Beer and football III — week thirteen

The game: Patriots at Dolphins
The beer: Southern Tier 2X Double Milk Stout
The result: Win, 23–16
The commentary: Yet another example this season of a beer label's hierarchy confounding me. Is it just "2X Stout"? Or "2X Stout Double Milk Stout"? Southern Tier also brews a "2X IPA." So "2X IPA Double India Pale Ale"? That's a redundant mess. Rock Art's smoked porter similarly threw me for a loop—its label reads "Double Porter" with the word "Smoked" beneath it. Is that a carefree line break or a deliberate separation? Should I have inferred an em dash? "Double Porter—Smoked"? Are other "Double Porters" available? "Double Porter—Stochastic"? Or is "Smoked" merely the "Undilutable Slang Truth!" to "2X Stout"'s Room to Live? These are the problems I create for myself.

My cousins came by for a little AFC East Championship action. G., of course, thought that was a great time to nap for the first Sunday in weeks. Luckily she didn't sleep through the entire visit or else she would have missed out on some serious book snuggling! She loved every second of it and they couldn't get enough of her. It was really sweet.

Elaborate tie-breaker formulas currently position the good guys as the second playoff seed. Woot! Thirteen wins (so, winning out) should sustain that but twelve might be alright too. I think they need a bye week more than ever this season though. These are the problems Patriots fans create for themselves.

Up next: The Texans travel to Foxborough to try to prove to me that they really are a good team. I remain unconvinced, even though I know nothing about them—they're the friggin Texans. Cheers!

Beer and football III — week twelve

The game: Patriots at Jets
The beer: Mayflower Winter Oatmeal Stout
The result: Win, 49–19
The commentary: What a laugher! That was the most fun I'd had since… well, probably like a half hour before when G. was still awake. But you get the idea. Also, this happened, which was pretty funny:

A.: "Did you pick that for the theme?"

Me: "Pick what?"

A.: "The beer."

Me: (Stares blankly.) "Theme?"

A.: "Because it's Thanksgiving. (Pauses.) 'Mayflower.'"

Me: "Oh! I guess not."

I can't imagine the rest of the AFC is too pleased that the Pats' putrid defense and special teams are starting to make plays. They're coming on at the right time, as usual, and let's hope they can keep it up. The Jets, though… probably everyone's excited to see how that's going down. And, excepting that ass fumble, it wasn't even as close as the score indicated.

Logo contest update! I was not chosen as one of three finalists. Rats! One of them uses an identical color scheme to mine and, honestly, might be a little better (though not as legible at smaller sizes, which was one of the requirements). Another uses typography alright but is pretty hokey. The third is a total embarrassment and I want no part of a contest in which it is considered a top option. The commonality between the three is an over-the-top nautical theme that I used to a minimum because, for crying out loud, not everyone on the North Shore has a goddamn boat. Also, the voting process that decides the winner is not a fancy online model that could have been utilized in 1993 but rather an old-fashioned "go to one of these few locations and vote via secret ballot—submissions by Jews will be noted as such" affairs. Those Nazis can have their hate cake! On the website (so they are familiar with the internet?) are a few pictures of people who've hawked their wares at past arts festivals. They all can be characterized by at least two of the following: old; white; tacky; unshowered; wicker-happy; vest-happy. No thanks.

Up next: Tom Brady brings his kids down to that South Beach playground we discovered last month. We're having company over for this one—I had it penciled in as a loss but I've since changed my mind because I want everyone to enjoy themselves. Cheers!

Beer and football III — week eleven

The game: Colts at Patriots
The beer: Notch Polotmavý Czech Amber Lager
The result: Win, 59–24
The commentary: Guess who wouldn't nap again! Like last week, our efforts were foiled when G. turned crib time into play time, followed by full-on holler time. As kickoff approached I scooped her up and tried to lie down on the couch with her the way I can sometimes get her to nap with me on our bed. On the couch, A. and I call this "the danger position" because it is a near certainty we will fall asleep watching television. Apparently, G. calls it "the roll over! blanket! Elmo! aiiieeee! position" because it was like dunking her in a vat of cocaine for five seconds. So I set her down to play and accepted that the game (actually watched live the whole way) would go down pretty much the same way as last week's, with me having to pause every now and then to take sharp objects away from her. No big deal. Unfortunately this morning I discovered a few yellow marks on our television that suspiciously match her plastic stacking cups—better giant-beer-drinking supervision needed from this guy.

