Beer and football II — playoffs, week four (bye)

The beer: Boulder "Mojo" India Pale Ale
The commentary: Twenty-one beers with one more to go. Let's recap by relating each week's selection to a player on this year's Patriots. Smell the contrivance!

1. Berkshire Saint of Circumstance India Pale Ale – Tom Brady
Most valuable. I'd start the season with no other.

2. Rogue Mocha Porter – Andre Carter
A. being all "Are you gonna drink that or what??" was the equivalent of fans (and media) clamoring for a pass-rushing force. Sorry he won't be on the field this weekend.

3. Clown Shoes Lubrication American Black Ale – Chad Ochocinco
Lots of noise and controversy over something that didn't work out very well. "Ochocinco" is Spanish for "debased ethnic whore."

4. Notch Saison – Nate Solder
Notch's session beers were a nice discovery of mine. High level of quality but not as strong as you might prefer, like my man Nate. Luckily power is something Solder can achieve "at the NFL level" over the next couple of years.

5. Pretty Things Hedgerow Bitter – Rob Gronkowski
Remember 2010's draft, with the scramble at the top of the second round as the Pats jumped ahead of the Ravens at the last second to snag Gronkowski? Very similar to that asshole who I thought took the last Hedgerow.

6. Berkshire Oktoberfest Lager – Rob Ninkovich
Octoberfest beers usually serve as overlooked role players—never elite but often satisfying. Sound familiar?

7. Samuel Adams Boston Lager – BenJarvus Green-Ellis
There is no beer I take for granted more so than Boston Lager. With every first sip I'm all "Goddamn, this is a great beer." Always reliable, just like the Law Firm. Watching him bust it up the other day was extremely rewarding.

8. Cambridge Great Pumpkin Ale – Deion Branch
Pumpkin beers have a limited shelf life but when it's on, it's on. Branch (my daughter's favorite player) plays every game and rarely gets noticed but when he's on, he's on.

9. Blue Hills Imperial Red India Pale Ale – Brandon Spikes
Spikes must have pounded one of these nine-percent-alcohol monsters before donning that pink suit. Whatever it takes, man.

10. Haverhill GestAlt German-Style Brown Ale – Sebastian Vollmer
I wasted some of this bomber after it spewed all over the kitchen. Meanwhile, "The Texan Kraut" wasted a roster spot most of the season by playing like four games. Hopefully he makes a strong comeback Sunday, or at least plays a single down.

11. Stone Smoked Porter – Stevan Ridley
Very tempting early (Raider game), disappeared awhile, came back strong and then was inactive after too many fumbles. A smoked porter was mine for a few minutes during 2010's yankee swap but was taken away, so I got one of my own this year. Then I got drunk and A. made me a healthy scratch from baby duty.

12. Ipswich Oatmeal Stout – Wes Welker
Awesome but underappreciated. Why don't I drink this more often? Pay the man!

13. Just Beer Moby D American Ale – Kyle Arrington
Arrington led the league in interceptions by being in the right place at the right time as balls were thrown or tipped straight to him. And that Mansfield-area liquor store was definitely in the right place at the right time as we drove south to a family get-together and I was sans six pack. I snagged the Moby D there as well.

14. Berkshire Steel Rail Extra Pale Ale – Jerod Mayo
The Steel Rail is fine but not as good as I remember from my days in the 413. Similarly, you can count on Mayo to lead the team in tackles every week but he'll never leave his mark on a game like Ray Lewis or Patrick Willis.

15. People's Pint Scotch Ale – Brian Waters
Good thing we picked up Waters mere seconds before the first game of the season, much like my out-of-the-way discovery of this delicious Scotch ale I didn't realize I needed. Wonderful stories, both.

16. Ipswich 20th Anniversary Imperial Pale Ale – Patrick Chung
It felt like Chung hadn't played for twenty years but he eventually came back strong and (possibly) revitalized the defense. Please strike this from the record if Eli throws for three hundred.

17. Samuel Adams Vixen Chocolate Chili Bock Lager – Aaron Hernandez
Another high-alcohol beer that probably killed a few brain cells. Lots of flavor, versatility and humor in each of these.

18. Founders Porter – Vince Wilfork
Premium beer—only four bottles per pack, in honor of Big Vince consistently playing all four downs throughout the season.

19. Slumbrew Porter Square Porter – Devin McCourty
High expectations, but among the more disappointing beer- or football-related things all season. Hopefully McCourty can bounce back with a solid Super Bowl performance and Slumbrew can redeem itself when I inevitably try its in-development "Beetlejuice" ale.

20. Shipyard Double Old Thumper Ale – Matt Light
Seems like no one should have to take on so many double thumpers in a season: Demarcus Ware, James Harrison, Dwight Freeney, Brian Orakpo, Elvis Dumervil (twice), Terrell Suggs and all those Giant bruisers (twice!). Undoubtedly his finest season.

21. Boulder Mojo India Pale Ale – Kyle Love
Love? Mojo? I'm stretching. But my man Kyle is one of those low-round/undrafted guys who comes in and plays like a second rounder. A no-nonsense football player, like this no-nonsense cask brew I got at Cambridge Common the other night, though Love might be a tad larger than thirteen ounces per pour.

Tonight I'll head to Vinnin Liquors to get the Super Bowl beer. Exciting! I'm keeping an open mind but will probably aim for an expensive, highly rated stout—thankfully I have Beer Advocate bookmarked on my phone. Regarding the contest itself, I think the Pats take six of ten games against these guys, and since they've already lost to them once this season the odds of winning in Indy increase to sixty-seven percent. I'll take it: 28–17, good guys.

Up next: XLVI. Go Pats!

Beer and football II — playoffs, week threeAFC Championship

The game: Ravens at Patriots
The beer: Shipyard Double Old Thumper Ale
The result: Win, 23–20
The commentary: It's not so hard to relate to a billionaire. Robert Kraft is suffering a pain I never want to experience, and the manner in which he continues to carry himself and so publicly express his emotions, affections and spirituality is remarkable. I know what it's like to marry your best friend, to be blessed together with the most amazing child in the world and to wonder every day if your love for the two qualifies as psychotic. There are many important things in life, things no one can bear to lose. Football is not one of them. I hope Kraft is OK.

