the hosts demonstrated good taste in offering a couple of Newburyport Brewing selections. The pale ale was already covered awhile ago alongside a public television tongue-lashing, so the Melt Away became the official beer of the week. Session beer is an adult attendee's best friend at any underage party.

Jacoby Brissett seemed to do OK, excepting the baaad fumble that, along with special-teamer-running-offensive-routes-for-some-reason Brandon Bolden's horrible drop, really sealed the game. Tyrod Taylor, LeSean McCoy and Robert Woods were impressive even though they only scored sixteen points—a good team would have scored more on this day. That's why I think the Bills remain destined to win eight games, make no major changes during the offseason and then win six games next year. But hey, at least they shut out an injured third-string rookie quarterback. Around the NFL's Dan Hanzus, who knows a thing or two as a suffering Jets fan, put it best this week: "After two amazing wins [against the Cardinals and the Patriots], the Bills are gonna show up flat and get beat by a Rams team that isn't even that good." He lacks the poetry of Marc Sessler but his scorned wisdom is evident.

Here's a funny story. Walking to work the other morning, among the pushers and the urinators under Haymarket garage, I heard "Calvin's on a Bummer," a fine collaboration by the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion and Calvin Johnson's Dub Narcotic Sound System. Up ahead, a typical undesirable—sweatpants, large Dunkins, pronounced limp, general filth—was wearing a number eighty-one Lions jersey for some reason. "Who is eighty-one?" I wondered before answering my own question and confirming it when the man turned around: JOHNSON. Retired NFL superstar Calvin Johnson! The difference between Megatron and the Olympia Croaker is simple: one smothered all comers with jaw-dropping statistics, admirable durability and oppressive skill; the other scored a shitload of touchdowns.

Up next: Tom Brady, Michigan. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week three

The game: Texans at Patriots
The beer: Ommegang Three Philosophers Quadrupel Ale
The result: Win, 27–0; Dolphins win, 30–24
The commentary: Bronchitis sidelined A. so she drove G. and me to a sketchy old gymnastics academy in the middle of a Verizon dead zone for another child's birthday—such is the nature of kindergarten and new friendships. Naturally we drove right by the place the first time because the old brick building set back from the road in a clearing in the woods did not match the, I don't know, gigantic fitness facility we were expecting. Minimal signage was barely noticed even as we doubled back with our eyes wide open and Google Maps assuring me it was indeed down this driveway somewhere. Twists and turns, answering "This can't be right" to several of G's demands to know if we were there yet. Flashing back to Half-Life 2's Nova Prospekt and the lifeless grounds of the estate at the end of 28 Days Later. Would Dennis Hopper emerge from the trees? "It's alright! It's alll-right!" And would I believe him?

Two loops later we were at the brick building again. There were a few cars parked outside so it was this or nothing. I bravely ventured inside by myself to rule out a mutant ambush and was immediately hit with the locker-room odor that told me we'd arrived. A little late but that's OK, maybe host the thing in civilized country next time.

G. turned shy and that was OK with me because it meant I got to hang out with her instead of watching from afar. The foam pit wasn't as nice as that other one where we lost her headband a couple of years ago but she still couldn't get enough, particularly when I kept "ordering" her to come out before tossing her back in. Lo, the germs. That evening's bath added another month to the drought.

She did break away to occasionally join the party fun and that meant I could look up the Dolphins–Browns score. Refreshing… refreshing… FAILED TO LOAD. CLICK TO RETRY. Drag. To think I once vowed to never own a cellphone—mine turned me into a slave for three straight Sundays and it's not pleasant. But the pot's over seven hundred units, baby!

At some point the Earth tilted a certain angle and allowed Verizon to give me a break for a second with an update: Dolphins up by four in the third quarter. OK! Maybe I'd skate by, relying again on a team that didn't impress much. Post-party, fleeing the scene of past and future madness, G's exhaustion overtook the cake-and-ice-cream sugar injection and she passed out inside of ten minutes. It was easy to take the long way home because we got lost—of course we did—and once she was asleep we decided to hit the Stop & Shop and prolong her needed rest. Phone updates informed me during the interim that both teams were sucking it hard and a regulation-closing Browns drive stalled at the Dolphins' thirty-eight yard line. "Why didn't they kick a field goal?" I wondered before switching over to NFL Radio on Sirius and learning that they attempted and failed. Jesus Christ. A. ran into the store while an unconscious G. and I listened to both teams try to lose. And then? And then! A borderline-effective Jay Ajayi runs it in from the eleven and I silently pump my fist in victory, something I've perfected during five years of G. sleeping through football games.

Why must it be so interesting? I've mocked other knockout participants in the past for picking too many lousy teams early on and then being eliminated with the Patriots, Seahawks, Broncos, et al still available. It's like Survivor when hubris intervenes and someone with an unplayed immunity idol in his or her pocket is voted off. Still, it's hard to ignore the fact that the last time the Patriots won the Super Bowl I also won the knockout pool and, with a smaller sample size, vice versa. Bill Belichick and friends are looking pretty good so far and that means I should hold up my end of the deal by choosing only sure-fire winners from here on out. It's a deal… even though the Bengals were tempting Thursday night. Be forewarned.

Up next: Rex Ryan solidifies a game plan to mercilessly blitz presumptive Patriots quarterback Tarbash the Egyptian Magician. Oh, Bills. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week two

The game: Dolphins at Patriots
The beer: Castle Island Keeper India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 31–24; Panthers win, 46–27
The commentary: My discovery of another hometown triumph may soon be chronicled on Google Street View. As the three of us crossed the old-timey bridge on our way to the newish culinary shop—now able to sell beer and wine!—an odd vehicle drove by with a protrusion out of its roof. Were Martian tripods to follow? If so they spared us and I'm left to check Google Maps every day until I see my girl, faced blurred out, pointing at the pretty red flowers.

The destination lived up to the hype as we spent about fifty bucks on cold-brew coffee packs, teddy-bear-shaped pasta, a themed Southern Tier bomber for later this season, a four-pack of Castle Island tallboys (recommended over several little-known IPAs) and a loose, luxury, fawned-over single to crack open tomorrow. I chatted up the owner and learned about plans for frequent beer and wine tastings, cooking events, etc., filling the void of the old provisions shop near the train station in our former town that went out of business because, I don't know, the woman was kind of a jerk. We might as well have hired a real estate agent after that. (Maybe we did. It took awhile to sell.) The packie that took over her space, which I can see from my passing train, has neon signs in the window promoting the lottery and Miller Lite. We're glad to have moved on, with a new place downtown to boot.