I expected Luck to have a better game against the good guys. Despite the common (local) misconception that Belichick does well against rookie/first-time-starting quarterbacks, I seem to recall a whole bunch of times it didn't work out that way. Matter of fact, the past couple of years, more quarterbacks have had their way with his defenses than haven't. I'll just leave that alone and keep my distance from rage and hatred this morning. (In my defense, last week's Mass Art explodo-rant was totally organic. I had no intention of going there.) Wouldn't you know it, though, the one strength of this crew was supposed to be defending the run and we all saw what happened against the Bills and the Colts. (Deep breaths.)

The funny part, in a "Noooooo!" kind of way, is that I didn't hear about Gronkowski's arm until skimming Pro Football Talk (rag!) headlines the following morning. It sucks, but it doesn't sound out of the question that he'll return by the end of the regular season. Certainly by the playoffs. Right? Anyway, Belichick does a weekly interview with local retard foundation radio station WEEI on Mondays. I listened to it at work yesterday and this one exchange made my day: hosts Glenn Ordway and Michael Holley were politely asking (their preferred manner of criticism) why Gronkowski was in on the point-after, why he was in a position to be injured, when the game was no longer competitive.

Belichick: "Football players play football… you tell me which guy's gonna get hurt and I'll get him outta there, but I don't know how you know that."

[Three seconds of silence.]

Ordway: "Time machine. Simple, Bill. Get one of those time machines, go back into time, figure it all out. Think what your record would be like if you went into one of those time machines!"

Jarrod: "Holy living fuck."

Up next: I'm thankful that tonight's game against the Jets won't start until 8:30. Should give us plenty of time to return home from dinner, put G. to bed, crack open a bomber and pass out on the couch by 9:15. Happy Thanksgiving!

Beer and football III — week ten

The game: Bills at Patriots
The beer: AleSmith Nut Brown English-Style Ale
The result: Win, 37–31
The commentary: God bless the DVR. Continuing the trend, this week's "1:00" game didn't start for me until almost 3:30. Sunday was the deadline for a local arts festival logo contest that I entered, and after running a few errands early in the afternoon I had to drop A. and G. off at home so G. could have lunch. She no longer naps in the morning so we've been trying to institute an afternoon napping schedule about fourteen months too late. Unfortunately she fell asleep in the car before we got home and had to be woken and brought upstairs to eat, then refused to nap at all until later (which I'll get to). Anyway, after dropping them off I had to scoot over to Marblehead to turn in the logo.

For some reason I was expecting more formality than a cardboard box with a slot in it. There didn't seem to be many other submissions, though people had another two hours or so to bring them in. My only goal—well, my low-hanging fruit goal apart from the $150 cash prize—is to beat the woman (definitely a woman) who wrote her name in giant fourth-grader's script on the back of her entry. It's a certainty she designed her logo using PowerPoint and some web font. May the best design win, you hack!

On this topic, before getting to football, I had major flashbacks to my time at Mass Art on Saturday night as I finished my design, printed it out, cut down a piece of museum board (for some reason the contest specified that it "be mounted on eight- by ten-inch board (no other size accepted)," carefully applied some regrettably low-quality double-sided tape to the back of the print, mounted that shit and then covered it in a flap of tracing paper to protect it from scuffs and stray marks. All the night before it was due, of course! Ah, old times. I wanted to save a second copy in my old portfolio, which hasn't accepted new entries in the six years since I earned my degree because I've had a steady in-house job and haven't branched out into freelance work like I sort of planned (drag).

My three years at Mass Art (officially Massachusetts College of Art and Design, though minus the "and Design" in my day) as a graphic design certificate candidate (that BA in Journalism years earlier was ill-advised) were one big blur. I seemed to be one of only a handful of students who worked full time in addition to the three or six evening hours of "class time" (mostly standing around critiquing everyone else's work) per week. Overall it was a pretty taxing and unpleasant experience, some of which was my fault. I never did spend enough time on any projects (usually medium- to long-term deals, lasting anywhere from three weeks to entire semesters each) until the very end, which resulted in too many rushed all-nighters spent with a Canon i9900 that didn't produce my best work. Most of the instructors, especially this one woman in charge of the whole program who "taught" two or three of my classes (I'll politely refer to her as Tuesday instead of the one word I'd use if I didn't have a daughter), never did offer a whole lot of support. My critiques usually consisted of "it's not good enough," and for that I often drove home feeling like shit. It sucked.