Some thoughts on Sunday's victory:

The picture above was taken after the win. It's the best we got once we were able to coerce G. into looking at the camera with those beautiful blue eyes and the rosycheeksofloveIwanttoeatthem! I apologize that I'm a little blurry and drowsy-looking, I was pretty buzzed.

Speaking of buzzed, the eleven-percent-alcohol Double Old Thumper was quite delicious and probably would have kicked my ass if it weren't for some chili con queso and most of a bag of corn chips. I've written before that a sample of regular Old Thumper (an English-style pale ale) during a Shipyard brewery tour and a pint of Lost Sailor IPA (also a less-hoppy English style) at a Berkshire beer dinner opened my eyes (mouth?) to how tasty "hoppy" beers can be when ignoring the many American brewers who go batshit with the hops. I am forever grateful.

For maybe the first time this season I watched this game more or less live. As such I had to put up with the regular announcer-generated nonsense like Phil Simms's repeated assertions that the Ravens need a "drive starter." "That's not the drive starter I was looking for." "See, this is a good drive starter right here." "Drive starter!" Also, perhaps I missed it but when the hell did Gronkowski return after that injury? Thanks for bringing it to my attention, Phil! [Edit: Apparently his first play back was on Brady's crazy over-the-top touchdown, which is the first play I noticed him on. I was definitely watching live at that point and neither Simms nor Jim Nantz said "Holy moly, Gronkowski is back! A machine like no other!" Great work.]

G. thrust her arms straight up in the air five seconds before Torrey Smith's third-quarter touchdown. It was heartbreaking and I had to lock her in the closet for the rest of the quarter.

When Woodhead fumbled during the ensuing third-quarter kick return I said through the closet door "It only took sixteen games but they finally have to pull him off return duty now, right hon?" Wrong. The Human Touchback was out there later on following a Ravens field goal. I know nothing about football.

Tom Brady has never, ever had to quiet the crowd like he did after his initial fourth-quarter touchdown was overturned. The fans brought it for two weeks straight, even if they don't know when to keep the noise down. I loved it and I hope the bulk of them make the trip to Indy.

All season I've done a good job remembering there's a baby in the house and I should no longer yell and leap from the couch whenever the Pats make a big play. Tell that to Brandon Spikes—I yelled so loud on his interception that G. started bawling and I had to walk her around for a minute before she settled down. I was somehow able to contain myself after sitting back on the couch, resuming the broadcast and witnessing my near-death at the hands of Bernard Pollard, Jimmy Williams and Matthew Slater (!). (Later, G. cried for only a second or two when I yelled "He missed it!" She is my rock.)

This whole controversy with the scoreboard being off by a down (displaying third instead of fourth) is about the best excuse Billy Cundiff could have stumbled into. If this idiot, for whom the offense is trying to improve field position for the game-tying field goal, doesn't know the down and distance at every second of the drive then it's his own fault for having to rush through his "process." Screw him and his wide-left.

I watched the NFC game in the living room while putting together the new full-sized crib. It's the last time I'll ever assemble a piece of furniture outside of the room in which it will end up—that thing barely fit through the bedroom door.

Extracurricular observations:

A. and I heard "Thin Line Between Love and Hate" by the Persuaders the other morning in the car. It's like a parody of an R. Kelly song, thirty years early. "Are you hungry? Did you eat yet?" Lady, it's 5:00 in the morning and your man's just getting home! Also, did she poison his meal or something? It's not clear. Poor narrative structure.

So Pat Sajak drinks between tapings of Wheel of Fortune. Big deal. The only thing that would surprise me less is if he were a functioning illiterate who signs his paychecks with a big X.

Lastly, a big eye-rolling thanks to the MBTA for personally demonstrating to me how they remain in the red year after year. I bought one of those twelve-ride passes because A. and I now drive to and from work every day (I feel bad about that but public transportation is too unreliable to line up with daycare schedules; it's also fucking expensive), but occasionally I might take a train if I need to go in early, stay late, etc. The pass doesn't save anything compared to purchasing twelve individual one-way tickets but the convenience is worth the upfront money. Anyway, I now understand that this is the way to go because I've had one ride remaining for the last four or five trips, including this morning's, and it hasn't cost me a dime—apparently conductors, when they even bother to check at all for tickets during rush hour, don't want to be the one to void a pass by punching that twelfth ride. And here we go again with the fare hikes.

Up next: It's a Patriot-free Pro Bowl, which is just the way I like them outside of the Rod Rust era. I will not watch one second of it. Cheers!

Beer and football II — playoffs, week two

The game: Broncos at Patriots
The beer: Slumbrew Porter Square Porter
The result: Win, 45–10
The commentary: I'm sticking with the thumb-sucking theme, before and after versions. Again, these pictures weren't taken on game day—it was really Monday at the mall—and in the second one she's sporting the vacant stare of someone who wishes she hadn't just taken her thumb out of her mouth. The void left behind projects a dim-wittedness I assure you isn't there because she is the smartest baby but I like the inferred apprehension: "The Patriots played like world champions… against the Broncos."

I actually missed the first few minutes of the game—I was so wrapped up in the amazing Saints/49ers fourth quarter and its postgame coverage that I didn't switch over in time. I was under the impression the start of the second playoff game had to be held until the first was all-the-way over, due to the television contracts and the fat cats and all. But it wasn't so horrible to be proven wrong as I switched to CBS in time to see Hernandez rip off a forty-yard run, followed immediately by the Welker touchdown. G. turned to me and said "That's the game, I'm going to bed." She was right—bedtime for her is usually 8:30 or 9:00.