Careful viewing allows one to pinpoint the moment when Jimmy Garoppolo realized his big payday was in jeopardy. The pain is evident, the frustration, but for a split second you see the despondency. Garoppolo, without exaggeration, looked like Tom Brady before he was injured, resurrecting the "system quarterback" criticism of Brady that was halted by an apeshit 2007. It sucks, but it would suck more if Brady himself weren't coming back in three games.

Jacoby Brissett didn't make any mistakes and that's all you could hope for under the circumstances (Miami's comeback is entirely because of a defense that earned their degrees from the Devin McCourty School of Exposure). The timing is lousy with a short week of preparation and I suspect the offense will go vanilla, with lots of LeGarrette Blount (G. after seeing replays of Blount hurdling Byron Maxwell: "That was super awesome!") and James White and maybe a couple of long incompletions to Matthew Slater for some reason. I wonder if Belichick's "Garoppolo will play!" ruse will force Bill O'Brien to under-prepare for Brissett (as much as you can under-prepare for a third-string rookie) and forfeit a few points in a close one.

I may know nothing about football (especially as I consider trusting the Cowboys this weekend) but I do know there isn't a scenario that puts Julian Edelman under center. Maybe a trick play or two, in the infuriate-John-Harbaugh fashion, but does he really want to risk his perfect passer rating? And do Belichick and McDaniels want their best, you know, wide receiver to be pummeled over and over by JJ Watt, Jadeveon Clowney, Whitney Mercilus and John Simon for three hours? I don't.

At least I know more than this one dude in our knockout pool who lost two in a row to start the season. Jesus Christ. He and four others lost in the first week and all bought back in, upping their totals from twenty to forty-five units each. On Sunday, he and eight others relied on such luminaries as the Lions, the Jaguars and the fucking Bears for the opportunity to cough up another twenty-five units (or thirty in Ryan's case). Most of them won't and that's fine. I'm feeling pretty good.

Up next: Project Runway is preempted in favor of O'Brien's return to Foxborough. Maybe he'll dress his players in carpeted letterman jackets like Dexter Simmons. Cheers!

Beer and football VII: With a renewed vigor and enthusiasm not seen by many

Week one
The game: Patriots at Cardinals
The beer: Harpoon Sticke Altbier
The result: Win, 23–21; Texans win, 23–14
The commentary: Whoops! Well that wasn't supposed to happen. Dry those tears, thirty-one other teams. Meet the new boss, etc.

Such hubris! It's a win and one that may not even matter much in the long run (away against a non-conference opponent) but did usher in some confidence in favor of uncertainty. Garoppolo can play. Parting with Chandler Jones was the right move as he once again failed to make a leap ("which he would have by now if it were going to happen") against notable blackmailer Marcus Cannon. No major injuries except for Hightower, who still managed to finish the game (though probably won't today). This is already an exciting season. Not that fifteen other teams can't say the same.

The Texans pulled one out after giving me fits during brunch. Brock Osweiler may or may not be the real deal but I won't give a shit after week three in Foxborough. This afternoon, I dream of the Panthers bouncing back on extra rest, hosting the cross-country-flight, short-turnaround 49ers. To once again quote Napoléon Bonaparte on his way to Moscow: "I'm feeling pretty good."

In other news, G. is a week into kindergarten and it's a welcome change for her to not come home covered in mud every day like with Summer camp. Her baths the past three months might have single-handedly triggered and maintained the drought. It's great not having to mow my lawn more than once a month (thanks, mandatory water ban!) but not at the expense of the river, seemingly at an all-time low. We walked along it yesterday afternoon to look at the turtles and ducks and the water level was higher than I've seen since the Spring. Unfortunately, a month or so ago I noticed a young turtle must have gotten stranded on a log sticking into the air and never made it back down. Its pitiable, roasted little corpse was still there yesterday and broke my heart some more. This season is dedicated to him or her, much as my May playlist was to the "doomed" Kathleen Hanna, weeks before she and her total recovery dropped a new the Julie Ruin album and commenced an enviable world tour. Happy to hear it, of course, but that's what I get for relying on yet-to-be-updated Wikipedia pages. Similar good fortune, little turtle.

Six years of beer and football and nary a Harpoon in the bunch. For such an omnipresent brewer, local or otherwise, their stuff is generally poor. The IPA is literally everywhere in New England—I defy bearded hipsters to find a dive bar, exclusive seaside resort or Cheesecake Factory without it on tap. (Speaking of bearded hipsters, excellent local brewer Notch is hosting a release party for a new IPA called "Raw Power." They have found my weakness but I'll wait a few days and avoid the invitation for people to bring their own proto-punk vinyl to spin. Vinyl is stupid and you are all assholes. Enjoy dropping thirty bucks on the next sham Replacements reissue.) Sam Adams is also impossible to miss but at least it's a good beer and probably an excellent one.

The one Harpoon I used to like (and this was back when Bass Ale was one of my favorites, so tread lightly) was an "Alt" called just that. It was the only of theirs I could tolerate once the near-decent Winter Warmer was designated for extreme clove and nutmeg enthusiasts only. Good lord. The alt expanded my beer palate without informing me of what "alt" meant (history tells us to never dive too deeply into a German's way of doing things) and then disappeared sometime between early college and adulthood. I tried two more altbiers a few beer-and-football seasons ago, taking one step forward and one back: the Haverhill exploded all over my kitchen but was nonetheless excellent while the Cody was unfavorable all around. So at Stop & Shop last week, browsing the bombers for a truly-meaningful-first-regular-season-game, the Sticke and its generous shelf space presented a conundrum. Would this be similar to the alt of my youth? To the mixed bag of 2011? Did I even like the Harpoon in the first place or was it their least offensive product? Is it admitted failure to release limited-edition beers? Regardless, I did enjoy it. It won't be the best of the season but it didn't inspire regret either—that's the best you can hope for after grocery shopping on Route 1, a few miles from two strip clubs and a few more from Hooters. I'll bet you can find Harpoon IPA at all three.

Up next: Ndamukong Suh's capability to injure scares me more than Ryan Tannehill's to throw touchdowns. Cheers!