(I should mention here that Tuesday taught my Wednesday evening Graphic Design I classes during the Fall 2004 semester and she was not a Red Sox fan or, I gather, a fan of anything that might be considered fun to non-artists. Do you know what happened on Wednesday evenings that semester? October 20: Red Sox–Yankees, game seven. October 27: Red Sox–Cardinals, game four. Naturally she didn't let us out early, but thanks to Fox's decision to start games way past the bedtimes of most impressionable young sports fans who will grow up without an allegiance to baseball, I was able to catch about the last quarter of each of these historic games. What a Tuesday.)

With less than a year remaining in the program I interviewed for the job I've held ever since. I brought a stripped-down version of my portfolio, weeding out a few designs I didn't feel were particularly strong (thanks to the non-specific direction mentioned above) and maybe it got me hired. Maybe it didn't. When December rolled around and I put school behind me forever, I closed up my portfolio case (containing many reworked pieces that had been significantly improved over the course of several lessons on what television shows air at four in the morning) and didn't open it again, even through two moves. Thanks to the brain trust of Mass Art's continuing education certificate programs, I was very near ashamed at how much "better" all the other students were than I was. At least that's how I felt—following my concluding presentation, the panel's seeming reluctance to graduate me certainly didn't help in the confidence department. Instead, it was just the twisted knife I needed to become convinced that my portfolio—symbolizing three years of major sacrifice (quitting a reasonably lucrative job that made me miserable in order to do something creative) and hard, hard work—was not worth the cost of a pad of newsprint. But graduate I did, allowing me to put the entire affair behind me. What a relief.

Fast forward to Saturday. I wanted to file the extra logo away with my old work, just because it was a place to put it. For old times' sake I sat next to A. on the couch and we flipped through those three years. A redesigned James Brown CD. An identity system (brochure, letterhead, envelope and business card) for the Tannery, another (print advertisement, letterhead, envelope, business card and cocktail napkin) for Gate Gourmet and a third (letterhead and envelope) for Dado Tea. A series of three posters encouraging voter turnout via MassVOTE. A free-form book combining window reflections and snatches of overheard conversations in Harvard Square. An annual report for the American Red Cross. A redesigned issue of (fictional) Talk Back magazine with two additional covers. A registration mailer that folded out into a poster calling for entries for an alternative fuels design competition, along with an invitation to the awards ceremony and a certificate for the winning designer (the invitation was replaced upside down on its board, which confirms that I hadn't opened the portfolio since the final presentation—that's something I would have corrected had I noticed, but those eggheads couldn't be bothered). A book of stamps highlighting the American typeface Franklin Gothic (probably my favorite piece). A pencil set chronicling (what else?) the history of American rock music. A logo, poster and T-shirt promoting a digital film festival. Packaging for a sports drink endorsed by John McEnroe. A website for a (fictional) Boston-based "social dessert" portal called The Icing. (A. said she wanted to bookmark it.)

And goddammit, it was good stuff! The MassVOTE posters are underdeveloped but the concept was strong. The Dado Tea pair is cute but needs "more" (that's the vague kind of expertise I benefited from during those critiques). Same with Gate Gourmet. I really like the film festival logo but the poster would benefit from better typography. I would also choose a different typeface and find better images for the mailer (freely available high-quality options are limited, even for student use; most likely I'd take my own photographs as I had successfully executed on the Tannery and Harvard Square materials). That one wouldn't make the cut in an interview tomorrow anyway because, on the whole, it is under-designed. Everything else though? I would hire the talented bastard! The craft and construction are strong, which is something I struggled with on just about everything—even the best large-format printers don't print fifteen by twenty inches, so there were many seams to meet up. Printing and taping together ten page spreads, complete with cut-outs designed to precisely line up with something on subsequent spreads, to form a twenty-page annual report? No thanks, ever again. So I'd like to buy that guy a drink. I'll buy him a smooth brown ale and pull up a seat to listen to him bitch about his instructors and how they don't really help make him a better graphic designer and how they play favorites and how he suspects this one dude is sleeping with a couple of students. Admire his typographic sensibilities and tell him to buck up, he's better than he thinks. Anyway, I was happy to reacquaint myself with my past. I was happy to add what I think is a well designed logo to a pile of other well designed materials. I was happy that I became a graphic designer. And I'm happy now to give a big "fuck you" to Mass Art. My only regret is that I didn't attend the Art Institute of Boston instead.

