Beer and football — week fifteen

The game: Packers at Patriots
The beer: Shipyard Prelude Special Ale
The result: Win, 31–27; Fabio, 5–4–0
The commentary: I went to bed at 1:30 for the dorkiest reason possible: the Survivor finale. It was sort of a complicated television night, the plan was to watch Survivor live (pretty much) while recording the game. (I couldn't record both because we had free premium channels for three months—synching up nicely with twelve weeks of Dexter, and not by accident—and the DVR was too close to full thanks to a handful of the-blank-blanker movies (The Hurt Locker, The Kite Runner, The Sext Bronzer). So along with the stress that comes with Survivor (surprisingly high) I had to prepare myself for the DVR FULL—PLEASE DELETE PROGRAMS TO CONTINUE RECORDING message. I'm glad it never happened because I still don't know what I would have done.

I ended up drinking the Prelude during the show. I don't know if I've just had too much beer lately (gallons and gallons in the past two weeks) but I didn't think too much of it. I wish I knew more about beer to be able to express certain flavors that don't do it for me, all I know is it was similar to the Thanksgiving beer that was also just alright… maybe it's a wheat thing. I'm excited for next week's stout though, also from Shipyard—I picked it up during our trip north after having dinner at Federal Jack's, a sort of brewpub that serves some delicious haddock tacos but is otherwise exceptionally unromantic. (Later that night, however, we were the only people in the theater to see the 9:30 showing of the new Harry Potter movie. We didn't make out like teenagers learning about their bodies but it was fun to be able to talk out loud to each other as if we were watching at home.) I had a couple of Blue Fin Stouts with dinner and bought one of those and the Prelude to help finish out the regular season. (A stop at the market in Ogunquit center produced last week's Rogue and one more that I'm very excited about saving for the closing Dolphins game.)

So Survivor first: I couldn't be happier with the result. Fabio might be a knucklehead (particularly for letting the "Fabio" nickname stick and not punching whomever gave it to him) but he seems like a good guy and he closed out as well as anyone in the history of the show. I'm also certain he was stoned out of his mind during the reunion special. Chase is a buffoon… how he calls recurring paranoia a "strategy" is beyond me. And I knew Sash wouldn't get a single vote but it was nice of him to dress like an English banker for the night. Watching him overcome the urge to emotionally wound everyone on the jury was almost as fun as Dan's "do I have to wear these cowboy boots now or can I give them to my manservant for Christmas?" expression.

And what a great job by my man Jeff Probst, as always. (Remember when notable fucktard Bryant Gumbel used to host these reunions?) Switching to "On second thought, fuck you and forget I asked" mode after Shannon didn't take him up on his offer to redeem himself for the "Are you gay?" exchange was amazing. Survivor would be a good show without Jeff but I'm not sure it would have the top-priority spot in our series settings the way it does now. I can even overlook his minutiae-driven narration during challenges—he is perfect for this show. (I'm disappointed that "drop your buffs" hasn't entered common lexicon. Same thing with "dance for your life" from So You Think You Can Dance. "The client just called to tell us they're slashing their advertising budget. So drop your buffs, everyone—we have to redo the entire campaign. And you there… Johnson? You'd better dance for your life if you want to keep the account.")

Hey, there was a football game too! Let me tell you about football: the average game lasts one hour on the game clock, airs for three hours when factoring in timeouts and other breaks and contains about twenty minutes of actual football. I know because the skip-ahead on our remote is set to thirty seconds, so I was skipping immediately from play to play (except when the Pats went no-huddle in the fourth). This is no way to watch a game unless you just want to go to bed—before I knew it there were only five minutes left in the game and the Pats were barely hanging onto a four-point lead. Instant quickening of the pulse, to the point where I started taking deep breaths and forcing myself to settle down. If this team loses the Super Bowl because Mike Carey's crew is too chickenshit to call an in-the-grasp sack then I will surely die.

What is it with sparkling-new quarterbacks and massive white running backs against this defense? They turn into Joe Montana and Jim Brown—bring on another shot at Joeflacco and Ray Rice. (I hope I don't regret that come January.) The defense reverted to a week-seven sieve-like state and still won, just like they've been doing all along. The Packers should have been up by so much more at the half but they weren't, just like opposing teams have been doing all along. I'm a little worried but not too much, since you can correct things like foolish penalties and (via benching) Brandon Meriweather's extended exercises in mental retardation. It does help when underrated guard Dan Connolly makes the best special-teams play since week four (thanks Dan, if not for you I might have gotten no sleep at all). At this point it's comforting to know they'll probably be able to tighten things up and rest key players while enjoying an extra week of preparation for their round-two opponent. And also to know that it often snows in January.

Up next: The pesky Buffalo Bills host the Pats in a welcome early-afternoon contest. A win here means the good guys clinch home-field advantage throughout the playoffs. A Jets loss to the lowly Bears means the same thing but I want my boys to earn that fucker. Cheers!

