Beer and football III — the draft

The beer: Blatant Session Ale
The commentary: It's become blatantly (ha!) obvious that I'm incapable of writing much outside of the comfort and weekly deadlines afforded by professional football, so I'll kick off what I'm calling the 2012 season (in place of a clumsy "2012/2013") with an attempt at live-blogging ESPN's coverage of the first round of the NFL draft. Why ESPN? Because I no longer get the NFL Network. The smallest violin… anyway, as picks twenty-seven and thirty-one approach, or if the Pats trade up, I'll mute the TV and listen to the PFW stream while Captain Beefheart (sprawling mess) and Led Zeppelin (clever idea, difficult execution) stare at me from the corner, dreaming the unfulfilled dreams of incomplete blog posts—and May's playlist is looming.

Hopefully this exercise makes up for my never-realized attempt at live-blogging 2007's made-for-the-Sci-Fi-Channel movie Ice Spiders, where I planned to offer up an alternate title of Eight-Legged Mountain of Death and make other humorous observations. That shit was going to be amazing. Alright, is everybody ready?

7:50
I'm glad I have tomorrow off. Nothing helps you get over the inevitable trading of two first-round picks for twenty years' worth of fifth-rounders like mowing the lawn, shopping for a sport coat and making chili.

7:55
ESPN is throwing all their correspondents at us. Rachel Nichols's eyes just burned a hole in the wall behind me. Ed Werder shops at the same rouge-heavy make-up boutique that Steve DeOssie frequents. Sal Paolantonio looks like the punchline of a no-arms-and-no-legs joke. More clowns are probably lingering somewhere but these are the three I saw, since I'm DVRing this and watching on a delay (recording started five minutes early).

7:59
Berman: "Are you ready for the draft?!?//!11?1 We are!!!!!111!1"

8:00
ESPN's opening segment assumes football fans are not actually fans of the game of football, but rather of the muscular sweatiness that is a side effect of said game. Correct!

8:03
With all the "Suck for Luck" talk last season, this is the first I'm seeing of the man. He looks like someone who throws firecrackers at stray dogs.

8:04
Jets fans are lazily booing Goodell as he opens the evening, but when when he says it's an exciting night "for you, the fans" it's all "Hey, we're fans! Yay!" Idiots.

8:10
Also the first I'm seeing of Robert Griffin III. Somehow I just knew he was black with that name.

8:11
Hey, a Bud Light commercial! Think I'll open my beer. Mmmm. I considered "Beer and football 2012 – the draught" for a title, and if I'd chosen an imperial something-or-other in place of this session beer I might have gotten hammered enough to like it. "Publish that shit!"

8:20
Our first trade! Hey Cleveland, it's a passing league. See you at home the next ten Januarys.

8:32
Berman: "Hold onto your hats!!11!1!1!!11!!1"

8:33
Seems like the first five picks are pretty much going in order of a lot of analysts' boards, even if the teams involved have shuffled a bit. I think "draft analyst" has to be the easiest job around: watch football, take some notes, comb your hair. And if you're wrong from time to time? Blame it on the GMs. What a life.

8:41
Werder looks like he's on a webcam. Tweak those RGB settings!

8:45
Mark Barron's off the board. His shirt is purple.

8:46
Dolphins coming up. I don't care what they do here, this team won't win four games. It's Tannehill. Kiper can't believe it. Tannehill looks like the type who would drive to New Hampshire and buy firecrackers for Luck to throw at dogs, then sit back and laugh it up.

8:52
Welcome to the show, Suzy Kolber! She shops at the orange-of-one-thousand-desert-suns make-up store.

9:15
I just spent too much time picking onions off of a frozen supreme pizza. You see, I like the pepperoni and the sausage and the peppers but not the onions. Anyway, I've got to start fast-forwarding.

9:19
What's the crowd yelling every time Goodell announces "With the nth pick in the 2012 NFL Draft…"? It sounds like "What??" Is Stone Cold in the house?

9:31
Jets on the clock! "With the sixteenth pick in the 2012 NFL draft—What??—the New York Jets select… Tim Tebow!" Actually it's Quinton Coples, and he's supposed to be pretty good. But can he catch passes? This team is a mess.

9:41
Coples's pre-recorded introduction to his highlight reel shows him slowly jabbing at his watch before turning away to the director as if to say "Was that good?" They couldn't end the clip one second earlier? I hope Solder can block this guy.

9:50
Adam Schefter is fired up. "We'll be back with more picks!1!!1!1" If he doesn't grab a ruler and challenge Chris Mortenson to whip it out in the next twenty minutes I'll put those onions back on my pizza.

9:59
Shea McClellin, a.k.a. "The Guy Every White-Trash South Boston Tweaker Wants to Draft," just went to the Bears. I'm still behind on the broadcast so I figure the Stadium must be burnt halfway to the ground by now.

10:08
This is what I get for watching on delay and fast-forwarding through everything: suddenly the Pats are picking at twenty-one! Don't know the details yet and I'm not jumping ahead. Hopefully they traded the twenty-seventh and maybe a third-rounder and will stay put at thirty-one to grab a corner or safety. Let's see. Whoops, Berman says "New England up next, and Adam talked about that." Time to rewind.

10:00
Thanks, Adam, for spoiling who they're going to take (Syracuse's Chandler Jones) and providing no trade details whatsoever.

10:01
Ford is using Donovan and the Jeff Beck Group's "Goo Goo Barabajagal (Love Is Hot)" in this Taurus commercial. Shit, I'll buy one now. "Truth is molt-uhhhnnn." Make it two!

10:10
The PFW plan didn't work out. It's 11:30 and I'm barely halfway through this thing. Sorry boys, I'll listen at work next week.

10:11
Jets fans in the house are booing, so it must be time for the good guys to pick. "What??" Schefter was right. ESPN is evidently on about a ten-second delay because Goodell announced it, they flipped to Jones's living room and he and his family stood there doing nothing for a bit before eventually whooping it up. Jones is wearing a cadmium-green (I looked it up) shirt in his profile photo and I'm pumped—that's my favorite color for G. to wear. Deion Branch, you might have some competition!

10:13
The Browns just drafted a forty-five-year-old quarterback.

10:21
The Pittsburgh Towels take David DeCastro, who Berman calls "an old-fashioned guard." Translation: "an ugly white dude."

10:22
Wait, what? Pats picking again at twenty-five? I have no idea what's going on. Rewind. Traded up to grab some linebacker from Alabama, a team that could contend for an AFC wild-card spot. I love it, light a fucking spark under Mayo's ass. Still don't know what Belichick gave up for either of these picks, though—nice job, Bristol! If they have a second-rounder left then I'm fine.

10:26
The goddamn crawl says the Pats are still picking at thirty-one. That can't be right. Unfortunately I'm afraid to ask Google because I'm still an hour behind and I don't want to spoil anything.

10:40
Packers just took USC's Nick Perry. If the Pats are indeed still at thirty-one I bet they trade out now. That's what the Ravens just did.

10:45
Vikings reach for safety Harrison Smith. Lots of locals had him coming here in a few picks. OK, now the ticker says the Buccaneers are at thirty-one. How about some info?

10:50
Goodell is announcing the 49ers' pick, only the Bucs' pirate flag is on the massive display behind him. Smooth operation all around.

10:57
Alright, the Giants are up. That means this thing is almost over and I can look up what the hell I missed with my itchy fast-forward thumb: Patriots Twitter says it was number twenty-seven and a third to move up to twenty-one and Pro Football Talk says they got to twenty-five by giving up thirty-one and a fourth. Kiper likes the Jones and Hightower picks and we held onto both of tomorrow's second-rounders. I'm cool with that. Goodnight.

Beer and football II — playoffs, week fiveSuper Bowl XLVI

The game: Patriots vs. Giants
The beer: Bear Republic Big Bear Black Stout
The result: Fuuuuuuck
The commentary: Time is a funny thing. With time, wounds heal. With time, losses seem unimportant. With time, you'd think you could stock a secondary with personnel at all capable of stopping one stinking drive at the end of the biggest game of the year. And with time, it's almost the middle of March and I have yet to write about the… unpleasantness.

There's not much to say that hasn't been said. I agree with future ex-Penn State head coach Bill O'Brien that Welker's non-catch wasn't really a drop. Where I seem to disagree with everyone is that the defense and not the offense lost this game (though one significant special teams play might have been enough to make a difference). The Giants have a good team, and when Brady and the boys aren't performing as well as they could it's up to our defense to win a game for once. For once! The coverage on that long Manningham catch was really solid, from what my already-fuzzy-on-the-details memory tells me, but you must stop that touchdown drive. The signs were there all season, up to and including a shaky finish against the Ravens—take away two great plays by Sterling Moore, another undrafted castoff, and there's not even a Super Bowl loss to mourn. Why Belichick continues to saddle himself with heroic efforts in coaching up mediocre talent instead of searching for the next Lawrence Taylor is beyond me, beyond reason, beyond space. It was the defense. It was always the defense.

Once again I'll watch the draft in anticipation of snaring high-upside defensive beasts—maybe this will be the year, and the defense will evolve from one watched through the narrow slits between my fingers. No-shows like Jermaine Cunningham, Ron Brace and Gary Guyton will be holding down benches on any of thirty-one other sidelines. Nice role players like Mark Anderson (free agent right now) and Kyle Arrington will indeed be used as nice role players who can maximize their specialized skills as game situations dictate, instead of playing so regularly that their limits become exposed. Two or three rookies who can start immediately, McCourty getting at least halfway to year one's production, Wilfork continuing to do what he does on slightly fewer snaps… suddenly you're a top-fifteen defense. Pair a top-fifteen defense with this offense, whether or not they draft a receiver capable of playing significant snaps by Thanksgiving, and there's your XLVII ticket. (End spoiled rant.)

Up next: Surely death! Beer, football and G. will return next season. Cheers!

Beer and foo Stall tactic!

I'm not yet ready to discuss beer and catastrophe. Instead, let's mourn the imminent death of my smartphone's camera by celebrating some of its best narrative photographs. Click to enlarge.