Wow, that really escalated. (Jefferson Airplane on line one!) There was a game? Right! So… I got home from Marblehead a little before 3:30 in time to discover that G. wouldn't nap. I let her cry it out long enough for me to wolf down some chips and salsa and crack open the AleHouse and then set her free to run around the living room while I zipped through the game. She had a blast listening to me rant and rave about this being Mayo's worst "television copy" game as a pro (because there's a lot of film that viewers don't see). If it weren't for some costly penalties (most of which were correctly called) and Ryan Fitzpatrick remembering that consistency is not his thing then Buffalo would have won this game. They should have won this game. But they lost. Fitzpatrick later called Brandon Spikes a "punk" after Spikes sacked his entire family and got called for a personal foul, even though the only reason Fitzpatrick's helmet came off was because Spikes blasted through the offensive line so uncontested that he wasn't slowed at all, and as he brought the quarterback down (with incidental helmet-to-helmet contact due to Fitzpatrick turtling) he overwhelmed the guy so thoroughly that his waistband was responsible for removing the helmet. Spikes and his athleticism smothered that bearded motherfucker, and even with the penalty (which wasn't dirty) I welcomed seeing some aggressive play-calling. The talent of this defense lies in the line and the linebackers, all starting with Wilfork: this guy convinces me a little more each week that he's much better than I ever gave him credit for. Without him the team might not win eight games. And Jones, Spikes, Hightower, Ninkovich, even Cunningham… let them loose from time to time!

On the topic of play-calling… to whomever called the quick snap three plays before the Pats' final field goal in the fourth quarter: stop it! Stop trying to be cute! Get it down to the two-minute warning and then get cute if you want, just make sure you don't give the Bills two full fucking minutes and an extra stoppage to try for a game-winning touchdown. I mean, what the hell? Even G., who finally fell asleep in my lap after repeatedly manhandling the wireless router and laughing hysterically every time I took it away from her, seemed to stir as if in the throws of a clock-management nightmare. Poor thing.

OK, enough. Cranky today! How about this little girl of mine? As I said, she refused to nap and was consequently punchy, bouncing around the room with Elmo (glad that's cleared up), trying to high-five players up and down, bringing me coasters as if I were drinking four beers at once, gazing at me while resting her head on the ottoman… these are my favorite moments. I picked her up several times and tried to snuggle her into accepting sleep. On the fourth or fifth attempt she calmed down, put her thumb in her mouth and eventually snored her way to dinner. I, too, was able to relax and resist the urge to fast-foward to the end of the game to see how it turned out. I'm a better football fan for it. She is beautiful.

Up next: Offensive Rookie of the Year Andrew Luck and the Colts hope to reboot the rivalry. The game has been flexed to 4:25 so Luck will have plenty of time beforehand to throw firecrackers at local stray dogs. Cheers!

Beer and football III — week nine (bye)

The beer: Samuel Adams Coastal Wheat Ale
The commentary: Unlike acrylic, silicone is permanently waterproof, flexible and shrink/crack proof.

Typical uses
Showers, tubs, sinks, tile, countertops and fixtures.

Adhesiveness
Most ceramic tile, laminate, porcelain, glass, metal, plastic, granite and wood.

Warning
Silicone tub and tile caulk is not for use below the water line or in aquariums.

Instructions
1. Remove dirt, grease, moisture and old caulk from area to be sealed.

2. Apply horizontal lengths of painter's tape approximately three-eights of an inch from joint on both sides. This distance may vary wildly if the person who installed your bath tile had no idea what he or she was doing.

3. Use pliers to remove cap from tube. We really jammed it on there.

4. Cut nozzle to obtain desired bead size. Do not make the opening too large or you will get caulk everywhere.

5. Pierce inner foil seal.

6. Place tube in caulk gun. If you have never used a caulk gun before, allow for a learning curve of several minutes. It is not as straightforward as it looks.

7. Yes, flip that lever and pull the trigger to tighten it. There you go.

8. Have plenty of paper towels available. This is going to be messy.

9. Using caulk gun, apply caulk into gap.

10. It seems you are unfamiliar with how to correctly operate a caulk gun. In order to stop the flow of caulk, you must hold the gun steady and then use your third hand to simultaneously unlock the lever and pull back on the metal rod. This cannot be achieved without getting caulk everywhere.

