Beer and football VII — weeks sixteen and seventeen

Week sixteen
The game: Jets at Patriots
The beer: Anchor Christmas Ale
The result: Win, 41–3

Week seventeen
The game: Patriots at Dolphins
The beer: Notch Dog and Pony Show
The result: Win, 35–14

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The commentary: Why not wait until two hundred seven total posts and one hundred nineteen "beer and football" hottakez to switch things up with multi-week diaries? What can go wrong? What (captain) can (beefheart) stand (trout) in (mask) my (replica) way?

This is an attempt to combine "the commentary" into a single… narrative?… when I don't get around to finalizing game reactions before the next Sunday or Monday or Thursday Night Football on Saturday or whatever the fuck. Reader (!) feedback (!!) regarding said trial will motivate the sleeping giant that is the Lower Galactic Biffy Council to exert its will—violently so—in determining internet protocol until the death of free speech. Very unfair!

In a way it makes sense. Not that I've done much actual football writing lately—Survivor, Trump, etc.—but when I do I like to keep it in context, without the hindsight that comes with witnessing how the Patriots respond to one of fourteen wins or two losses. The self-imposed deadline of publishing ahead of the next game has led to blurred lines not seen since the Star Wars prequels (more in a minute), with backdating and inconsistent timelines and such. (The timestamps were eighty-sixed for a reason.) Clearly, if reactions to anywhere from two to an outlandish, why-bother five games were presented under a single title, then no single entry was ready to go on its own. So I'd complete them, one by one, ignoring what I might have learned about "future" games or world/reality television events. I think I did a good job. But—indeed—why bother?

Instead I'll find a common thread and relate what I already know, that a pair of wins over (swept) AFC East "rivals" the Jets and the Dolphins is the inverse of last year's double letdown. The first portion then was dominated—and well, may I say—by a callback to 2013 and a tidy bow encircling my years-long crusade against this defense. A little too tidy, for there's no way the Dolphins outcome and regular-season-ending losing streak didn't color this. The desperation! At least this still resonates: "If only there were websites dedicated to people letting you know that your favorite beer sucks." Even a Ministry joke out of nowhere. It's wonderful to make yourself laugh.

These games remain linked regardless of outcome, for they are the first of the season (and long before) of which I knew the outcome before watching the first snap. A (daytime) Christmas Eve trip to Connecticut was to get us there in time for me to park in a recliner and switch on the one o'clock kickoff but that was torpedoed when we didn't leave the house until, oh, half past twelve. We listened to Christmas music (including "All Dressed Up" a couple of times) and G. fell asleep before long, then I sheepishly asked to switch to the broadcast. By then the good guys were ahead ten zip and our soundtrack was in place for the rest of the Pike-avoiding, Spencer-touring route that saved us no time (and might have added some) but cursed us with no traffic jams. 49 South allowed for good cruising and I'll get us there another way next time.

Late arrival, sure. Fourth quarter. Oh well. I popped open Anchor's "Our Special Ale" and caught the last few minutes, letting G. know that kicking a field goal down forty-one points is for losers. Jesus Christ. Everyone else was prepping for that evening's party while, postgame, I wondered if this meant we didn't have to go to church. We didn't until Christmas morning, when the mercifully brief mass was highlighted by the following: both organists flashing each other the peace sign during the rite of peace; G. complaining of hunger and no one laughing when I likened the eucharist to a "quick snack break"; and yours truly composing a murder ballad entitled "Hang Not Your Coat on the Stations of the Cross" while trying to remember what each one signified. The road to hell is paved with sarcasm.

On New Year's Day I finally saw Rogue One and ate a huge "medium" popcorn by myself, five days after splitting one with A. during Manchester by the Sea (sans hyphens) and four after doing the same with G. during Moana. Rogue One was excellent, a straight war movie where it only made sense if everyone died. I'm glad they didn't cop out. Manchester exceeded expectations and lived up to the hype, even though Casey Affleck drove through Swampscott on his way from Quincy to Beverly and didn't insist on the regional "awnt" instead of the rest-of-American "ant" aunt. Moana was fine, stolen by Maui's tattoos and Heihei the rooster, and I can't get a straight answer from G. how she liked it. I don't blame her—it was no Tangled—after we showed up fifteen minutes late, learning only when we got to the head of the line that we wanted the cinema next door. Drag. Fortune and demigods smiled upon us, though, when we were paying for popcorn and a woman came out of theater four to complain that the movie should have started fifteen minutes ago. Innocently, I asked "Is that Moana, by any chance?" Yes! G. and I practically high-fived in her face. Hopefully Inner Workings is the last time either one of us watches a cartoon man take a leak. (Excluding Homer Simpson, of course.)

See, I'm still working on the structure here. I brought up movies because Rogue One's return to unpolished 1977 preempted the Dolphins game and I was OK with it. Recording and watching in primetime is my move anyway. After, though, as my friend and I trawled Beverly (not via Swampscott) for an open restaurant, any open restaurant, at which to meet our wives and daughters, the score presented itself during one of our we-just-closed-the-kitchen pitstops: third quarter, up thirteen. Fine. We found a place closer to home and Shea McClellin scooped up the fumble right as my Dog and Pony Show arrived. "If I was a preacher, I tell you what, I'd save a million souls. Even you." South Boston tweakers and Shellac of North America beam with pride.

Long story short, hundreds of words too late, I did still watch the games in full because I'm a fan. Things are looking up compared to this time last year when first place moved to Denver and the weaknesses—offensive line and defensive backfield, mainly—were exposed in time for real football. Today, now, the Patriots are the team to beat and even haters look forward to trolling Pats–Cowboys. I welcome and expect it, believing the defense can hold on a little longer and restrict the Steelers to fewer than four touchdowns in the AFC Championship. And the Cowboys? Their story is awfully feel-good for them to lose to the Packers and not reach a Texas-sized Super Bowl. Interesting times, these next few weeks. Unless you're Rex Ryan. Again.

Up next: I'll be rooting for Aaron Rodgers against Eli Manning tomorrow night because I'm one of Paul Perillo's "cunts" who wants no part of the Giants in February. Happy new year!