I have to assume it was Josh McDaniels who came up with the Little White Guy Mix-Up plays on Sunday. Put Welker and Edelman next to each other on the line or make one of them trace the other's route, sit back and watch the defense freak out when they can't tell which is Welker. I loved it. Hopefully this is explored even further next year when the team makes Edelman change his number to thirteen or eighty-two.

Unfortunately the Slumbrew was just OK. I'd read about this Somerville-based brewery in one of Patriots Daily's buffet spreads and filed it away to seek out. I should have known better—the label's kinetic red sculpture, straight out of Porter Square itself, brought back memories of Cambridge's… nay, the world's… most evil parking lot. Narrow spaces! No left turn! Crosswalk! Trapped! I'm not sophisticated enough to provide more criticism than "it didn't taste like much" (I'm quite certain that won't be a problem tomorrow, to the tune of eleven percent alcohol) and I was disappointed. Various porters are among my favorite beers and removing flavor, pleasant or foul, seems as though it would require a major effort when producing this style. Anyway, it wasn't nearly as bad as last January's godforsaken altbier. But what could be?

I've complained an awful lot the past few months about the defense in general, the defense in specific terms and each individual personnel decision the team has made since 2006. I'm all set with that, at least until Belichick trades out of the first round—twice!—in April (or, you know, if Ray Rice, Torrey Smith and Anquan Boldin go apeshit tomorrow). The Patriots are in the AFC Championship and I expect them to win. Ed Reed might get his crazy athletic interception, Terrell Suggs and Ray Lewis might get a couple of bone-crunching sacks and Haloti Ngata might eat Ridley and Green-Ellis for an afternoon snack. But they can't cover Welker and Gronkowski and Hernandez and Branch and Faulk (big game for him, I think), especially once Brady starts directing the no-huddle. Rice will give our appalling (sorry!) defense headaches even as they overcompensate in covering/shadowing him but Joeflacco's moustache will have to play from behind for much of the game, and its sloppy trim job will grow more unkempt as the evening progresses. (Any or all of McCourty, Arrington and Ihedigbo will still find ways to look foolish.) (Sorry again!) Hopefully last week's crowd shows up and honorary captains Troy Brown, Ty Law, Tedy Bruschi and Drew Bledsoe (I would like to have seen Ted Johnson, Lawyer Milloy or Willie McGinest, too) have big smiles on their faces as the Pats are awarded another Lamar Hunt Trophy. Final score: 30–24.

Up next: The Pats host the Ravens, and the winner moves on to face either the Giants or the 49ers in the Super Bowl. What year is this? Cheers!

Beer and football II — playoffs, week one (bye)

The beer: Founders Porter
The commentary: Last year at this time (I am not providing the link) I had a Berkshire Shabadoo all set to go for a second playoff contest that didn't happen. Never again, I vowed… until I was shopping for tonight's beer at Kappy's this morning and couldn't decide between options A and B. I stood staring at those bombers before remembering that no decision I made, then or ever, would affect the outcome of the game. So I walked out with a Divisional Round bomber and a presumed AFC Championship bomber. I still don't know which is which (one of them is eleven percent alcohol, is that better in the evening or the afternoon?) but it's a good problem to have. Unless, you know…

Demaryius Thomas. Slot him right behind Willis McGahee on the shit-that-can-go-wrong list. On Sunday I enjoyed a fine Founders while sitting slack-jawed in front of the television, wondering over and over "Who is that guy?" as Thomas made Ike Taylor repeatedly punch himself in the nuts with his own fists. Afterward Taylor tweeted "I apologize for playing the worst game at the wrong time. My goddamn nuts are killing me. Luv y'all to def. Please get me more ice." Poor guy. Poor Patriots, too, because he would start for this team.

A lot has been made of the whole Josh McDaniels thing. It does feel a little shady—I know if the Jets tried to pull something like this then Steve DeOssie's raw-steak complexion would turn a shade of red invisible to the naked eye—but I'm not sure how much it will matter. He might have drafted Tebow but did he ever even play him? What can he offer other than "I liked him at Florida and here's how I would have used in in a pro offense," which is a what-if game Belichick can already play? So I don't see a real significance in his past association with the Broncos. (The larger issue involves the Rams expecting Sam Bradford to be able to succeed on three offensive coordinators in three years. It will be interesting to see how long it takes for him to start yelling at reporters to knock it off.) Where McDaniels does pay off is by drawing up a handful of gadget and/or quick-strike plays that potentially result in the team scoring forty-something points instead of thirty-something.

On the other foot, congratulations to Bill O'Brien for accepting a temporary position at Penn State. I was listening to Sirius NFL earlier and someone made the point that you don't want to be the guy to replace Joe Paterno there, you want to be the guy who replaces the guy who replaced Joe Paterno. Pop culture history agrees: Jimmy Page was approached to join the Yardbirds after Eric Clapton pouted his way out of the group but he didn't want to replace him, instead recommending his buddy Jeff Beck for the job. When the moody Beck inevitably burned himself out (after a short, stunning term that produced "Heart Full of Soul," "Over, Under, Sideways, Down," "Happenings Ten Years Time Ago" and other gems), Page was all in, eventually transforming what became his band into Led Zeppelin. Similarly, when NBC gave The Tonight Show to Jay Leno instead of David Letterman and then changed their minds awhile later (as documented in Bill Carter's wonderfully salacious The Late Shift, a tantalizing book full of empty calories and remorse), Letterman arrived at the shrewd conclusion that he wouldn't be inheriting Johnny Carson's or Jack Paar's Tonight Show (which he coveted) but rather a failed Tonight Show with Jay Leno. So he created The Late Show. O'Brien can't exactly found a new university and develop a football program from scratch, but all this particular "promotion" does is white-wash Penn State's role in the sex-abuse scandal, a scandal that will not give him a single chance to succeed as a leader of men. In two or three years, after two or three losing seasons, alumni will have forgotten about Jerry Sandusky's crimes and will demand O'Brien's head on a platter. Someone else steps in (more in the mold of Pete "Rah Rah" Carroll than Bill "Fuck Off" Belichick), moving forward trumps looking behind and Penn State regains its "esteem." Bill O'Brien will be unemployable.