11. Refer to step 8.

12. Wet your finger and smooth the caulk into the gap. Oh yeah.

13. You used way too much caulk. It is everywhere. Clean it up as best you can before removing the tape. Hurry!

14. Starting with an available end, gently pull the tape away from the tub and/or wall. Keep the tape as perpendicular to the surface as possible.

15. Refer to step 8.

16. Allow at least three hours before exposing caulk to water.

17. If you need to reshape any of the applied caulk, do not attempt to do so fifteen minutes into the drying process. By this time it has already dried enough that any tampering will ruin your efforts.

18. You should consider doing that bit over tomorrow night. It looks bad.

19. Good luck putting the cap back on all the way.

20. Get that shit out of your aquarium.

Up next: The Bills come to Foxborough to start the second half of the regular season. I see losses against only the Dolphins (in Miami) and the 49ers, which is two in a row so it doesn't make me a homer. Cheers!

Beer and football III — weeks four, five, six, seven and eight

Week four
The game: Patriots at Bills
The beer: Unibroue La Fin du Monde Triple Fermentation Ale
The result: Win, 52–28
The commentary: Hello friends! Hoo boy, this game was over a month ago now. It was one of those multimedia affairs for me because we were entering phase one of our trip to Florida, which entailed a drive to Connecticut to stay with my in-laws before flying out of Bradley early Monday morning.

Our plan to finish packing and be out of the house by ten (and, therefore, on a couch in Connecticut in time to watch) was naive at best. Let's just say we remained home long enough for me to stand agape in front of our television as the Pats seemed more concerned with us making our flight the next day than with being at all competitive. In the car, though, things turned around nicely following a quick pit stop. (G. wisely decided to nap then, pictured. Cheek flub!) The Pats did their Pats thing and just scored points all over the place, keeping me in a good mood the whole ride. I never did drink any beer, however, except for a Heineken (oof) at the in-laws' that night because it was all they had. Luckily we were able to on-demand Project Runway later so order was restored all around.

Years ago during a Yankee Swap I ended up with a Unibroue three-pack. It came in a stupid little wooden crate and everything, and I was so excited to drink them that I couldn't help but be disappointed. So when my sister-in-law offered me the Fin du Monde a few hours after arriving in Florida I was skeptical. Perhaps I've matured, or maybe a regular diet of refused strawberry banana YoToddler yogurt has altered my taste buds, but I liked it this time and had another the following night (at nine percent alcohol it's definitely a one-per-session beer).

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Week five
The game: Broncos at Patriots
The beer: Rock Art Double Porter Smoked
The result: Win, 31–21
The commentary: In the middle of the third quarter with the Pats sitting at third and seventeen they ran the let's-gain-a-few-yards-before-punting play, which is the inside handoff to Danny Woodhead that always fails. I don't know why they keep calling this play to this player in these situations.

Except! It actually worked for once. There is no way in hell they expected him to convert—they essentially gave up on the drive. But he did, and it was huge. Unfortunately that just means they'll continue to call it and watch Woodhead get blown up time after time. Incidentally, they ran the same play on first down and he gained three yards. That is what they were looking for on the previous play.

I wrote this on a sticky note later: "Five minutes left in 3rd following Brady's rush TD. Touchback on kickoff, first play from scrimmage. 'Turnover,' I say, and seconds later Manning is strip-sacked." I should call for that more often. And also take notes.

We had a great time in Florida. In addition to our hosts' lakeside tiki bar (no words) the three of us took a wonderful day trip down to South Beach. After parking in front of a tattoo parlor, a few doors down from a strip club, we decided against Mangos Tropical Café (I spent a month there one night) and were pleasantly surprised to find a really nice playground just off the beach. It was a Tuesday or Wednesday so we had it all to ourselves, and our beaming little girl was brighter than any Miami sun. This picture of her enjoying the swings is one of my favorites.

I picked up the smoked porter during a birthday (mine) getaway in Stowe, Vermont this Summer. It rained all weekend and G. had the runs from teething (one of the many things people don't tell you about babies), but we stayed at a great inn thanks to a Groupon deal. Our suite (!) had sort of a living room that was closed off from the bedroom, so while G. peacefully dreamt of us not getting lost on the way up there, A. and I played Trivial Pursuit, drank wine and watched an unending string of That '70s Show episodes on TV Land. It was really fun, and next time we go I'm getting a massage at that place across the street. Not that kind of massage. How dare you.