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

The beer: Jack's Abby Copper Legend Octoberfest Lager/Founders All-Day India Pale Ale
The commentary: Good lord, is it time already? To post every week? These are the problems I create for myself. Instead of keeping the old bloggo muscles in shape—writing about, I don't know, Captain Fucking Beefheart—I'm thrown into the white-hot cauldron of wordsmithing with no sign of a thesaurus-shaped bucket of ice. (See what I'm talking about?)

Instead I enjoyed my Summer, so swiftly it flew! Newport, Ogunquit, North Attleborough. A horrid factory of bouncy structures and germs called Monkey Joe's, where you must buy overpriced children's socks if you forget to bring your own. L7 at the Paradise, reliving my first club show experience in the same venue with the same band. An evening at the Crane Estate with pizza, mosquitos and a Beatles cover band that shunned much of the post-Help! material. A daddy–daughter date to Canobie Lake Park. A party celebrating five years of my beautiful girl. And training camp, of course. With a new dress!

We went later this year, forgoing late-July heat for mid-August heat and a joint practice with the Bears (more on them in a bit). Yes, it's the one where Gronk pulled his hamstring. And now he's out tomorrow. Drag. G. wasn't much into having her picture taken that afternoon so I'm left with several of the back of her head. But the curls! The curls.

Aside from Gronk's injury, this session was notable for a brawl between the teams, stemming from some extracurricular activity between local hero Malcolm Butler and talented-exception-that-proves-the-rule Alshon Jeffery. My dad couldn't get enough. G. just wanted more pretzels.

What is the team's outlook? Can Jimmy Garoppolo keep us afloat? Will Brady seek further hairstyling tips from Zachery Ty Bryan?

Should I tempt fate by picking the Texans for week one of my knockout pool, seeking again the glory of my championship season? And also by picking against the Bears, which ended my runs in week one of 2013 and week four last year? What is it with me and the Bears, anyway? The Fridge's touchdown didn't bother me too much. I was eleven.

Why did the shot of her scratching her butt turn out the best? Admittedly I did not watch much of the all-important third preseason game. Instead I coughed up twenty bucks to subscribe to Patriots Football Daily on my iPad, hoping to be informed enough (between it and Mike Reiss's coverage) going into the regular season. Those guys really liked Rufus Johnson. Huh. (I have an iPad. Huh.)

Two weeks ago I took a day off to bring G. to Canobie Lake Park in southern New Hampshire. It was the "big" amusement park of my youth (larger and farther away than the former Whalom Park, gone the way of the thirty-years-defunct Whalom Drive-In that should be the setting of the next horror franchise—eerie!) and will play a role in that Trout Mask Replica albatross one day. Shudder.

You bet we rode the carousel first! And second and third. G. was more interested in looking at the outside of the haunted "Mine of Lost Souls" ride than anything else, asking over and over if and how it was really scary. I spoke of animatronics, jump scares and strobe lights but needn't have said so much—I had her at animatronics after a dancing Santa Claus scared the bejesus out of her a few Christmases ago. Still she was fascinated, and after awhile I suggested we move on, noting we could come back for the 3:30 magic show next door if she wanted. We retreated to the carousel for a couple more rides (four and five) and then I suggested the Ferris wheel, which was a big hit. She'll be ready for those lost souls in no time.

Lunch was next, followed by a train ride around the park that took way too long. I begged her to hop off halfway through but she wasn't having it. Eventually (mercifully) it ended in time to grab popcorn before catching the magic show in which I participated (and will reveal no secrets) to G's delight. Though it might have been the popcorn. Another few loops on another purple Ferris wheel car and then three more rides on the carousel, on her own (!) on a stationary lion once because she really wanted to sit on that lion. Ups and downs are overrated sometimes.

Oh yeah, we got a blue Italian ice in there somewhere. Happy birthday, monkey!

Up next: God help the NFL if Garoppolo can win two games, even if this isn't one of them. Cheers!

What the shit was and what wasn’t the shit

There are forty-eight planets and moons in our solar system and one hundred ninety-five visible stars in the universe. And there it is. Longtime readers (!) tripped up by last year's abbreviated playlist, tallying "only" thirty-six songs at a brisk two and three-quarter hours—and down almost three thousand words from 2014—will surely find comfort in another forty-eight songs, another three and one-quarter hours, achieved again with no stopwatch. A familiar blanket on a broken-in couch watching, I don't know, Frasier. Eating chili. Drinking oatmeal stout.

But it's not all kittens and pancakes. This was a mistake. The songs are great—Biff! Bang! Pow! and all—but partway through the heaviness sets in a little too heavy. Maybe I'm projecting my own distaste for writing so many anecdotes/abstractions/Wikipedia copy-and-pastes. Let's hope I refer back to this next May so it doesn't happen again. So it doesn't happen to me again. Thirty-six songs are plenty. Thirty? Maybe UFO's "Star Storm," Acid Mothers Temple's "Loved and Confused" and call it a day.

Excited yet?

I'm underselling. In truth I've never let my reader down and I would know because I am that reader, pouring over old posts to clean up typos, inaccuracies and general bad taste. The other night, instead of starting season five of The Sopranos, I dicked around with HTML for a couple of hours before figuring out how to adjust the leading in the sidebar. These are the problems I create for myself. That "More cream please" list of my favorite posts, you think it's static? And let's not get into how many times I've made changes to an off-the-cuff, hastily arranged and barely considered 2010 stopgap that eventually inspired more cross-referential links than Stephen King's bibliography. I'm disappointed it took so long to write about last year's Super Bowl win (the actual game) and this year's playoff loss because the zeitgeist elapsed and the game details were forgotten. I'm mortified that I have yet to finalize my Trout Mask Replica post, first mentioned in 2010 and drafted in 2012. If not this Summer then 2018, when I'll pretend the plan all along was to commemorate twenty-five years of octafish awareness. Little Nitty weeps.

Outliers aside, Volume 8 is an even-keeled, solid whole. I'm no Lenny Kaye but I do alright. Zeal and wordsmithing balance the mellow gloom of sparse arrangements and fallen heroes while old favorites return and a couple of guys stick around for curtain calls. Scanning and manipulating stock photography was also a good time, to the point where "the album cover" looks like a bad Flaming Lips bootleg.

Thank you. I feel much better.