Justified carpooling with satanic results

I have yet another work party tonight. I will not get drunk this time, and am even considering the wine route because I'm probably still pissing out beer from several recent mammoth sessions. This party is company-wide and is being held up the street at the Children's Museum, relatively close to my wife's office. So we decided to drive in this morning and park in that area in order to make it easier for me to get home afterward—the party gets out around 8:30 and driving should get me home quite a bit earlier than the 9:30 train would. Plus I'll be forced to be careful with the booze and instead overindulge in free food.

I felt a little bad about driving (and paying for parking, which is quite difficult for me to do) but the pain was eased in Revere when we switched the radio to WMBR just as they'd started a three-song Black Sabbath block. We were treated to "Into the Void," "Planet Caravan" and "The Wizard" by the time we reached the tunnel—far out! (I'm the same guy who nearly lost his shit at another work function—my, but we do drink—because someone played "War Pigs," "Paranoid," "Iron Man" and "Fairies Wear Boots" on the jukebox. And A. is the same girl who dressed up as "Fairies Wear Boots" two Halloweens ago. We are the cutest thing.) I will be in an excellent mood tonight, sipping white wine and stuffing my mouth with mashed potatoes and shrimp. And then maybe I'll get mugged on the way to the car, and as I lie on the cold ground I'll think of the part toward the end of "Into the Void" where the soloing guitar track rejoins the main riff. I will realize that life has meaning. Everything is alright. Then I will drive through the gate because I won't be able to pay the fare.

Beer and football — week fourteen

The game: Patriots at Bears
The beer: Rogue Dead Guy Ale
The result: Win, 36–3
The commentary: A. and I went up to Maine over the weekend and I came home with a bunch of beer. One of them was the Dead Guy Ale, something I can find anywhere but that I couldn't resist because the Bears were about to get creamed. (Too bad Sam Adams Cream Stout doesn't come in bomber form—that would have been a better metaphor.) Now Urlacher—who did absolutely nothing in this game—is willing to admit that the Pats are the best team in the AFC. How mighty fucking gracious of his humiliating-first-round-elimination-at-best ass.

I was pretty all set by the time Hoyer was on the field. I drank the Dead Guy really, really quickly—I'm not sure if I loved it or if was just "drinkable," the same way I'll fly through a terrible book (like David Baldacci's The Winner, perhaps the worst thing I've ever read) and take my time with a book I'm enjoying (currently, Jon Krakauer's excellent Under the Banner of Heaven is taking me far too long). After that I moved onto my bonus Mayflower Thanksgiving Ale, the one I forgot to give my brother-in-law a couple of weeks ago (it tasted as OK as it did when I re-watched the Lions game). Then I topped that off with a bottle of Winter Warmer. I guess I'm a productive drunk though because I ended up doing a shitload of laundry that night—I even remember how Dexter ended.

The game was another fun one to watch—it's good to be a Pats fan these days—though I'll admit to wondering if a field goal might have been enough to win after each team went three-and-out on its first possession. I loved the 2007 imperiousness of Brady heaving it up to end the first half with six points, mixed with the pragmatic 2004 result of Deion Branch being on the receiving end of said touchdown. Randy Moss (poor bastard) was the man when he was here but this offense is now both exciting and efficient—for crying out loud, Brady's last interception was a hail-mary pass eight weeks ago! What a time to be alive.

Winnable remaining games against three wavering opponents mean anything other than home-field advantage throughout the playoffs will be a disappointment. On that topic, the local postgame show on WBZ—hosted by historical Patriots ass-kissers Steve Burton, Dan Roche, Steve DeOssie and Scott "Exactly What the Hell Is Going on with My Eye Anyway" Zolak—presented the online poll question "Will anything less than a Super Bowl win be a failure for the Pats?" Almost sixty percent answered "No." What in the worldwide fuck?

Belichick had his first good draft in six years, and because rookies are finally succeeding we're supposed to ignore the standard of excellence he and Brady have put in place and just accept anything worse than first? I root for a team that is nothing at all like, say, the Jaguars, whose fans will be pleased as punch just to make the playoffs even as they get shot like a cannonball out of the first round. The Patriots have established a winning tradition and I want a Super Bowl championship every goddamn year and get bummed out for days whenever all goes wrong. But a bunch of regional morons probably think it was a neat idea to hang a "16–0" banner in Gillette Stadium (recognizing a regular-season achievement—isn't that was we used to give Peyton shit about?) after an unsuccessful finish. You're fuckin-A right I was part of the shrewd forty percent who answered YES to that poll.

Lastly, I follow a lot of football blogs and I don't understand what this Football Outsiders headline means: "Is Will Muschamp Another Ron Zook or Another Bo Pelini?" To paraphrase Lisa Simpson, I know some of those words but that sentence makes no sense.

Up next: A Green Bay team that once scared the hell out of me comes limping into Foxborough. Injuries suck, as proven by the fact that a healthy, horrible Bears team might win the division over the decimated, super-talented Packers—too bad. Cheers!

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!