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Week six
The game: Patriots at Seahawks
The beer: Cadillac Mountain Stout
The result: Loss, 24–23
The commentary: The only thing more brutal than this game was being apart from my wife and daughter in the week leading up to it. After returning from Florida, A. stayed behind in Connecticut to work from her parents' house while they took care of G. during the day. Back in Massachusetts, I droned between work and home and was in bed by ten every night, except for that one long outing to Deep Ellum in Allston (cab fare to North Station for the midnight train home: too much). I missed them terribly. G. snapped right into football mode upon returning—here she is trying to high-five Brandon Spikes after he stuffed Marshawn Lynch for a loss.

There's an outside chance of a Super Bowl rematch with these neon birdies. Imagine two weeks of Pete Carroll hype? I think the Pats would win 98–7, the Seahawks' seven points coming on a ninety-yard third-and-twenty conversion for a touchdown at the expense of the worst secondary in history. Alfonzo Dennard, a rookie drafted in the seventh round (sure, he slipped for blasting "Fuck tha Police" too loudly from his 98, but I mistrust the motives behind people's decisions to become cops anyway) is the only bright spot in this crew. The only one! Coach, please draft nothing but corners and safeties next year. Please!

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Week seven
The game: Jets at Patriots
The beer: Opa-Opa Oktoberfest Lager
The result: Win, 29–26; Dmitry, 4–0–0–0
The commentary: McCourty won Special Teams Player of the Week for: A) Returning a kickoff one hundred four yards for a touchdown with fifty-one and a half minutes remaining in regulation; B) Fumbling a kickoff with two minutes remaining in regulation; C) Threatening to Doublemint the wife of the guy who chooses the Special Teams Player of the Week.

I took post-Jets week off to care for G. after being without her for so long. On Monday we broke the cardinal rule and went to Salem the week before Halloween—here we are in the common contemplating what to do on such a nice day. (There's a gazebo to the left but I had to crop it out in order to stick to my square thing.) Later in the week we went to the New England Aquarium to stare in awe at all the fish from Finding Nemo. We also conquered a very weathered corn maze (maize alert!) and took in some pumpkins and llamas at Connors Farm in Danvers, where G. called a donkey "dada." Quite possibly the best week of my life.

Dmitry won Project Runway, as he should have. He quietly created a strong collection (though I apparently don't appreciate that cut-out business) while Christopher panicked and then bitched about not winning by default, Melissa abruptly transformed into a strung-out Nancy Spungen and Fabio… actually, I appreciated what Fabio did. Not my taste exactly but I still liked him from the beginning. Project Runway All-Stars started a couple of weeks ago and is about as "all-star" as the Pro Bowl, since only people who hadn't won are included. I guess Project Runway Also-Rans wasn't catchy enough? A wrong was righted when Mondo won the first rehash after being robbed in season eight but I don't see that kind of justice prevailing again or even needing to. Still, I'll openly root for Anthony Ryan and against "Crazy Eyes" Andrae and "Sometimes Suede Talks in the Third Person and Sometimes I Don't and It's Really Confusing and Annoying… Oh Wait, I Already Has a Douchey Nickname" "Suede."

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Week eight
The game: Patriots "at" Rams (in London)
The beer: Wachusett Imperial Pumpkin Ale
The result: Win, 45–7
The commentary: Across! The! Pond! Thank christ that phrase is behind us.

We've remained friendly with two of the three other couples from the natural birthing class we attended two Summers ago (who knows what ever happened to that other couple, who went so far as to hire a doula and were pretty much assholes) and went to one of their houses for the game. Several of their friends were there as well and it was the first time in I don't know how long that I've watched with a roomful of guys who were fully into it, as opposed to Super Bowls when most of the crowd isn't paying attention. This laugher (following a familiar, obligatory long-bomb upchuck to start things off for the Rams) was perfect, and it was nice to have a bunch of fans to bounce observations off of. (No offense, G., I'll always cherish asking you why our cornerbacks never turn around to look for the ball and you responding "Dubba dubba dubba.") We had the guy looking for flags after every play, the guy who kept asking if anyone needed a drink and the guy who made the terrifyingly shrewd observation following a bad Mallett-to-Edelman incompletion in garbage time that "There's our future." I was the guy who drank a bunch of pumpkin beer and knew that number twenty-three was Marquice Cole. It was just like a Normal Rockwell painting.