---

1. Ya Ho Wa 13 – Ho
Let's start with Father Yod and his timpani, straight out of 2001, teasing an instrumental premise (reminiscent of Volume 6) that will be mildly accurate. I picture the man's followers as the Manson Family without the Manson-ness but let's confirm on Wikipedia: "Known for having a violent temper, Baker [James Edward Baker, a.k.a. Father Yod, a.k.a. YaHoWha] reportedly killed a neighbor over a dispute involving a dog." Who hasn't? Repeated chants of "Hoooooo" let us know where we're headed.

2. Embryo – People From Out the Space
Embryo earned its title-track distinction once the aforementioned, nineteen-minute "Star Storm" was discarded for, I don't know, space reasons. Har! Har! Embryo is a favorite of the various krautrock stations I listen to on Google Play (formerly Songza) since A. and I bit the bullet on a fifteen-dollar monthly, commercial-free "family plan." Streaming is the future but owning will always be necessary, as that kid taking a selfie over there will discover once DIIV or Alt-J or whatever bullshit names bands are calling themselves these days wise up to it. Embryo (now there's a name!) almost fell into one of last year's instrumental slots with "Kurdistan" and even had a second contender here in the Canned Heat-sampling "It's That Way"—the introduction, though, is too much even for me. Instead it's Opal's "People From Out the Space," likely a bad translation from some single thirty-letter German word that actually means "Think the Source Family would have us?"

3. Eternal Tapestry – Sand Into Rain
Eternal Tapestry's singer is humbled to introduce our first proper lyrics, fourteen minutes in, having just awoken after a night of Quaaludes, leftover turkey and whole milk. "She picks one of many otherzzzz." As do I! "Sand Into Rain" is a beautiful Velvet Underground-exploiting dirge that sets a foundation for the folk to come and represents every good thing the seventies eventually turned away from. It only took punk, disco, rap, industrial, grunge, Britpop, math rock, trance, nu metal, crossover country, contemporary R&B and Justin Bieber to bring it back.

4. Ty Segall – The Magazine
A. and I were supposed to have a Date Night on a Tuesday in March, getting dinner and drinks before passing through the former Combat Zone to take in Ty Segall in all his creepy-baby-mask glory. G. was psyched for a sleepover and, goddammit, we were psyched for some adult time. Unfortunately, said sleepover host came down with a fever and we had enough illness a couple of years ago with a fever and stomach bug that tore through all three of us. No thanks. Unfortunately, since I'm the bigger Segall fan (more to come below, even), A. gave me the green light to carry on and, accompanied by longtime friend Oskar, that is what I did. The show was all I expected and more as the band played, I think, Emotional Mugger in its entirety, followed by an encore of "greatest hits" like "Feel" and "Thank God for Sinners." There will be other concerts. There will be other dates. But there will not be another virus.

5. Blossom Dearie – That's Just the Way I Want to Be
Aquarium Drunkard has—with questionable rights management—gifted me dozens of deep tracks by artists I likely wouldn't have grown familiar with otherwise. Blossom Dearie is one of them. Looking past her 1970 LP's purple-and-orange sleeve (the butterfly's and my favorite colors, respectively), which already promotes it as wonderful (I collect daddy/daughter moments by the barrel), this is one of those songs I don't want to end. AD isn't perfect—deciding to fade out "Sister Ray" halfway through during their Sirius XMU radio show a few weeks ago was odd (just play "I Heard Her Call My Name" next time, guys)—but I'm forever grateful for a track that outshines all flaws. Her easy and gorgeous vocal, the swelling strings, horns and percussion… I want to live here.

6. Richard Twice – If I Knew You Were the One
"I'm gonna go get the papers, get the papers." Actually, it's two guys named Richard, so never mind. It must have been awkward when their friends Malcolm and Rusty asked to jam. And look, the Kingsmen's Don Galucci played keyboards on the album! Right around the time he was involved with Fun House. I guess "Richard Twice and Don, Malcolm, Rusty, Dave, Drake, Louis, Lawrence, Alex, Gary, Colin and Mark Once Each" wouldn't fit around their sideburns on the cover.

7. Thee Headcoats – Where Are the Children That Hitler Kissed?
This is a little out of context minus the photograph on the back of The Messerschmitt Pilot's Severed Hand but I won't show that here. I'm sure there are inter-net locations where the trading of Third Reich imagery is met with enthusiasm and, yeah, I don't seek that association. Instead, if you really need to see for yourself without shadowy federal agents swarming your house (though there's not much to it, just the man admiring a meadow full of Germany's future) then head over to Discogs. I'll sell you the disc for seven dollars. US!

8. Keith West – On a Saturday
Around Christmas I finally watched Michelangelo Antonioni's Blow-Up after recording it on Turner Classic Movies like three years ago. It hasn't aged well since December, never mind since 1966: there's a dead guy and then there isn't, followed by mime tennis. Fin. And this happens: "A buzz in [Jeff] Beck's amplifier angers him so much he smashes his guitar on stage, then throws its neck into the crowd, the photographer makes a grab for it as a souvenir. The photographer grabs the neck and runs out of the club before anyone can snatch it from him. Then he has second thoughts about it, throws it on the pavement and walks away. A passer-by picks up the neck and throws it back down, not realizing it's from Jeff Beck's guitar." As cameos go? A+. As plot development? Erm… anyway, Keith West's In Crowd was originally cast in this crucial scene but got one-upped, and so their rocking "Blow-Up" didn't even make the soundtrack (scored by Herbie Hancock). Too much care-free optimism for this set. I planned to soften the fifty-year-old blow by including it here but the glove didn't fit as well as West's post-Tomorrow solo single (still featuring Tomorrow's Steve Howe) and so… yeah. What a shitty movie.

9. Solomon Burke – Home in Your Heart
Even the Ty Segall and Billy Childish rockers so far have been understated. ("Stick your jackboot in your own mouth"… understated?) Let's go to church! "Just to Find Me a Home in Your Heart" was a working title for the playlist but I can't see myself sticking to that level of romance. I would have to pay attention to lyrics. Instead, let's recognize these two minutes and six seconds as perfection and enjoy, for the simplest solution is usually the right one.

10. Easybeats – For My Woman
I'm glad it eventually worked out between these two, with Stevie suffering a series of five-day grinds, nagged from all sides, on his way to Friday nights ("toniiight!") in the city with his woman. She is outta sight. But man, he sounds close to the abyss here. Those little sobs!

11. The Brian Jonestown Massacre – Straight Up and Down
I really wanted to go with "That Girl Suicide" here but I already pulled the "I watched (x) so I should include (y) but instead I choose (z)" with Keith West above. We watched the entirety of Boardwalk Empire so I should include "Straight Up and Down" (short version) and I do. A. turned to butter when the opening credits rolled for the pilot and I said "Brian Jonestown Massacre?" after a few notes. Walk on into the sea, Nucky. Five seasons was just right.

12. Deviants – Somewhere to Go
During our anniversary dinner a few weeks ago I got to talking about my upcoming playlist in spite of the fact that A. hasn't read my blog since I forced her to appreciate the "lunging assassin" and "Spotman" entries in another postponed come-to-Jesus moment. What do you want, I was four beers in. Discussing the Deviants and Hawkwind (who, all told, might be the band that best encapsulates everything I like about music… and is excluded now in seven out of eight tries) for some reason I commented on their "filthy sheen" and sent her into fits of laughter. See? She should read more often.

13. Pentagram – Be Forewarned
"I gone to bed with many ladies, killed many men, 'fore my sixteenth year was done!" Sweet youth. Again, who hasn't? (Not me.) It was my turn for schooling because Pentagram was A's discovery and I'm a better man for it. The singer sounded familiar and I eventually placed him in Bedemon ("Pity the misguided virgin…"), a concurrent side project sharing many of the same players. "Be Forewarned" is the version from First Daze Here Too, the second volume of mostly unreleased material following, yes, First Daze Here. The "proper" version of the song was released as a single under the group name Macabre—Macabre!—and A. doesn't care for either. That's OK. She can have "Lazylady."

14. White Fence – Trouble Is Trouble Never Seen
White Fence is my first foray into what Wikipedia classifies as "associated acts" of Ty Segall (Thee Oh Sees are next), though I have yet to pick up their Hair collaboration. And look! An associated act of main man Tim Presley is the Fall, for whose Reformation Post TLC he was a proper member. "Baaank bahlahnce!" Good for him. Anyway, this song reminds me of Donald Rumsfeld's 2002 discussion of known knowns, known unknowns and unknown unknowns, often mocked for gibberish. The man was a monster but I know what he meant. Trouble is trouble never seen.

15. Motörhead – White Line Fever
1977 B-side (to a cover of Motown's "Leaving Here") taken from the compilation Punk Is Our Life. Lemmy's was the first of the recent passings to affect me, more in the "I'll miss his music" vein than the "I'll miss his existence" with David Bowie. (Prince and Glenn Frey didn't register much, though in honor of my old Purple Rain cassette I did wear a purple paisley tie after Prince died.) His September WTF interview was fascinating as it always is with the guy, riffing on sex and drugs, criticizing past collaborators and apologizing for nothing. Shit, I guess I do miss his existence.

16. Barbara Dane – When I Was a Young Girl
"Well, when I was a young girl, what did I see? A well shaped body with her back to me! Sittin' in her chair with an all-white gown she said 'Barbara Dane, won't you please lay down?'" Sorry, I'm running out of steam early. Barbara Dane's is too important a voice for this puerile shit and I offend even myself.

17. Tia Blake & Her Folk-Group – Hangman
Alternately told as "The Maid Freed From the Gallows" and "The Gallis Pole" since the late nineteenth century, the original "Gallows Pole" was somehow written by Jimmy Page in 1970. Right? Willie Dixon, Jake Holmes and Randy California concur. Tia's Folk-Group leaves us with—spoiler alert—a happy ending: "Yes, I have brought you hope." Lovely.

18. Link Wray – Tail Dragger
"Because of the change in style from his earlier work, the album was poorly received by Link Wray's fan base." So a musician isn't allowed to evolve beyond thirteen years of "Rumble" retreads? It's a great song and I'd be curious to hear what "Rumble '71" sounds like (epic length, dueling guitars, motorik) but Howlin' Wolf's "Tail Dragger" emerges with blues earth and swagger. "I get what I wah-wah-waaannnt!" Even if regular viewers of Pulp Fiction don't.

19. David Bowie – The Supermen
David Bowie's death took a lot out of me, unexpectedly. I remain a fan of his early period, finding much to love from the early variety of singles and collars (Davy/Davie/David/King Bees/Manish Boys/Lower Third) and both self-titled albums ('67 and '69) through Aladdin Sane. (After that, though, it really thins out. A handful of tracks from Pin Ups and Diamond Dogs are right up there but beyond that his music isn't for me. "Heroes" is nice enough but I don't get the whole Berlin/Eno period that people lose their shit over. I loved "Let's Dance"… when I was twelve. So keep Young Americans and everything that came after in a box somewhere, though I suppose I should give Blackstar a listen.) My high school friends and I would play "Suffragette City" on the jukebox at Pizza Hut every Friday and it was pure joy. In college I picked up The Best of David Bowie 1969–1974 (I stand by my 2006 opinions) for the hits and some standout deep cuts like "Starman" and "The Man Who Sold the World" and felt satisfied. A few years later I borrowed the Sound and Vision boxed set from a friend and rented Ziggy Stardust: The Motion Picture and remembered "Oh yeah!" Mick Ronson and the Spiders were fucking great. I was fully on board and still am. Drag.

20. Mudhoney – Judgment, Rage, Retribution and Thyme
Calling all charcoal-grilling enthusiasts! Do you fear self-immolation every time you strike a match after dousing your coals with what you hope is a safe amount of lighter fluid only to taste nothing but kerosene for three days? Conversely, are you swayed by "natural, eco-friendly" promises on a five-dollar bottle of bullshit at Home Depot that only succeeds in smoking out the neighborhood sans flame? Gather round and gaze at the wonder of inter-net sensation "You-Tube" and its greatest four minutes. This is fool-proof, though stick with olive oil because vegetable oil was a struggle. Another trick to help keep the bugs away is to throw some sage and rosemary right on the coals. Lastly, install this vulgar bottle opener somewhere within reach. You are now ready to be popular. (Illiterates alone would expect "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme" here)

21. My Solid Ground – The Executioner
Tia Blake's executioner wasn't going home without blood on his hands, hanging thousands from gallows constructed with prog. You'd be exhausted too. Sorry, Procol Harum. If ever you were relevant, it ceased with My Solid Ground in 1971. Just in time for Tarkus. (Shudder.)