Prediction time? Something like 45–27 good guys. Belichick will travel to Pittsburgh to personally thank Dick LeBeau for demonstrating—throughout the entire game—which defensive scheme does not work. The Pats go big on the defensive line to try to stop the run, entrust Ninkovich to escort Tebow wherever he goes and ensure that no passes are thrown behind Chung and (probably starting at safety again) McCourty. On offense it's all about an early lead, even if it means electing to receive should they win the coin toss. I'd like to see Ridley and Green-Ellis move the chains—the Pats have to dominate time of possession and score almost every time they have the ball, which is exactly what Denver will try to do. Mix in some big Welker, Gronkowski and Hernandez gains and give Tebow no choice but to win with his arm, then it's all over but the shouting.

Around the league, the 49ers are up by a field goal at the half and the game could go either way, but I like the Saints to pull it out. The Ravens will end Houston's improbable run despite more horrendous play from Joeflacco—people say Mark Sanchez hasn't developed? And I think the G-Men will eke one out in Green Bay. Just remember that I know nothing about football.

Technicolor Web of Sound, my go-to internet radio station, has gone the way of a Remo Williams sequel. Suddenly it's not available to stream on iTunes, the website produces an error and someone blogged of its mysterious death. I was upset at first because the station introduced me to a lot of great sixties bands like Ant Trip Ceremony, Dragonfly and especially Blue Cheer, and it's been a part of my work day for the better part of eight years. Unfortunately the guy running it tightened up the playlist (causing it to repeat too often), focused too heavily on the Jefferson Airplane family tree and thought those old radio spots and other ephemera—including Illinois's one-time Emergency Broadcast System test tone, for crying out loud—would continue to amuse his audience after hundreds of listens. "I can't make it, Jim." Well I can't either. I'm sorry… I'll always love you for showing me that the Monkees made some amazing music and that the Pretty Things recorded soundtracks to soft porn films under a different name. But it's time to move on. WZBC has a reliable stream and I'm a month behind on PFW in Progress anyway.

Up next: Kick-off in two hours. Please don't make me write a "system failure" post next week. Cheers!

Beer and football II — week seventeen

The game: Bills at Patriots
The beer: Samuel Adams Vixen Chocolate Chili Bock Lager
The result: Win, 49–21
The commentary: I'm cheating with this picture as it was not actually taken during the game, or even on game day, but rather the following morning as G. snuggled her loveys and fought sleep with every inch of her little body (a battle she eventually won in fussy fashion). At the time I was certain those eyes could see a thousand years into my future. I am madly in love with her.

Fitzpatrick? Still not the bearded droid Bills fans are looking for. Stevie Johnson though? I'll take that guy! I understand why the refs had to throw the flag on his HAPPY NEW YEAR display but it's not like he wrote MY BROTHER'S GONNA SHIT or anything. He might lack maturity but he seems like a good guy, I don't know. Belichick simply has not drafted/developed a young wide receiver since the team started not winning Super Bowls, so I'll be pleased if he uses this year's picks to stock the defense with cyborgs after outbidding the rest of the league for Johnson.

Lately there's a lot of backlash against local media hotheads who cannot stop criticizing the team. I understand it since Notable Fucktards A, B and C latch onto any available negative angle while refusing to acknowledge a bright side. However, these clowns have a point. There really is no redeeming quality with this defense: Wilfork does a fine job but rarely dominates; Mayo either isn't talented enough to blow plays up or isn't being used correctly; Chung, when healthy, is a superstar when measured against Sergio Brown and Matthew Slater. Then, because Belichick's draft résumé from 2006 to the present is more luke-warm water (McCourty, Mayo, Maroney) than fire (Gronkowski, Hernandez, Mankins) with way too much ice (Meriweather, Darius Butler, Chad Jackson), no hotshots with limitless potential are in place to come in off the bench. I have been spoiled rotten for ten years since the Tuck Rule—sustained success, heightened expectations and so forth—yet I do not overstate their weaknesses.

What keeps the team competitive year after year, of course, is consistent excellence from the quarterback and the head coach: Brady is still playing out of his mind and Belichick's in-game adjustments the past few weeks have been outstanding. It's possible to see the brilliance as well as the flaws unless you're some kind of apologist homer; ergo, I like my boys against anyone. Who's with me? How about six-time all-pro tight end and veteran NFL analyst Randy Cross, who chucked self-respect in the gutter on Sunday and observed "Like the old Road Runner cartoons, you heard 'beep, beep' and the Patriots were gone." (That, my friends, is why a man with thirty-five years of playing and color-guy experience gets paired up with a stiff like Don Cruiqui week after week to announce games that have no significance. Also, Randy, it's more of a "meep" sound.) They won't always come back, particularly against the likes of Baltimore and a healthy Pittsburgh in the playoffs, but I'll take my chances on Brady stringing together a few hot starts when it counts. If not? Then Kyle Arrington, Julian Edelman and Ron Brace will make opponents pay!

God bless the New York Jets. For three years we Patriots fans have been waiting for them to implode and this perfectly average 8–8 finish (more degrading than 7–9?) is extremely rewarding. They'll be back, sure, but so long as Keller and Holmes (if he's still around) keep not being targeted then they will accomplish nothing. I'm the only one who still thinks Sanchez is pretty good—it's not his fault the offensive line sucks and he's being asked to throw fifty times a game—but if I'm wrong then look out, fat boy, because your team might actually suck. Speaking of rival quarterbacks, I love ESPN's James Walker's take on reports that free agent Chad Henne would love to return to Miami: "Anyone up for a Henne vs. Matt Moore quarterback battle in training camp? I doubt the Dolphins are."

In other AFC East news, I can't believe that Brian Schottenheimer (the one asking Sanchez to chuck the ball and absorb huge hits every other play) and Bill O'Brien (who does nothing except yell at players in an effort to get television exposure) are head-coaching candidates, even though I called it three weeks ago. Whoever hires them will get what they deserve: a search for a new head coach in 2015 after three consecutive losing seasons. But what's the alternative? Brad Childress or some diddling college coach? God save the NFL.

A. and G. dozed on the couch while I paired the bock (I didn't think I liked that style… maybe drenching it in chocolate is the answer) with some corn chips and chili con queso, followed by a chocolate chip cookie. That's what happens when you haven't been to work in ten days and won't return for another two. A. called the vixen on the bottle "scary." I call her flavor country. Care to guess what I have in my refrigerator for the playoffs? Not a thing! Yet.

Up next: The Patriots must survive a harrowing bye week that no one enjoys, except for people who've been meaning to hang window blinds for a month. Next week? Bring on the fucking Steelers. Cheers!

Beer and football II — week sixteen

The game: Dolphins at Patriots
The beer: Ipswich 20th Anniversary Imperial Pale Ale
The result: Win, 27–24
The commentary: Crazy Christmas Eve. And that's right, my daughter sucks her thumb! And grabs her nose in the process! Is she beautiful or what? (Also, dig our similarly posed Christmas card on the fridge. Meta!)

This is going to be a short one, with kickoff just over an hour away. I missed most of the first half of last weekend's game: our goal was to leave in time to arrive in Connecticut around 12:30 so we could settle in before I started aw-shucksing "Um, can we put the game on?" But G. had her own ideas and, admittedly, her mom and dad should have finished packing and gift-wrapping the night before. It's just so hard, Ringo.

Luckily, even with an obligatory Starbucks stop, we cruised down with no traffic at all. The TV was on almost immediately and when I saw what I'd missed I pulled up the Fios app on my phone and deleted what I'd so far recorded of the game (I'm glad we elected to go with Sonik Truth II playing the Greatest Holiday Playlist Ever—six hundred twelve songs and counting!—in the car instead of the radio broadcast). No need to watch a bunch of punts and defensive miscues after returning home, right? Anyway, we now know that the second half was the one to watch, in spite of Miami's late touchdown that served as yet another reminder to non-believers that this defense is real-deal atrocious. (I drank the delicious Ipswich while watching two weeks worth of Patriots Football Weekly the other night. During the game and up through the party that evening I alternated between Lagunitas IPAs and some stunning Southern Tier Double Milk Stouts, both of which were my contribution, of course. Fortunately for me there were no big drinkers around and I got to enjoy most of it myself.)

I had a nice week off. On Tuesday I took G. to the mall to try to return a bunch of stuff and to see if I was at all capable of changing her diaper in public by myself. Success! She did well for awhile but before long I cut the trip short, swung by Starbucks again (d'oh!) and took her home. As a parent it was the mature, responsible thing to do—needless to say my new year's resolution is to continue to set such reasonable expectations.

Up next: Remember 2003? Happy new year!

Beer and football II — week fifteen

The game: Patriots at Broncos
The beer: People's Pint Scotch Ale
The result: Win, 41–23; Sophie, 6–3–0
The commentary: I picked up the Scotch ale a few weeks ago out in central Mass. and thought it was a good choice for the Broncos game. Since Tebow is (was?) God's favorite quarterback, I thought I'd counter that advantage with a secular-sounding brewer in People's Pint. And it worked! I tried to go into the game (watched on lousy standard-definition delay because we were out running errands that afternoon/evening and I didn't want to take up the whole DVR drive, what with the Survivor and Dexter finales looming later on) with an open mind toward Tebow. I can get pretty worked up over just about anything but I at least try to see all sides before gripping "the correct" point of view with the ferocious death-chomp of one thousand blood-stained teeth.

All this Tebow stuff—how many people have actually watched him play? You have the religious folks who see how publicly he proclaims his faith and, of course, want to believe he's a better quarterback than a superstar who had an illegitimate child with some B actress from Longmeadow. And then you have the football fans who see him bowling over linebackers in a run-first offense and just know that he couldn't hit a wide-open receiver thirty yards down the seam. My impression is of a (very) raw athlete in the mold of a bulky, tougher Randall Cunningham—maybe he's not the best pocket passer, but just look out if you're chasing him from sideline to sideline for a few seconds and whiff on a tackle or two, because by then someone will be open. We saw a lot of that early in Sunday's game and, conversely, saw him get sacked for a loss of almost thirty yards after trying to do too much. So he lost the game but he lost it to Tom Brady, not to the Patriots' defense. I can count on one hand the number of elite quarterbacks in this league that Tebow couldn't possibly outscore on a regular basis, and that tells me he'll probably do alright. He's not a traditional quarterback—you can't compare him to John Elway or even Jake Plummer—but he has the time to develop that part of his game. It's his first meaningful season, he's got a lot of confidence and the Broncos would be nuts to go in a different direction next season. If they embrace him as their guy and approach the draft and free-agent market with his skills in mind—and if he puts the brakes on what I suspect is false humility and doesn't get too caught up in his own celebrity—he and his team will only get better, especially once his scrambling starts to result in late-hit penalties against defenders who are terrified to let him slip past. I can't believe I'm defending this guy but there you have it.

As for the game itself, the Broncos were somehow the first of fourteen teams to attempt to take Gronk out of the game and it was therefore rewarding to watch Hernandez do his yards-after-the-catch thing. I can't say enough about these guys and I look forward to what they can do in the playoffs, even as I dread the day they both take big-money deals elsewhere. In other news, the running game continues to not do a whole lot, which should be expected since they haven't had a whole lot of opportunity. That's something I'd like to see ironed out, because we've seen the past couple of years what happens when talented, determined teams figure out how to defend the passing game.