G. didn't have an actual "costume" this year. Last year either. Are we bad parents? Instead she wore a super-cute Halloween outfit in purple and black with a coordinating trick-or-treat bucket. Mom took her to a few neighborhood houses and my girl saved my ass by scoring some Snickers. Stupid dad gave them all away without even realizing it! Kids today…

Up next: Chores, errands and dirty diapers highlight the bye week. Cheers!

Beer and football III — weeks two and three

Week two
The game: Cardinals at Patriots
The beer: Cape Ann Shilling Scottish Ale
The result: Loss, 20–18
The commentary: I made a judgment call last season that "no picture of my little girl will accompany losses." Enough of that. One day (probably several days) down the road I'll look back on these posts to fondly recall the dynastic Tom Brady era and why should I deprive my future-self a weekly account of what G. looked like on particular Autumn Sundays? I won't hold it against the internet just because my team didn't show up.

And really, would it have been less shameful if Gostkowski made that field goal? They were atrocious all day. We were having lunch at the Cape Ann Brewery in Gloucester and G. was taking in the game from across the room, half-heartedly eating her waffle as she wondered why Belichick and McDaniels kept calling Woodhead's number on so many fruitless running plays. Her contempt was palpable and it was too bad she couldn't take the edge off with a smooth Scottish Ale. It was only four and a half percent so maybe she'd have handled it alright?

The scene was awfully familiar… and troubling. Two years ago during the inaugural season of "beer and football," A. and I watched the second game at a Block Island brewery and suffered the consequences. That loss hurt more (in New York against the Jets) and the major injury most likely did too (Kevin Faulk went on injured reserve after tearing his ACL; Aaron Hernandez will hopefully be back and fully recovered by Thanksgiving). Just a little strange is all.

Lastly, there was more Steve Burton-related hilarity leading up to the Cardinals game on Patriots All Access. He, Mike Reiss and Paul Perillo (two writers/talking heads I respect, which is the only reason I watch the segment every week) were guessing the outcome, with Reiss and Perillo taking the (common) view that it wouldn't be close—too many offensive and defensive mismatches in the Patriots' favor. (If I remember right, though, they did mention special teams as a potential factor.) Burton then gets the crazy eyes and the cockeyed grin and responds "…blah blah blah even I don't see the Cardinals winning." My man Perillo forgets for a second that he's not doing PFW in Progress and snaps at him "What do you mean, 'even you'"? It was awesome.

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Week three
The game: Patriots at Ravens
The beer: Rising Tide Daymark American Pale Ale
The result: Loss, 31–30
The commentary: Daymark. Marks your location. Where are we? I see something over yonder. It's the NFL schedule. It's week three and we just hung thirty points on the vaunted Ravens defense. In Baltimore. I think this offense will be alright and I pity the poor Bills today.

The defense though? Let's talk about the defense. Instead of getting anywhere near Joeflacco all night, the pash rush went to the Twin Pines Mall to steal an old man's DeLorean and travel back to last year… and the year before… and the year before. The Libyans! Joeflacco had all the time he needed to scan the field and find his man—his man being Devin McCourty, who just isn't an NFL cornerback at this point.

Meet the new boss. Despite the familiar (a relative term) outcome of the defense losing the game, Sunday was a thorough failure. Usually you can point to one level and consider that the line held up or the stud tight end was kept in check or something, even in anomalous losses against the Browns. (Stud Tight End now playing in back-alley theaters across the country.) This time? Ray Rice (line of scrimmage), Dennis Pitta (middle of the field), Anquan Boldin/Jacoby Jones (deep) and Torrey Smith (everywhere!) dictated the pace of the game, such that Brady & Co. had to play perfect football to make it close. When they succeed they usually win. Not this time.

Patriots Fifth Quarter, home of Steve Burton's Merry Band of Imbeciles, once again surprised no one with their postgame coverage. In between transparently subjective rants about how the replacement refs continually screwed over the good guys (even though I counted as many questionable calls that hurt the Ravens), they decided the weekly online poll should ask "Whose offensive performance surprised you the most: Lloyd's or Welker's?" instead of something at all relevant like "Which part of the defense lost this game: the line, the linebackers or the secondary?" I couldn't take it so I switched to channel 7, undoubtedly the most "tabloid" of the local stations, where ex-Patriot Jermaine Wiggins of all people soberly pointed out that the Ravens were making long gains all night and observed that settling for a field goal after Welker failed to score to open the fourth quarter may have been the turning point. (Incidentally, the Daymark at first poured as brightly as a thousand rays of true love before an opaque sludge revealed its unfiltered nature. Just like the course of the game.)