22. St. John Green – Canyon Women
"Cahhhn-yuhhhn. Wooo-mahn." Produced by Kim Fowley. Well duh! "He laid out to us what was essentially a plan to create and record a new style of music—'The Canyon Sound.' We were to be his muse as he wove this 'mystical tale about the dark shadows of the canyon and the mysterious canyon people who had left the world behind to become one with nature' and all that jazz." This "Canyon Sound" resembles incidental orgy jamming, a little-known subgenre all outside the Canyon would do well to explore!

23. Byrds – John Riley
I'm heavy on traditional folk songs this year (total: two). "In the last stanza, the suitor reveals that he is in fact John Riley, returned from the seas, and has been testing his beloved." What is the fascination with disguising oneself in order to test your lover's loyalty? At Christmastime we watched—for the first and last time—Rankin-Bass's 1967 adaptation of The Cricket on the Hearth and G. adored that unholy bug. How Roddy MacDowall's fortune would change a year later. A. and I couldn't get over the extended ruse that seemed to stretch for years and restrained ourselves from screaming at the television "Just tell her! She mourns you!" At least in "John Riley" it's a relatively short conversation, though it remains unclear why he insists on presenting multiple scenarios that might break her heart instead of, you know, embracing her. I prefer the "version" where I hear the woman's "I wish them health" (in response to her "true love's" theoretical marriage to another) as "I wish them hell" because the Byrds' harmony softens the last syllable in order to rhyme it with "dwell." Now there's a twist! Instead she enables his bullshit.

24. Small Faces – I Feel Much Better
The stereo album version from the American response to Small Faces Small Faces Small Faces (which never included this B-side), wonderfully renamed There Are but Four Small Faces. False ending alert! Thus ends side one. Now get up off your chair, stroll to your turntable and flip the bastard over because certain precious folks insist this antiquated practice is "part of the vinyl experience," just like the pops, scratches and skips that engineers absolutely place one by one for your listening pleasure. And when records plain wear out from overplaying? That is artistic achievement. (Twelve singles and LPs still available! Feel the hipster fad!)

25. Booker T. & the MG's – Cleveland Now
Cleveland now, Cleveland 2016 (future strongman Donald Trump incinerates thousands at July's GOP convention), Cleveland 2008 (kicked out of the Winking Lizard in June after an early last call and forced to watch the Celtics lose game five in our hotel before declaring "Fix!"), Cleveland 1974 (Rocket From the Tombs and the Electric Eels evoking World War II), Cleveland 2038 (Blue Cheer becomes the last San Francisco-based psychedelic band inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame). And: scene.

26. Benny Joy – Nowhere
"No-hh-where." Oh, the capital H that begins all "wh-" syllables for some people. Benny Joy, about whom I know nothing, was another featured artist on Aquarium Drunkard. "Nowhere" is the best of his three songs "made available" and offers maybe the saddest, most despondent vocal I've ever heard. And the guitar is right there with him—AD calls it "noirish" but it's more tragic than that, like the player has a few minutes to live. Peaks and valleys, folks. That's what (barely) sustains a forty-eight song playlist.

27. Weird War – I'll Never Forget What's-His-Name
The singer is barely recognizable as Ian Svenonius, which is why I can sequence this so closely to the upcoming Chain & the Gang selection. But Michelle Mae? No mistaking her. This is taken from the various-artist "concept album" Colonel Jeffrey Pumpernickel, who I assume is our anonymous subject. Poor dead bastard.

28. Pussy Galore – Understand Me
"Hey Bob! It's me, Caroline Records president Dick Johnson. I am putting you in charge of censoring 'Understand Me' from your new album Dial M for Motherfu– well, you know what it's called. I can't reason with Jon, always with the 'F-ing' this and 'F-er' that—there's no talking to him. You've got a cool head and a long, steady career ahead of you so I trust you to man the console, listen along and press the white button to beep out each curse word. Oh, sure, use your Saab dipstick. Censorship is a precise business and I know how tight you are with that thing. We'll need to wipe out those Goldfinger and 2 Live Crew samples too, there's no way we get the clearance. Thanks man! Another PMRC bullet dodged!"

29. Pretty Things – October 26
"October 26, 1775: King George III of Great Britain goes before Parliament to declare the American colonies in rebellion, and authorizes a military response to quell the American Revolution." And here I assumed this was about the Bolsheviks in 1917. Well, "about" is a strong word. I think it reinterprets the Intolerable Acts as a series of steps to restrict the trade of wah-wah pedals in Massachusetts Bay.

30. Versus – Mouth of Heaven
"Morning Glory" was always the stand-out track from 1998's Two Cents Plus Tax. (1998: sneaky excellent year in music.) WZBC loved it, probably WMBR too. I bought the album for it and made sure to arrive early enough when they opened the Blonde Redhead show at TT's. It's still a great song but very of its time—in the wake of Smashing Pumpkins with Death Cab for Cutie, June of 44 and At the Drive-In, etc. "Mouth of Heaven," though, is the real treat. Seventies patience, eighties shoegaze, nineties boy/girl… if the kids today actually knew how to rock it wouldn't be out of place on Alt Nation. I'd still include it here because we de-favorited that station years ago.

31. Chain & the Gang – Detroit Music (Part 1)
Oh, Calvin. Now you know what it's like to be confused after we tolerated your intermittent croaks and tight high-water jeans smothering our favorite nineties indie-makers. We'll always have "Fudgy the Whale." Like the threat of a "No No Man" sandwich two years ago, the temptation was present to include parts one and two of "Detroit Music." Its concept is great but trivializes the real-world problems of Detroit's citizenry… have you ever sat through an entire Lions game? Mercy, mercy me!

32. Kool Keith – Dark Vader
"Watchin' DVD with my new baay-tuh." Try Blu-ray, doc. Don't you know it's 2009 in my house, where we've just "upgraded" the DVD player to a Blu-ray? Basically for the copy of Help! I won from In the Studio a couple of years ago and the release of The Force Unleashed, which I preordered on Amazon because I'm that guy. I gave its theatrical release some space, waiting until New Year's weekend to see it with a friend at a small Salem cinema since 3D is for suckers. (My other recent theater experiences were The Revenant by myself and Zootopia as a family, which kicked off a newfound love of bunnies that was reinforced when we saw one outside the mall on Sunday.) Say what you want about it rehashing Star Wars (which will always be Star Wars to me instead of the retconned A New Hope) but it was all I'd wished for and more after the calamity of the prequels. That last scene? That last scene! I look forward to watching it with A. and, one day, the entire series with G. Maybe even the bad ones. Eventually.

33. The Idle Race – Days of the Broken Arrows
"The Idle Race—the first album to be produced by [Jeff] Lynne—was eventually released in November 1969. When the two Lynne-penned, Lynne-produced singles that preceded it—'Days of the Broken Arrows' in April 1969 and 'Come With Me' in July 1969—also failed to chart, their composer's frustration mounted." This eventually led to Electric Light Orchestra and the death of rock. "Days of the Broken Arrows" is too, too good for so sorry a legacy—the last forty seconds, with all the guitar tracks on top of the chunk-a-ch-chunk-a-ch-chunk-a-ch-chunk riff? Fuck yeah. ("Come With Me"? Not so much.)

34. Hot Lunch – Gold Lyre
"It was my turn for schooling because [fill in the blank] was my wife's discovery and I'm a better man for it." Redux! A. gave me Hot Lunch for my birthday last year and the review (which I think is this one) accompanying the CD might as well have been written about me. References to the MC5, Black Sabbath, Blue Cheer, Sir Lord Baltimore, the Groundhogs, Alice Cooper, the Who, the Doors, the Misfits? If Hot Lunch weren't so earnest in their endeavor compared to the cheeky crunch of Mudhoney or the technical mastery of Cream I'd call shenanigans and lawyer up.

35. 2 Star Tabernacle – Ramblin' Man
The "Ramblin' Man" single was released around the time of Andre Williams's bare-assed, Gories-supported Silky LP and you can hear the same urgency as in its "Everybody Knew." Jack White's contribution on this Hank Williams cover is unmistakable but the Black Godfather hogs the spotlight as usual. The fifteen-second bridge is far too short ("I gotta see! I gotta go! I gotta gooo!") and the coda is drenched in white-hot tragic mirth: "And when I'm gone… I'm gooone… and on my grave you stand? I say 'Good God almighty! Here I [blubbering], a ramblin'… ramblin'… ramblin'… maaaaahhhnnn.'" Someone get the guy a tissue!

36. Breakout – Do Kogo Idziesz
Who is Breakout? Who is Mira? What is "Do Kogo Idziesz"? Breakout is a prolific group formed in Poland during Thee Zenith Year. Mira is Mira Kubasińska, who may or may not have been a formal member of the band but fronted them on 1971's namesake Mira and others. "Do Kogo Idziesz" translates to "Your Daughter Is Three-Eighths Polish So Sit on Those Jokes."

37. PJ Harvey – Legs
Seven female singers/leaders is a strong showing for me, which is likely part of the larger problem. When originally compiling a list of those worthy of winning a Biffy^® (though it was not yet called that—lo, the power of the edit button) I was half soused and more engaged in playoff football. The initiative to bust up several ties was absent and it was an embarrassing and cowardly display. Some time later I conceded that tough men are forced to make tough decisions. Handsome men, too. Tough, handsome decisions. As a result, even with all my post-publish tinkering, Rid of Me was dropped in favor of Enter the Wu-Tang (again and again!) and, today, one and one-third "lady bands" remain among the fifty-two in Sleater-Kinney and Yo La Tengo's Georgia Hubley. (Fela Kuti probably had a few dozen women in the room and Hawkwind had Stacia, alas they are ignored by the auditors.) Shameful behavior. At least Sleater-Kinney won the Super-Biffy^® and it was not a token gesture, I assure you. But still, I have a daughter for crying out loud.

38. Mule – The Rope and the Cuckold
In which A's iPhone took the first two pictures and my Moto X took the third. My truer colors and I win this round, Jony Ive. Since moving north over a year ago I had to find a new dentist, realizing how impractical it was to drive to my old town no matter how much I liked the hygienist's gentle touch. This process was expedited in January when G. and I were horsing around at night before wham! I was flat on the bed and her whole body, leading with her teeth, came crashing down onto my own mouth. I felt the large chip floating around my mouth but ignored it for a second while checking her situation (decent laceration on her gums but otherwise OK). Since my at-the-time current dentist was not answering the phone the next morning (on a Friday!) I resorted to stepping up the local search and found a practice that could take me immediately. Sold! (Every day I'm aware of the composite making up a quarter of my upper-right tooth. It feels like wood. At least G. and I match now.) A month later I returned for a regular cleaning and astounded everyone in the room (earning a "Patient of the Day" gift basket) by identifying CW McCall (but not Mark E. Smith) as the singer of 1975's "Convoy" (but not 1982's "I'm Into CB"), playing on yonder waiting-room classic-rock station. In truth, I conflated either "FW McCall" (FW Webb is a local plumbing outfit that advertises the shit out of sporting events) or "PW McCall" (PW Long is the lead man in Mule and Reelfoot) but close enough. I wasn't giving back that orange toothbrush.

39. Blue Cheer – Doctor Please
Vincebus Eruptum's first representative, somehow, since before G. was born. It's not like I have the motherfucking "Latin" gibberish tattooed on my arm. Or the guitar solo from "Out of Focus" as my ringtone. "Give it… to me doctor!" GlaxoSmithKline is opening trials of LeighStephens-D later this month. Sign up at www.fuzzzzzwhirrrrrrrrchuuunnnnkkkkkalllriiighttt.com today!

40. Mr. Lif – Whizdom
Worlds collided when Mr. Lif appeared on an episode of the PFW in Progress podcast last month. I've been a fan of his for fifteen years and awarded his stunning I Phantom with the penultimate honor (last year's essential-reading ceremony is the ultimate). In return, recognizing that I haven't missed a PFW in Progress since seeking out all things Patriots during the "undefeated" season (and excepting a brief blackout period following the unpleasantness), Lif recorded a theme song for the show a couple of years ago—not as good as his and the Perceptionists' "The Razor" but that's a high bar ("Much thanks to Ricky Proehl!"). He's a fan too and was a good guest, spending a few tasteful minutes promoting his new Don't Look Down and offering decent football—and hip-hop—insight without ruining the show like "Nick Baby Love" with his sob-story this (come on, that one caller's cancer joke was funny) and his Twitter that. Enough. I'll borrow my man Jason Josephes's quote about Paul Stanley and his 1978 solo album: "I'd poop in his fish tank and flush the goldfish down the toilet. That's right, I'd give him the dreaded Shitfish." That about covers it.