Really too bad about Andre Carter, who was put on IR yesterday. I'll miss his disruptive defensive presence but luckily we can still enjoy the weekly roundtable program where he, Alge Crumpler, Fred Taylor and Deion Branch engage in well informed discussions about leading national and international topics like the viability of an isolationist United Kingdom, the boom in Gulf Coast tourism and that guy in Maine who probably killed his daughter. At least Mark Anderson can fill his spot on the field for the rest of the season, now that the risk of him breaking an arm in a bicep-smashing sack celebration with Carter is no longer a thing to fear. I haven't heard Anderson speak a whole lot but maybe he can even sit in on the show and provide some thought-provoking insight on the record industry's potential reaction to Fugazi offering up hundreds of concert recordings for $5 a piece.

I've made it this far without complaining about the defense? You don't say! ESPN writer James Walker does a nice job on his AFC East blog—it's great to have unbiased commentary on the Jets and the two UFL teams that round out the division, as well as some outsider perspective on the Patriots. On that topic, his pitch-perfect piece about the Patriots needing to aggressively surround the newly extended Jerod Mayo with quality players was two hundred fifty words of rock-solid action. (At first I thought the post was written by ESPN Boston's informational wellspring Mike Reiss—whom I do love—and marveled for those mistaken few seconds at the fact it this was the first bit of real criticism he'd ever laid upon the team's personnel philosophy of stockpiling veteran cast-offs and undrafted rookies in order to rotate them in and out of a starting lineup every week. Then I realized it wasn't Reiss after all, and instead his role as a beat writer continues to get in the way of offering opinions other than "Patrick Chung walked through the locker room today so that's a good sign he'll play this weekend" for the sixth week in a row, followed by Chung being inactive for the sixth week in a row.) It was the kind of constructive (not just negative) analysis that is hard to find outside of PFW in Progress and Patriots Daily and I really appreciated it. Awesome job, seriously. But…

I'm all set with Walker's repeated assertion that Miami is "playing its best football late in the season" and "relishes the role of spoiler." I guess he's overlooking the stinker against the Eagles ten days ago? "Look out, NFL, the Dolphins are going to fuck up your playoff plans! Unless you're the Eagles. They will spoil that shit! Assuming again that you're one of thirty teams not based in Philadelphia. Go Fins!" What, exactly, have they spoiled? Ask me again next week.

Some minor items that I don't feel like flushing out:

Sophie won Survivor because Coach for some reason thought she would be easier to beat than that Rick guy, about whom A. and I still know nothing. If Coach had taken Albert and Rick to the final it would have been a clean sweep, though maybe none of those three could have defeated Ozzy in that last challenge? Unfortunately this season was a bit of a bore outside of Coach's eccentricity, Ozzy's unlikability, Brandon's insanity and Cochran's general awesomeness.

Few things challenge me like fastening my daughter's clothing. Why do buttons and snaps on onesies and stuff have to be so tiny? I don't appreciate proper scale at the expense of my fumbling adult-sized fingers.

The other day I went to the post office to get some stamps. (Thank-you notes, Christmas cards and those assholes who sell your name and address to The Company Store's catalog division are the post office's last hope.) I asked the guy "Do you have any holiday 'forever' stamps"? He responded "Which would you like, ornaments or baby Jesus?" He might as well have asked "How would you like to be judged, hellfire or salvation?"

I've been playing Can's "Mother Sky" two or three times a day for the past week and a half. Its quarter hour is much too brief and the "sudden" fade-out surprises me every time. A hip-hop group (probably called Tha Kanz) could sustain itself on nothing but Can beats for ten years.

Keeping with music, I heard Boss Hog's "Strawberry" this morning and realized the sound of the rhythm-keeping dot matrix printer would be a complete mystery to high school and maybe college students today. "Awesome keyboard effect, bro!" What other noises of my youth are obsolete? Dial-up modems? Jackée?

This afternoon we're having a $20 Yankee swap in which my gift is a $15 iTunes card and a $5 bottle of BBC's Coffeehouse Porter. I might open it myself. People are bringing snacks and my contribution—as a first-time baker—is a batch of peanut butter blossoms. (I just ate one to make sure it didn't taste like ass and I'm proud to report it was delicious.) Please wish me luck. [Edit: I got a pretty kick-ass orange picture frame.]

Up next: Dan Marino is not walking through that door. Cheers!

Beer and football II — week fourteen

The game: Patriots at Redskins
The beer: Berkshire Steel Rail Extra Pale Ale
The result: Win, 34–27
The commentary: I got some great pictures of G. leading up to the game but the smiley ones never come out. You can't see it here because of my stupid square-cropping syndrome but her feet were going a mile a minute in this one and they're a (stylish) green and orange blur. I love that she can maintain such a nonchalant expression while her legs are getting it done. By the way, please don't call child services on A. and me because of that gash next to her left eye. She did that herself—it is nigh on impossible to effectively trim her fingernails.

A friend and I used to drink the Steel Rail while playing pool at the Brass Cat in Easthampton when I lived out there years ago. What a great spot that was—the beers were cheap, you could always get a table and the jukebox was a killer. I never worried for a second that the bomber's color scheme exactly matched the uniforms worn by the most offensively named team in all of sports, who kept things much too close all game long. It was a refreshing ale but not as tasty as I remember. I also didn't remember that it is super-duper light in color, though an attractive blond rather than Bud or Miller's ill, pale yellow. It served its early-afternoon purpose well enough, especially considering I hadn't showered yet.

To state the obvious, if Mark Sanchez and Brian Schottenheimer were screaming at each other and had to be separated during a game then all of New England, fans and media folks alike, would rejoice in the "trainwreck" that is the New York Jets. Instead, everyone from Mike Reiss (of whom I am an enormous fan) on down uses it as an example of what a competitor Brady is. I actually do believe that but I don't think it's necessarily something to spin into a positive. Nor is it a sign that the Pats won't win another game the rest of the year. Regardless, Bill O'Brien should remember that he's Bill O'Brien and maybe keep out of his elite quarterback's face next time. Of course with those idiots running the Dolphins it's a good bet either he or Schottenheimer will be coaching that team next year.