We'll start with the preciousness. I love this picture, from the same "session" as week five. G. was all about funny faces that day—it looks like she's about to pull off a mask and reveal herself as a V baby or something. She is the best.

Here's the orange frame I got in December's yankee swap (still don't have a print for it). I was diligently working away one afternoon when I glanced over and liked the way our blinding sun projected the Dunkin Donuts cup's shadow upon it. I promise this is in no way staged. It is art.

Garden Fresh Salad Co. in Chelsea is located, as you would expect with a name like "Garden Fresh," next door to one scrapyard and across the street from another. It's also a stone's throw from the train tracks, as demonstrated by this shot taken from a passing commuter rail car. You can get no fresher than backhoes, discarded appliances, telephone lines, barbed wire and a foot of snow.

The later stages of August's BBC beer dinner at Cambridge Common. What a great night, made greater by the no-show table neighbor whose beers were split evenly between my two friends and me. I was pretty all set.

We took a long walk in Marblehead in the Spring, and at the time I thought the "dichotomy" of these signs was really something else. It was hilarious to me in some subtle, clever way. For the life of me, though, I can't remember what the big deal was—I no longer get the joke. Any ideas?

I swear, every time I whip out my camera in an outdoor setting I end up with a picture exactly like this, taken from the same goddamn angle, with the same proportion of sky to structure. And I don't even realize it until I upload the photos afterward and realize "Hmm, that looks familiar." Here's the Newburyport version, taken during a trip soon after G. was born.

Turning this one ninety degrees changes the message from CAUTION: WET FLOOR to CAUTION: LUNGING ASSASSIN. Dig the cheesy rose-colored marble in my old building. At least it will still be standing in five years, unlike the new one which I think came from Ikea.

I don't know what to make of the logo for a local dry cleaner. Clearly the goal was to present an all-powerful superhero who zaps stains away from racks of undersized clothing. To me, however, he looks like an evil puppet master with wonderful child-bearing hips.

This was my Halloween costume a couple of years ago. I dressed up as someone who shops in the adolescents department at Marshall's.

A. and I traveled to Block Island in the Fall of 2010. We rented a scooter and toured most of the accessible roadways, but we had to stop at one point in order to document what total badasses we were in those helmets. Do not fuck with us.

The uncommon (though less so, recently) spelling of my name was inspired by a character on the old television series The Big Valley. TV Land or somebody plays a lot of reruns—here's a recent one. Do not fuck with Jarrod.

Here I am sitting in our hotel room in Montreal trying to decide which RetroCamera setting was best. I think people rely too much on these things—any old fool can oversaturate an image—but I'll admit it is fun to mix them in from time to time. So I composed the same shot over and over, applying a different filter for each one in order to compare them side by side. I think this Polaroid knock-off turned out especially creepy, like it's one of those purposely staid images where if you look closely enough you can make out a demon or a bloody screwdriver in the shadows.

A. and I had a little scare early in our pregnancy that thankfully turned out to be nothing. Upon learning the good news (or, rather, having a doctor rule out any bad news) we celebrated by heading straight from the hospital to Woody's Grill & Tap, one of my all-time favorite restaurants (I used to live right around the corner). Our joy and relief were palpable as we enjoyed the best pizza in Boston, snug in front of the brick oven, with A. sneaking sips of my Coffeehouse Porter. Around the Horn was on the TV above the bar and there must have been a malfunction with the closed captioning because it read WHO HAVE TO BE BORING? the entire half hour. What a brilliant sentence fragment—we laughed and laughed and it was just what we needed.

Lastly, as I said at the top, the shutter on my phone's camera is having trouble handling light and therefore has been slow to function—just try explaining that to a squirming five-month-old as you attempt to snap her picture. Anyway, there's an auto body repair shop right on the East Boston/Revere town line that puts its trade to good use when a local sports team is in a championship game or series—naturally, they stage the remains of an accident out front. Leading up to the (gulp) Super Bowl, they had decked out a giant SUV in Patriots colors and had it colliding with and destroying a compact coupe with a Giants logo painted on it. The coupe was pretend burning and everything. As we drove by one night I tried to snap a quick picture to post on Facebook—I even had a caption written in my head, "The flames are fake but the fire is REAL"—when my camera called bullshit on that. A. had to keep moving because traffic was heavy, so I just started shooting random pictures to see if it would fix itself. It wouldn't: the above is a single photograph and not a collage—one click, no post-click editing. The reddish section is pretty much straight ahead, the way I was facing, but the others represent alternate realities where I aimed the camera anywhere from left to right. Time for a new phone.

---

Maybe I'll return next week to try to work out what the hell happened in Indianapolis (hint: terrible defense!). Beyond that, I'm in a bit of what might be called a creative trough. Beefheart? Sure, but I haven't read the book yet. Short story? I have a title, Trial Size, and nothing else. At least there will be six thousand or so words to look forward to in May when I barf up another overlong annual playlist. Two of those words? Iron Maiden.

I have no words (part 2)

(Part 1)

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!