Earlier in the day we went to a one-year-old's birthday party. Children's parties are my future. Anyway, G. was once again the star of the show, looking sharp in her threads (pictured). Unfortunately the birthday boy (only three weeks younger than her) was as engaging as a shoebox full of irregular tube socks in comparison. At one point my girl was playing with an empty water bottle (genius behavior) and he finally showed a vague interest in his surroundings by grabbing for it. His uncle said "Uh-oh, he's gonna take it from her" and I knew he was mistaken, the kid didn't stand a chance. I was right, so someone sympathetically got him one of his own. Seconds later they had to move him away from her because she was about to have two water bottles. That's what they get for not serving beer.

Up next: Chandler Jones, meet Ryan Fitzpatrick. Tom Brady, meet five touchdowns. Cheers!

Beer and football III: It’s not a diary, Norm, it’s a journal

Week one
The game: Patriots at Titans
The beer: Berkshire Saint of Circumstance Sour Mash Whiskey Barrel-Aged India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 34–13
The commentary: "What are you, a pretty boy?" Nice to see Steve Burton's lack of self-awareness already in mid-season form. No one in the room laughed at his "joke," asked of a bandaged Tom Brady during the postgame press conference. Instead you heard people's eyes rolling.

Speaking of uninformed buffoons, WBZ's online poll question during Patriots Fifth Quarter (love that) was something like "Which part of the team showed the most improvement over last year?": the passing game, the running game or the defensive line (specifically against the run). Ignoring the retarded one percent who felt it was the passing game (??), eighty-two percent incorrectly thought it was the defensive line. Eighty-two percent! They played great, sure, but the weaknesses of this defense the past few years were the pass rush and the defensive backfield. Wilfork and company had at least been decent every week. Stevan Ridley, however, was light years ahead of what BenJarvus Green-Ellis (of whom I was a fan) was even capable of the past two years. It's not the first time this season they'll introduce a poll question and I'll say "Well that's a no-brainer" before finding myself among the sub-twenty-five percent of fans who actually understand what is happening with this team. I hate people. I hate them!

It's good to have football back. Roger Goodell's hands may be stained with the blood of players killed on the field every week because the regular refs aren't out there keeping everyone safe. (Seriously though, that legal hit Mayo and Wilson put on Nate Washington was something else. He's an exciting player and I hope he bounces back alright.) Our McCourty—assuming Devin and Jason didn't switch places before last season so Jason could get a fat new contract—absolutely got away with pass interference on what might have been a first-quarter touchdown but I'm not sure the receiver could have caught it even if McCourty weren't assaulting him while looking in the complete opposite direction of the ball. To sort of make up for it, the refs later ruled that Edelman dropped a pass that would have been enough for a first down even though it's possible the ball never touched the ground—we can't know for sure because CBS didn't show a single replay. Awesome coverage there, as always. My point is that the replacement refs didn't do too badly. Around the league, of course it's silly that a crew awarded the Seahawks an extra timeout and neglected to enforce a penalty called against another team (can't remember which game that was). But come on, it's up to the opposing teams' head coaches to be engaged enough to recognize stuff like this before play is allowed to continue. That would never happen under Belichick's, Tom Coughlin's or Sean Payton's (certainly not this year, suckah!) watch. (It will probably happen to Andy Reid two or three times.) As with Billy Cundiff in the AFC championship game, players and coaches have a responsibility to be aware of the situation at every moment.

The rookies? The rookies! A. and G. were out running errands during the early part of the game so I was free to shout and inexplicably charge my television following Wilson's heads-up interception. Then Hightower Jones (how great a name would that be?) made what might be the greatest non-Wilfork-interception play this defense has made in years. They'll all fall back to Earth and have their share of bad games this season but they won't approach the ongoing nightmare of Brandon Meriweather and Sergio Brown being a last line of defense. I remain convinced the Pats lost the Super Bowl because of the defense. Call me crazy, but any one of these guys on last year's team might have been enough. Deep breaths. I'm just glad we know how to tackle again.

Some superlatives. Best flashback goes to Brady for calling the quarterback sneak shortly after getting a shin to the nose. Has he ever not gotten the first down? Worst flashback was the third-and-long conversion on the Titans' opening drive. Great throw and catch that were hard to defend, but just once I'd like third and fifteen to scare me less than third and one. