Bruins fans are the worst

I'm riding the train home after a night of drinking (hooray for Whale's Tale!) at a work holiday party, and the rowdiest bunch of hockey fans in the history of poor taste is sitting five rows in front of me. I'm considering reminding them that their sorry excuse for a hockey team hasn't won the Stanley Cup since 1972 and hasn't accomplished anything of significance since I think 1990 (I'm a long-time—if lapsed—follower of the Canadiens, thanks to Patrick Roy). Said superfans are chanting some bullshit that I can't make out over the greatest Christmas playlist of all time on my iPod and I am thoroughly perplexed by the confidence they have in their team—most likely the unreasonable last-minute shot of Dewar's before leaving isn't helping. Now James Brown is telling me that Christmas is love and I'm inclined to be swept away by that for the remainder of the ride. I haven't even reached Lynn yet. I wonder if anyone drank as much as I did.

Beer and football — week thirteen

The game: Jets at Patriots
The beer: Heavy Seas Mutiny Fleet Smoke on the Water Smoked Porter
The result: Win, 45–3
The commentary: There may have been a "godless chill of New England" in the air (New York Post columnists are so colorful!) but the hometown team was torching everything in sight. A new king reigns over the AFC East and it's the same as the old one, despite what some loudmouth Jets might have had you believe. I actually enjoy Rex Ryan—he's really funny and honest in a way that frightens beat writers. Boston sports-talk shitheads get all bent out of shape over supposed "disrespect" and now they'll blather for a week about how we shut them up good. Get over your cross-eyed, Bledsoe-backup ass. Ryan is good for football because he should want to fucking win games, and he says so—would you rather he got all starry-eyed trying to scheme against Tully Banta-Cain? (All the same, I'm glad Bill Belichick is our coach.)

Regarding the game, there's really not much to say that wasn't clear from watching—it's unbelievable how the Pats had their way with everything. I liked going into halftime with a twenty-one point lead but I'd seen teams come back too often against this defense so I wasn't at all comfortable. But when Sanchez threw a perfect pass to Brando Spikes I knew it was all over but the shouting—I just didn't yet know that it was truly, terrifically over.

I'll admit I didn't finish the entire Heavy Seas bomber. I was pretty all set following a marathon session of Murphy's Stout and Rapscallion Lager at O'Neill's Pub in Salem the day before, so much so that I fell asleep halfway through Dexter that night. And I was in pretty bad shape for most of yesterday until I had the bright idea to eat a sleeve of saltines in the middle of the afternoon, followed by leftover Thai food, a frozen burrito (baked instead of microwaved; it might take an hour but I'm no savage) and a huge glass of milk for dinner. Only in the second half was I able to to finally pop it open—don't worry, I corked it and will finish tonight. It's a really nice beer and luckily not too "smoked" (like other smoked ones I've had) because it might have made me barf all over myself. Like the Jets. Why do we drink? Because the Jets still suck. That's why.

Up next: It's a rematch of Super Bowl XX in Chicago. I've had no fear of the Bears ever since Brady juked an overrated Brian Urlacher out of his cleats a few years ago—throw in Jay Cutler and I expect a blowout that directly leads to the Bears missing the playoffs. Cheers!

Beer and football — week twelve

The game: Patriots at Lions
The beer: Mayflower Thanksgiving Ale
The result: Win, 45–24
The commentary: The Mayflower was the plan for Thanksgiving but it turned out to be a weird day. I ended up watching on three different televisions in three different homes, broken up by two radio sessions in the car. We were finally able to settle in where we'd eventually be eating dinner but much of my wife's extended family was there and I didn't know how they'd react to me pulling out a twenty-two ounce bottle to share with no one. So I had three Ipswich Ales and a Sam Adams, which is not better but rather more distributed. I'm still counting the Thanksgiving Ale for this game though because it's what I bought it for, and it's what I drank Friday around five past noon while I re-watched parts of the game. I thought the ale was pretty good but I wish I'd liked it more because I bought an extra bottle that I forgot to give to my brother-in-law. It's in the fridge.

Regarding the game, it was another one where my team was fortunate to be down only one touchdown at the half, and I felt pretty good about them being able to overcome that. McCourty would be a lock for Rookie of the Year if it weren't for Suh, but timing is everything and them's the breaks. (As much as I like McCourty, anyone who says he deserves to win over Suh is a total, total homer who probably couldn't name the Pats' backup quarterback.) Branch and Welker put on a clinic and the defense, though terrible throughout most of almost every game this season, knows the only way it's going to stop anybody is to force turnovers. And they've been succeeding. I'm not sure how far that will take you (I hear a lot of talk about last year's Saints even though this Pats team is not as offensively dominant) but no one in the league is as exciting—they could get blown out in the first round of the playoffs or they could run up the score in the Super Bowl. What a team to watch.

Up next: Monday Night Football with the Pats and the Jets in Foxborough. I'm excited that old friend Josh McDaniels revived the Spygate talk because the Jets will bear the brunt of it. Cheers!

Beer and football — week eleven

The game: Colts at Patriots
The beer: Tröegs Java Head Stout
The result: Win, 31–28
The commentary: Damn. Damn damn damn. Goddamn if that wasn't a tough win. It's stupid to get so worked up over a football game but I can't remember the last time my heart was pounding so badly (yes I do, it was week seven in San Diego) while I was immobilized with fear. Manning was having his way with the Pats' defense for most of the fourth quarter and on that last drive in particular—a field goal (at least) was inevitable. I was already afraid of what the loss would do to my team, particularly with regards to Brady's confidence in his receivers and the young defense's confidence in itself. I was so deep into this that, out of nowhere (due to some clumsy CBS camerawork), my man Jimmy Sanders makes a remarkable interception—it took me a second to jump up and yell in triumph because I thought it was a replay from some past game. (I scared the bejesus out of poor Chloe and she couldn't flee the room fast enough.)

And just like that, this team could win fourteen games. I don't think they will but every remaining game is winnable. Thanksgiving in Detroit reeks of a closer-than-I-would-like win. Game two against the Jets should be a win (I don't see Brady and Belichick getting swept by them). The Bears are total frauds who will be exposed by the Eagles this weekend and death-killed by McCourty and Chung (plus maybe some more Sanders and a little reckless Meriweather) making crazy athletic interceptions and tackles all over the field. The Packers game will be another shootout (lots of those this season) and could go either way, but I'm glad it's in Foxborough. And the Bills and Dolphins should play tough unless they're more concerned with returning crappy Christmas gifts. We will see. Anyway, I'll be incredibly disappointed if the Pats win fewer than twelve. The ridiculous thing is that the Jets are keeping pace with the tiebreaker currently in their favor, so twelve might not even win the damn division. (Though I was encouraged by something I read this morning: the Jets won't have any lousy teams to get lucky against in the playoffs because all the lousy teams will be home watching on TV. Except for maybe the Bears, whose lousiness might not end their season until the first round of the playoffs.)

On the beer front, the stout was delicious. I drank it pretty fast and it's the only one I had because, as the fourth quarter got rolling, I was much too petrified to fetch a new one from the fridge. Very close to Sam Adams Cream Stout, which has been one of my favorites for a long, long time. Even A. had a sip and liked it, as she has recently taken a strange and wonderful turn toward stouts and porters. What a woman! Anyway, it was a good choice for another outrageous Pats–Colts classic.

Up next: The Pats travel to Detroit for a slightly annoying holiday game. Annoying because I don't know if I'll get to watch the whole thing—we're traveling to Connecticut, and transit time plus dinner time might not allow for three solid hours of television time. Happy Thanksgiving!

Beer and football — week ten

The game: Patriots at Steelers
The beer: Cisco Whale's Tale Pale Ale
The result: Win, 39–26
The commentary: After such an ugly loss you've gotta go with what you know. Whale's Tale is quickly becoming one of my favorite beers, and when I saw a twenty-two ounce bomber in a store in Danvers I had to get it. (There's a great pub around the corner from my office called Mr. Dooley's and they have it on tap. On a related note, whenever I'm there I end up getting plastered while forgetting to order dinner.) So I'm glad I picked up a great beer for a great, important game.

Like last week's shitstorm it was not as close as the score indicates. (My boys at Patriots Daily made me laugh out loud when commenting about how the prevent defense needs to be careful loosening up with a big lead because "when you loosen your belt, you don't take it off and throw it into an incinerator.") It's always fun to beat up on the Steelers in their home—a fine tradition over the past nine seasons—and Sunday night's game brought back some marvelous 2001, 2004 and 2007 memories. The Rooneys, however, always get the last laugh as they roll around in giant piles of money, waiting to be pinched awake from the dream where an entire fanbase spends up to $35 on towel-related merchandise.

Up next: The Pats host the Colts in the annual Nielsen Bowl. It's in Foxborough for the first time since 2006, thanks to the NFL's straightforward scheduling formula that somehow confounds casual and/or stupid Pats and Colts fans alike. Cheers!

Beer and football — week nine

The game: Patriots at Browns
The beer: Samuel Smith Organically Produced Ale
The result: Loss, 34–14
The commentary: Wow. Let me say that I'm worried about my relationship with Samuel Smith right now. I had a Taddy Porter the night before our Block Island trip (see week two against the Jets) and tried to counter the loss with a Nut Brown Ale the following day. Samuel Smith hovers over both losses so far, which is a concern because it's the brewery that kicked off this whole adventure. No idea what I'll do in two weeks because I usually reserve their Imperial Stout for Colts games—will I skip it this season? Frightening times. On a completely unrelated note—since there's nothing worth discussing about the horrid Browns game—I watched Harrison Ford on Letterman last night. He can thank Star Wars for his entire career and can't shit on the series fast enough with every opportunity. I'm sorry it's not all Six Days Seven Nights.

Up next: The Pats visit Pittsburgh for what should be the first of two pretty fucking great games in a row. This is the one with those silly yellow towels. Cheers!

Beer and football — week eight

The game: Vikings at Patriots
The beer: Shipyard Smashed Pumpkin Ale
The result: Win, 28–18
The commentary: As unacceptable as it is to feel sorry for athletes/starlettes/sensations who sleep on giant piles of money every night, it's clear to me that Randy Moss is instantly regretting his decision to jump ship from New England. I disagree with his criticism of Childress because they should have gone for that touchdown before the half—Peterson had been unstoppable to that point. But Childress was a pure fool for challenging Tate's bobbling catch—it's almost like he was saying "Hey Bill, here's how you win a challenge." I have never seen such a glaring inferiority complex in sports (and I was a Sox fan for years before 2004, for crying out loud). Regardless, a good win for the hometown team. Fox's coverage sucked because they barely showed any costumed fans—sure, they can come back from commercials with that jacked-up, pumpkin-headed robot but otherwise couldn't be bothered with Halloween. Would it kill Troy Aikman to wear an orange tie to go with his orange face?

Anyway, the Pumpkin Ale started out just alright but either it got better the longer it sat or I got used to it. I tend to like pumpkin ales (Cambridge Brewing Company's "Great Pumpkin" is my favorite) so I was a little disappointed—I suspect it was more of a wheat beer than I normally go for. Meanwhile I'd like to thank the technology gods for inventing DVR because around 5:30 I had to start getting up to hand out candy. Was Super Mario the costume of the year or what? I had three of those plucky little greaseballs. Much better than the plain teenager who, when questioned, told me he was dressed as a chaperon. It was a good answer so I gave him a Twix.

Up next: The Pats travel to Cleveland to visit the house from A Christmas Story and drop forty points on a local JV squad. Cheers!

Beer and football — week seven

The game: Patriots at Chargers
The beer: Stone Imperial Russian Stout
The result: Win, 23–20
The commentary: The closest I've come to a heart attack since the dreaded helmet catch. Holy, holy lord. I got a late start on the Stout because A. and I went out for lunch and a few errands and got some iced chais from Starbucks on the way back, and that carried me through the recorded portion of the first half (yeah, errands took longer than I thought). That fourth quarter was almost catastrophic but this could turn out to be one of those character-building wins. And I couldn't agree more with something I read the other day on Patriots Daily (essential reading): last year's team would have lost. The beer was excellent, by the way, even though the bottle turned out to be a little sticky. Eww.

Up next: The Pats host my man Randy Moss and the Vikings. It will be fun to root against Brett Favre as a fan of his opponent and not just a fan of decency. Cheers!

Beer and football: A seventeen-week diary (and hopefully longer)

I love to watch the Patriots win and I love to drink good beer. So in 2006 I said "Hey, man, I should get myself a fancy beer for every Pats game!" And by fancy I mean one of those oversized singles, usually stocked in the fridge farthest from the Coors Light. I was living in Cambridge at the time and the two liquor stores in my neighborhood didn't really offer a whole lot—the closer one wasn't open on Sundays anyway. The other, though, always had a few different Samuel Smith offerings. They're a fantastic brewer and I enjoy everything of theirs I've tried, even the IPA, and I don't really like IPAs (more on that later). So I thought I had a nice little thing going, particularly once I remembered that nearby Davis Square had a great store.

In 2007 ("that season") I really grabbed on and didn't let go. I was sure to have a Samuel Smith in my hand for every game, and since they kept not losing I felt my beers and I were somewhat responsible. When I went to a friend's house to watch the Colts game (in which I astounded everyone by correctly predicting Manning wouldn't remove his helmet before shaking Brady's hand afterward) I made sure to bring enough Nut Brown Ales for everyone there. I wasn't about to blow this thing.

Despite the delicious Imperial Stout I explicitly saved for the Super Bowl, we all know how that went down. Regardless, I more or less kept the tradition going the last two years and into this year, and now I'm going to journal-tize the experience to see if any patterns emerge. I guess it's mostly an excuse to write about beer, and who doesn't like reading about beer?

The goal is to post an update each week, though since I'm getting a late start I'll be forced to cover weeks one through five, plus this past Sunday's game, on memory. Should be challenging because I can't remember anything anymore. No kidding.

Week one
The game: Bengals at Patriots
The beer: Berkshire Coffeehouse Porter
The result: Win, 38–24
The commentary: The first game of the year calls for my favorite beer in the world. The Coffeehouse Porter seems to have saved the day when it appeared the defense likely couldn't. Nothing else stands out except for Chad Ochocinco patting his future head coach on the ass.

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Week two
The game: Patriots at Jets
The beer: Mohegan Honey Porter
The result: Loss, 28–14
The commentary: Special circumstances with this one—A. and I left that Sunday morning for a few days on Block Island. Admittedly, my first priority after dropping our bags off at the B&B (shudder) was to find a place to watch the game. I was a little nervous to interrupt the whole beer-at-home thing so soon in the season, but we landed at the Mohegan Cafe where they brew their own. The crab cakes were amazing and the Honey Porter was just OK—fittingly, the Pats looked like shit in the second half. But the view was nice and A. was a good sport for accompanying me. I'm glad, though, to have had some vacation time to forget about this stinker.

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Week three
The game: Bills at Patriots
The beer: Pretty Things St. Botolph's Town Rustic Dark Ale
The result: Win, 38–30
The commentary: Some married friends of ours are craft-beer maniacs, going to festivals and whatnot, and they've gotten to know the couple responsible for Pretty Things. I'm shallow enough to like this brand because the labels are attractive and they stole the name with one of my favorite bands. Plus, the two or three I've tried actually are really good. This dark ale is my favorite so far, and for additional shallowness reasons it might have something to do with having "St. Botolph" in its name. St. Botolph Street runs through the eastern part of the campus of Northeastern University (where I excelled at being a mediocre student and a full-time music snob) and is where the shitty hockey team's arena is located. The Huskies haven't won a Beanpot since 1988—it's almost too easy to call them the Buffalo Bills of the Beanpot tournament. Thankfully, the Pats played a horrible Bills team on this day, thus fulfilling the metaphor. The way they looked I don't think they could have beaten anyone else.

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Week four
The game: Patriots at Dolphins
The beer: Berkshire Lost Sailor India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 41–14
The commentary: Last month I attended a beer dinner at the Cambridge Common restaurant, one of our favorites from our People's Republic days. It was right up the street from our apartment and practically served as our kitchen. They've been having these dinners for years and only after I moved twenty miles away did I finally attend one. It was hosted by Berkshire Brewing Company, and one of the founders was there and gave a little talk about each of the five beers we had. One of them was the Lost Sailor IPA—I generally don't go for IPAs, I guess because they're too hoppy. But he sold me on theirs: he said IPAs were originally brewed with extra hops so the ales would survive British seafarers' long hauls around the Cape of Good Hope on the way to and from (ch-ching!) India. The Lost Sailor is this "English" style of IPA, and not the "California" style where batshit American brewers just go hop crazy. That kind is what I don't like, and it's most of what you find around here (Harpoon being a popular offender). So when I saw a bottle of the Lost Sailor at the local liquor store I figured it was the perfect choice for what I thought would be a difficult road game against a competitive division foe. Turns out it was the best game I'd watched in a couple of years. Score two for BBC!

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Week five (bye)
The beer: Belhaven Wee Heavy
The commentary: Didn't actually get to watch much football during the bye weekend but I did create enough time to drink a smaller-than-usual (about eighteen ounces, compared to twenty-two for BBC, Samuel Smith, etc.) Wee Heavy from Belhaven. There are few beers as good as Belhaven Scottish Ale off the tap and so I was excited to see a Wee Heavy in a store in Danvers. I lived in Northampton for a little over two years and the Northampton Brewery (which I miss and think about often) served one of my all-time faves, "Maggie's Wee Heavy." My wife (girlfriend, at the time) lived in Boston and, bless her, would take the bus out to Springfield every other Friday. I'd pick her up and we'd head straight to the brewery nine times out of ten for dinner. I loved the Winter months because they always had Maggie's going and I always ordered it. Unfortunately, the Belhaven version wasn't nearly as good—granted it's out of a bottle and not a tap, but still disappointing. I'm glad I didn't save it for a Pats game.

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Week six
The game: Ravens at Patriots
The beer: Southern Tier Iniquity Imperial Black Ale
The result: Win, 23–20
The commentary: This ale was a bit of a gamble, but I figured it was worth it since a lot of people picked the Ravens for the Super Bowl. Another fantastic game… eventually. We were lucky to be down only three at halftime because the defense was fully terrible. The fourth quarter was a blast, and it's nice to have Deion Branch back (I will miss Randy Moss and I thoroughly enjoyed his time here, but it's nice to at least resemble the old Super Bowl teams). The beer turned out to be good but a little rich, and I noticed halfway through that it was nine percent alcohol—I was pretty all set. It was exactly the push I needed to ride the half-drunk ups and downs of a game-winning field goal followed by the realization that there's a flag on the field before it's revealed to be a penalty on the Ravens. And then Brady's day-after response to a whining Terrell Suggs reminded me of some 2003/2004 dominance and a little 2007 arrogance. I am very excited for this season to play out.

Up next: The Pats travel to San Diego so they can watch Philip Rivers make weird frat-boy faces while throwing for four hundred yards. Cheers!

Item! Run-on sentences are acceptable when discoursing on abstract art

Have you ever unsubscribed to a magazine… without success? It's quite an adventure. My Newsweek subscription was set to run out a month or so ago and I did originally return the re-subscription mailer like a good always-two-or-three-issues-behind reader. But before I sent in payment, the magazine was sold to some old dude for $1. One US dollar. Sure, the guy assumed the magazine's debt as well, so it amounts to $1 plus (x), but still.

US$1.

It turned me off, and I was honestly seeking an excuse to free up reading time in order to tackle the pile of books I've not tended to for far too long. After days of measuring the pros and cons (I might have taken the decision a little seriously, but I have been reading for fifteen years and feel I'm better for it) I decided to call customer service and cancel my renewal. She didn't even try to talk me out of it, as she's probably more bitter about that dollar than I am.

I was to receive my last issue the week of September 6. OK. That one arrives and I liked the symmetry when it happened to be Jon Meacham's last as editor. I knew he was leaving and that contributed to my not renewing because I enjoyed his tenure—he oversaw the major, controversial redesign (which I loved until they essentially rolled it back) and the change in focus from a source for news (seemed reasonable to me at the time, since it's gotta be tough for any printed weekly to compete with an RSS reader) to a more exploratory essay format. I was excited until I realized (only very recently) that essays (or, poorly written ones) don't really provide context. So if you don't know the story behind what the writer is going on about then you're probably out of luck. I read it all and understood some. (Even while this was going on, Fareed Zakaria remained their most focused and cogent columnist, but that ship has sailed: he just took his talents to Time Beach.)

September 6 comes and goes, and issues continue to get cozy with my mailbox. When I received the September 20 issue I called and told them so and that they better not try billing me. She said no, the September 27 issue would be my last, and I would not be billed (she, too, never turned on the salesmanship-o-matic). September 27 comes and goes and I'm still getting them, still reading them and still waiting for it to stop. (Though I'm happy to have received last week's issue with the Android cover story, since I am the proud new owner of an HTC Incredible—naturally sporting the inept and amazing guitar solo from Blue Cheer's "Out of Focus" as its ringtone—and, regardless, I really enjoy reading Daniel Lyons. But then I got another one this week. What in the worldwide fuck!)

This lack of unsubscribability has forced me to recognize some strange trends. The first is that George Will is completely batshit—I used to enjoy his sober conservativeness during a messy Dubya era but now I'm afraid he would shoot me dead if I told him it was warm outside. Another is that Jersey Shore and Sister Wives qualify as print-worthy, even considering the magazine's A&E team often exhibited questionable, overly ironic taste in just about everything. Still another oddity is the sequence where a columnist purportedly writes about one topic but then uses that as an opportunity to write about something completely different. Jeremy McCarter recently pulled an elusive double buttonhook by writing about a movie (The Social Network) in order to label Facebook as some enabler of "American loneliness" so he could then casually (in three separate instances!) mention Jonathan Franzen's new novel Freedom. Just review the book already!

However, the most frustrating byproduct of the above-mentioned design/format is that run-on sentences are now satisfactory. Maybe this has been the case for years and I haven't noticed. Maybe it went into effect only after Meacham departed. Most likely, it is encouraged only for nonsensical raps about art—check out this shit. Even the writer's name runs on: David Wallace-Wells. It seems one first name and one last name are insufficient for serial killers and, now, know-it-all Pollock-blowing nitwits.

Think my graphic example at the beginning was an exaggeration? Well it was, but only by thirteen words in a Wallace-Wells world. How about this sweet excerpt, clocking in at seventy-six words:
"Many of these canvases will be unveiled when a remarkable retrospective opens at New York's Museum of Modern Art on October 3—remarkable in large part because it will be drawn entirely from the museum's own holdings, a reminder of how few enthusiasts forged the outsize reputation of abstract expressionism in its heyday, and how large a role a single institution could play (and continues to play) in an art world of small, critical clusters and long speculative collecting."

Followed soon by this sixty-seven-word gem that's somehow worse:
"The sentinel émigré Hans Hofmann—itinerant painter, teacher, and mentor to much of the New York school—was German-born, had lived in Paris, and seemed to his students the living embodiment of a standing European tradition that the American painters would pillage and repurpose in their own canvases—most explicitly the work of Russian abstract painters Wassily Kandinsky and Kazimir Malevich and the surrealist exiles Max Ernst and André Masson."

What an asshole. (I'm occasionally that asshole as well but I'm not a professional writer.) Let's take a streamlined fifty-nine-word example and have fun with it, striking every other word to turn it into merely an overlong sentence:
"The truly indigenously thing abstract was the rhetoric celebrated—the magazine, chiefly Rosenberg Greenberg, made of into and crucibles, aesthetic to tests a teleology, presented belated embrace European as world event."

It's as lucid as the rest. ("The rhetoric celebrated"—I love that.) I wish I were his editor so I could leave Freshman composition textbooks on his desk and make hand gestures indicating that he needs to tighten things up. I'll say this though: after a minuscule thirty-four sentences over two pages (!) the guy wraps up with a four-word sentence: "It published only once." He buttonhooked me!