Anyway, say what you will about Tebow but he's winning games. People seem to fall into one of two camps: his heart is large enough to overcome accuracy problems or he has no business playing the quarterback position; he is a man of strong moral and spiritual convictions or he is a self-promoting fraud; he is revolutionizing what it means to be a professional athlete or he is setting the game of football back several decades. (The Overrated Brian Urlacher even decided to chip in and called him "a real good running back," adding to his pile of head-scratching post-defeat statements that includes last year's "the Patriots are the best team in the AFC.") I'll surely have some of my own expert analysis next week but, in the meantime, it's pretty exiting to be a Broncos fan right now.

Up next: Our lowly hometown heathens travel to Denver to take on God and His armies of righteousness. We are in deep shit. Cheers!

Beer and football II — week thirteen

The game: Colts at Patriots
The beer: Just Beer Moby D American Ale
The result: Win, 31–24
The commentary: Like the Pittsburgh game, only the exact opposite, this one was nowhere near as close as the final score indicated. Brady, Welker and Gronkowski were doing every single thing against the Colts that they wanted to do.

I'm sort of glad all the "Lo, a defense e'er soaring!" talk around here can be put to rest. This is the same secondary that has sucked lemons all season long: they are not communicating better, they are not imposing their will upon horrible opposing quarterbacks, they are not talented. They are not improving. The three unanswered Colt touchdowns in the fourth quarter were killers once you consider an onside kick was a real possibility, and the one time Belichick decided against keeping his foot on the gas (disputing the "Anything can happen in this league, would you rather we kicked field goals?" speech he gives every time he's accused of running up the score) nearly came back to bite him. Sorry Hoyer, but you might not play another snap this season.

In an effort to save a little money—babies are expensive!—last week we downgraded our Fios cable television package to a lower tier. In the process we lost some channels we don't care about (couldn't tell you what they are), some that I really liked but, in retrospect, didn't watch too often (Palladia, HDNet) and some that really, really hurt (The NFL Network and Cloo). Sigh. I guess I'll survive because the only show I really watched on NFL was Sound FX and those clips are always made available on NFL.com, which isn't yet blocked at work, and that's good because (of course) Brady and Belichick were featured this week. I just watched the clip while eating my overpriced (overpriced… gak!… so long, Taylor Price, you were absolutely wasted here) sandwich and it's wonderful to see how competitive Brady is at all times, even during a bloodbath. "That's three fourth-quarter touchdowns." This wasn't a slam on his offense not keeping up—it's a sign that he might just murder McCourty and friends by the time the playoffs roll around.

G., as you can see, wasn't too good in keeping me company during the game. She asked me to put her down at halftime so she could nap during the rest of "this laugher" (her words) and that way I didn't have to awkwardly hold her and a giant beer mug at the same time. I cracked open the ale as the fourth quarter was starting (1:00 games almost feel strange now) and thought it was pretty good. I picked it up the previous weekend on the way to my uncle's. Just Beer also had a "'Not Pumpkin' Ale," an admittedly failed attempt at a pumpkin ale that turned out to be more of a pale ale. I'll remember it for next year because I'm officially stocked for the last four games of the regular season… and not beyond this time!

In 2010 I was late with a Christmas mini-playlist so I'll throw one up now with plenty of time for readers (!) to get sick of Christmas music. This is in honor of my company's holiday party at the InterContinental Hotel next week. It's right next door, and walking to work yesterday I noticed the logo resembles a giant vagina. Tell me I'm wrong.

(In other questionable signage news, the Subway restaurant attached to the convenience store a few blocks from my house has apparently gone rogue and changed its name to "Sub Day." It's a plain white and red sign that must have cost $5. Hilarious.)

1. Perry Como – CHRISTMAS
I played my family's Perry Como Sings Merry Christmas Music record to death every December during my childhood. I still love it, right down to subconsciously layering the old skips and pops onto my soulless Perry Como MP3s. I mean the MP3 format has no soul, not Perry Como. Well maybe both.

2. The Treacherous Three – Xmas Rap
"That ain't a GI Joe, that's a GI Jerk with a kung-fu grip that don't even work. So all I did was just put him away cuz my GI Joe looked GI Gay."

3. Rotary Connection – Silent Night (Chant)
Reissued Peace from 1968. The "Chant" qualification must only be there to distinguish from the "regular" and the "instrumental" versions of "Silent Night" on the album. As if there aren't enough Christmas songs to cover.

4. Beatles – Pantomime (Everywhere It's Christmas)
"No need to worry, Jasper. [Turns page.]" I thought they'd run out of paper? From their 1966 fan-club Christmas record. This and the following year's "Christmas Time (Is Here Again)" are my favorites—both are nicely produced collages that stand out against the charming novelty of the first three records and the withdrawn, sour last two. Incidentally, I always thought that was George Harrison doing a Tiny Tim impression on the '68 record but Wikipedia and other sources tell me it's really Tiny Tim. I remain unconvinced.

5. Victoria Spivey – Christmas Morning Blues
One of many highlights from the essential Blues, Blues Christmas. This compilation is repetitive and probably too long but so are the holidays, right?

Up next: The Pats travel to our nation's capital to visit museums for free and see if there's any truth to the rumor that Mike Shanahan is an overrated football coach. (He is.) Cheers!

Beer and football II — weeks eight, nine, ten, eleven and twelve

Week eight
The game: Patriots at Steelers
The beer: Cambridge Great Pumpkin Ale
The result: Loss, 25–17
The commentary: My favorite pumpkin beer, marred by repeated long completions down the middle of the field to a wide-open tight end. Hey, that's what the Pats are supposed to do! I would love another shot at these clowns in the playoffs.

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Week nine
The game: Giants at Patriots
The beer: Blue Hills Imperial Red India Pale Ale
The result: Loss, 24–20
The commentary: Hopefully the season's nadir. I always thought that word was pronounced "nade-EER" but apparently it's like Ralph Nader? That's why I don't use twenty-five-cent words when I speak. I don't remember much about this game (perhaps due to the IPA's nine percent alcohol) other than being generally uncomfortable throughout, and in retrospect it's hard to believe they lost by only four points. The following day on the train I overheard a guy say to his buddy "I hope we don't have another Donovan McNabb on our hands." I hate Patriots fans.

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Week ten
The game: Patriots at Jets
The beer: Haverhill GestAlt German-Style Brown Ale
The result: Win, 37–16
The commentary: Now we're talking. I accidentally bought two GestAlts, picking it up for the second time after thinking I'd passed on it earlier. I'll admit to being afraid when I opened the bomber and it foamed all over the kitchen counter. The eighteen ounces I was able to retain tasted pretty damn good and didn't in any way jinx the outcome of the game, so I was glad to have a backup. I attributed the first-half shutout of the Giants the week before to poor execution on the Giants' part instead of stellar defensive play by the Pats. This time I think they played pretty alright. I like how, in the week leading up to this one, everyone said the release of Haynesworth meant Belichick should be tarred and feathered. I've got problems with some (most) of his recent drafting decisions but why not give Haynesworth a shot in a short offseason? Belichick's free-agent adventures haven't worked out too well lately either but, the last time I checked, "low risk/high return" doesn't equate to "inexpensive/can't fail." One hundred thirty-one players were chosen before the first pick of the fifth round this year so who gives a shit. Belichick would have traded it for two sevens anyway.

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Week eleven
The game: Chiefs at Patriots
The beer: Stone Smoked Porter
The result: Win, 34–3
The commentary: Defense plays well again but it's the Chiefs. A few weeks ago A. and G. were to pick me up in Salem and they ran late, so I dropped in to the Green Land Café for a quick pint. Boy, was I pleased to discover they had the Smoked Porter on tap. I grabbed the one free seat at the bar, which was on the corner—to my left were a couple visiting from Florida to attend a Boston College football game for some reason, and to my right were an older couple I took to be local. They were speaking kitty-corner across me (I didn't mind) about local beer and Mr. Florida was drinking something he apparently enjoyed so much that he was on his iPad the whole time trying to figure out how far south it was distributed. I never learned what was giving him such a hard-on but it was pretty light-colored, and I can't think of any light-ish beer I'd get so worked up over. "This… how you say… Hi-nah-kin… is marvelous! Is it available in the American northeast?"

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Week twelve
The game: Patriots at Eagles
The beer: Ipswich Oatmeal Stout
The result: Win, 38–20
The commentary: I didn't get any good pictures of G. during the game because she's three months old now and no longer content to sit still. Blurry, blurry, blurry! The Android Gingerbread update seems to have slowed down my phone's shutter a bit, in addition to causing a host of other problems that I've just barely resolved. (Aye, the drawbacks of openness and fragmentation. I'm starting to understand the enthusiasm for rooting.) So it's Chloe's time to shine this week! That's my leg she's sleeping on up there. Precious.

OK, I actually remember this game because it was only three days ago. We watched the first half (along with the second half of the brutal Bills–Jets game—yes, I want the Jets to miss the playoffs because I'm not sure it's possible for one team to defeat another three times in one season—at my uncle's house while we introduced G. to my mother's extended family. I recorded the game and watched the second half at home in the evening, mostly ignoring the fast-forward button because I haven't watched many "live" games this season and I wanted to soak it in. It was rewarding to witness Andy Reid at last—at last!—get openly criticized. Poor game-planning, poor adjustments, poor discipline, poor time management: I salute you, The Andy Reid Era.

Again, our defense was passable. Again, they looked lost in giving up way too many long passes. Again, Sergio Brown celebrated a "pass breakup" he had nothing to do with aside from never once turning around to look for the ball and possibly interfering with a receiver who still could have made the catch. But again, Tom Brady was unstoppable. Again, having two productive veterans like Welker and Branch at wideout, the best tight end in the league in Gronkowski, another top-ten tight end in Hernandez and a crew of running backs who can produce most of the time was a wonderful bunch of answers to a questionable defense. Again, it's awesome to be a Patriots fan, just like it has been for ten years.

I loved this tongue-in-cheek headline from Boston Sports Media Watch on Monday morning: "Porous Patriots Defense Allows 400 Yards to Vince Young, Still Manages Undeserved Blowout Win With Roster Full of Belichick Draft Busts." Nothing could sum up the past month any better. Unfortunately, staring blankly into the camera, I realize satire is rooted in truth: if Belichick doesn't trade his two 2012 first-round picks to move into the top ten and snag a defensive player opposing offenses need to account for—again—then I will surely die.

Elsewhere in football, I can't believe Stevie Johnson is being slain for mocking someone who once put on a pair of sweatpants, stuffed a gun into the waistband, went to a nightclub, shot his own leg, was arrested for and convicted of this crime and spent two years in prison for it. Plaxico mocks himself every day just by having survived that wound. I like James Walker's AFC East blog for ESPN but give me a break: "[Johnson's touchdown celebration] wasn't in great taste, considering Burress spent years in prison for the incident." It's not in great taste to pretend to rape someone in order to mock a person imprisoned for rape. The only victim here is Plax, Plax's leg, Plax's sweatpants and maybe the nightclub's floor. So let's relax, America. Or, if you insist on chiding Johnson, at least remind people that Plax is a moron who did something really, really stupid and is really, really lucky it wasn't worse.

Speaking of relaxing, or rather doing the opposite of relaxing and, instead, evolving into an even more smug and uptight asshole, Bob Costas needs to put on some sweatpants and go clubbing. His anti-celebration rant on Sunday Night Football was as blatant an audition tape to take over for Andy Rooney as anyone wearing a turtleneck and blazer could produce, right down to lauding old-timey white players. "All this… and an overexposed, sanctimonious prick who single-handedly tries to ruin the Olympics every two years… next on 60 Minutes." I loved it almost as much as the stout.

Up next: It's Pats–Colts in Foxborough, minus the beloved Brady-versus-Manning drama. If Peyton doesn't play this week then just put him on injured reserve already. And if the Colts somehow win then the misery of every single Patriots fan will be an early Christmas present for Michael Felger. Cheers!