Beer and football VII — playoffs, week threeAFC Championship

The game: Steelers at Patriots
The beer: Flying Dreams Nightcrawler Dark Ale
The result: Win, 36–17
The commentary: The "watch live" plan didn't quite work out. And I think we read The Gift of Nothing, having borrowed it from Steeler defensive coordinator Keith Butler. "Coach, Brady is picking us apart. This zone shit isn't working. What adjustments can we make?" "Nothing!" "Really? There isn't anything we should change up?" "Nothing!" "Yesh!"

In between over-earnest reminders from local media that "this is special" and how we're "lucky and should appreciate" this unprecedented run of success—it is and I am—confidence levels were hard to judge. In general there wasn't so much of a buzz going into the AFC Championship, which maybe indicates that people weren't worried. I was to some extent for three obvious reasons: Brown, Bell and Roethlisberger, in that order, and then Bell went down, Pats cornerback Eric Rowe knocked every pass to the ground was bailed out by bad drops and Chris Hogan's breakout furthered the narrative of inept chaos in Buffalo—at least the Dolphins got a second-rounder for Wes Welker—as Tom Brady, lo, outplayed even his best. I await the internet's hot takes.

So it's on to Houston again. The parallels to XXXVIII are eerie but I'll not get too hung up on that before wondering if Justin Timberlake, Janet Jackson and Ricky Proehl will be snuggled under a blanket eating pizza somewhere. I also can't wait for media members in attendance to complain about the sprawl. You can set your watch to that shit. Anything can happen outside of that, though I expect something along the lines of XXXIX against the Eagles, with the Pats outplaying the Falcons for most of the game and a final score closer than it should have been. More expert analysis next week!

One post-Christmas mystery finally solved: Late last month we received a giant box from A's sister and her family. It was addressed to G. and reeked of bad taste, for the unwrapped box presented "Mēbo: Your robotic alter ego!" What in the worldwide fuck? They picked this out for her? Or re-gifted it? Didn't they see my RadioShack think piece? Also, it clearly reads "ages 8+" right on the front of the box (darling monkey is five). Is "Cyberdyne" in smaller text somewhere? What were they thinking?? Upon breaking the bad news to G. that she would not be keeping this (her wonderful response: "You never let me play with robots!"), researching where I could possibly try to exchange it (Toys R Us, of course) and wondering how we were going to break it to A's sister that we were doing so, reason triumphed and A. peeked into the box that was, all told, just a box. I don't even remember what it held but we won't be responsible for AI wars and resulting nuclear annihilation. Trump will beat all to it anyway.

Lastly, and quite by coincidence, I finished another one-thousand-piece puzzle leading up to a Super Bowl. Two years ago it was a Winter wonderland of sorts and this time, since there is less snow (global warming hoax alert!) and more books in my life, it was a library of madness where everything looked the same. ("World of Words" my ass, this was a world of railings and beams.) I knocked it off in two weeks instead of three like last time, somehow, but I did have help. No, not A., who fully avoided this round. Twas G. picked up the slack and then some, helping me complete the border (and, indeed, connecting the first several pieces) before moving on to the left-hand bookshelf, the hobby horse and the rug. From there? Jesus Christ, everything did look the same. Over the course of a couple of Falcons games (wish I'd paid more attention) and into some wee hours I determined to fill in the couch and expand from there. G. focused on locating both pieces of the mouse at the upper left and she didn't even break a sweat. She's a natural talent and I look forward to doing puzzle after puzzle with her over the years, whether or not the Pats are in the Super Bowl. She'll grow bored of it one day but she'll be back.

Up next: The Falcons dump Gatorade over Dan Quinn's head every day of the bye week in the ultimate demonstration of "just happy to be here." Cheers!