41. Six Finger Satellite – Human Operator
The vinyl salvage continues with the return of the classic Six Finger Satellite lineup. "I have medals on my chest." As you should! It didn't come up last year as I didn't pick anything from my digitized and mostly liquidized record collection but that ripping process was a real pain in the ass. I do not miss my turntable at all.

42. Neighb'rhood Childr'n – Long Years in Space
Oh yeah, remember that space thing? I love it when a concept is seen through, like Sgt. Pepper with the Lonely Hearts Club Band, the meter maids and the… holes… in Blackburn… Lancashire? Anyway, the Neighb'rhood Childr'n album cover is about as far away from space, progress or basic responsibility as one can get. That street sign? That street sign! X-Acto knives and cowbells were fully stocked at Acta Records in 1968.

43. Monkees – PO Box 9847
"I've been writing advertising, that's not really meee." Hey, we all majored in journalism with a concentration in advertising. It's odd that the Monkees assumed more control with 1967's Headquarters and did OK commercially and artistically ("For Pete's Sake" ranks among career highlights) only to dial it back to Brill Building/Wrecking Crew output with the subsequent Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd. and even further with The Birds, the Bees and the Monkees. "PO Box 9847" is a Boyce & Hart number and features only Mickey Dolenz's vocal and… I guess it still sounds like "the Monkees." Carry on.

44. Jingo – Keep Holdin' On (Part 1)
Dope synthesizer but whither "Part 2"? Maybe it's for the best—say, if Jingo realized there are things you can't just "go get," never mind hold onto, and the positive vibes eased away from the B-side. "If you need a thing, go out and get it. 'Less your car won't start. Keep-a holdin' on. Come on out, baby. I'm back for love! Oh, you have company. Keep on keepin' on."

45. Fuzz – Say Hello
Very polite of Master Segall, greeting us a second time instead of playing it too cool for school. "I've been here all along, haven't you?" Challenge is picking your favorite song from Fuzz II, or Emotional Mugger at that. This was a candidate to kick things off until I remembered I'm incapable of a lead track released after 1974 (Volume 1, pre-2009 rechristening, doesn't count). We wouldn't want Father Yod to kill again.

46. Pugh Rogefeldt – Surabaya Johnny
"Remember the whole cabaret rock thing in the mid nineties? Me neither." Combustible Edison covered and introduced me to this Kurt Weill ballad from the musical Happy End. It felt silky and ironic. But here? Dig the tension of those breaks! His guitar sounds terrified. Rogefeldt made waves elsewhere by allowing (?) his "Love, Love, Love" (also from Ja, Dä ä Dä!) to be chopped up by DJ Shadow on "Mutual Slump." Lots of mid-nineties, college-era talk over a forty-eight-year-old album.

47. Rolling Stones – Jigsaw Puzzle
A. has a new job where she gets to work from home every day—I couldn't do it, man—which means my solo commute has solidified to a fifty-minute train ride each way. As a result, when not producing internal nicknames for my fellow regular riders ("Cold Blooded" is the young woman who stops at nothing to board ahead of everyone else, inspiring me to coin the verb "to coldblood"; "Outback" fancies, no matter the weather, a brimmed Crocodile Dundee hat; "Ben Gardner" bores his companion with boating supply catalogs), I read like I haven't since before G. was born. Twenty Thirty, The Gone-Away World, Bird Box, Little Man, etc. Keith Richards's Life was one of them and is the best biography or autobiography I've ever read. It's technical in parts and covers large chunks of his post-Exile on Main St. career that isn't very good but the man can tell a story. That's what I like best here, his written voice—even cleaned up by a professional—is clearly his voice. I was engrossed as if he were sitting next to me, shooting the shit. The opposite, you ask? An odd project called Beatleness by "sociologist, first-generation Beatles fan and Beatles scholar" Candy Leonard. It's a dry, chronological, redundant account of American Beatle fandom with quotes from what must be dozens of former teenagers, attributed anonymously as "Male (b '51)" or "Female (b '47)." The insight ranges from "I liked their long hair" to "Yoko was weird." I'm unable to discard a book without finishing—it's a weakness—but it was difficult to remain motivated with this one. "Read forty-five pages today and I'll close it forever in three train rides. Do it!" The one thing—one sentence—that surprised me was a throwaway scene-setter regarding the Billboard charts when "Lady Madonna" was released in 1968: "Gary Puckett & the Union Gap's 'Young Girl,' one of their six interchangeable top-twenty hits about deflowering virgins, was number two." I laughed out loud and then continued reading as fast as I could.

48. Bikini Kill – New Radio
I remember getting a new single-speaker radio/cassette-player when I was a kid, sitting in my room, recording my own "commercials" for Splinter of the Mind's Eye and listening over and over to John Cougar Mellenc– "Let's wipe our come on my parents' bed!" My ears, my innocent ears! Sadly, my favorite Julie doesn't seem to be doing well. I was home sick a couple of days back in January and went apeshit on Netflix, alternating between intriguing crap like Escape From Tomorrow (intriguing) and The Colony (crap) and movies I was actually excited about like Blow-Up (crap!) and The Punk Singer. The latter was excellent and I look forward to someday watching it with my fiercely independent and principled daughter. I knew nothing about Kathleen Hanna's battle with Lyme disease and never really thought about that long gap between Le Tigre's breakup and the Julie Ruin's rebirth, figuring Kathleen had either achieved what she wanted or grew bored with or exhausted by the process. If it were so simple. After a relatively happy ending, Wikipedia knocked the wind out of me: "In May 2014, it was announced that Hanna's Lyme disease condition had deteriorated, forcing her to enter a three-month course of treatment and cancel live performances with her band." Drag. Look past my starstruck flirtations (1, 2, 3) as I dedicate Volume 8 to Kathleen.

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In which we multiply by four and divide by three: sixteen songs from the sixties (nine from '68 as order is restored), thirteen from the seventies (five from '70, thus fulfilling the prophecy), one from the eighties, nine from the nineties, two from the aughts and seven from the teens. God bless you, daughter. Please stop peeing on me with your towel penis.

More furious madness: Volume 1 | Volume 2 | Volume 3 | Volume 4 | Volume 5 | Volume 6 | Volume 7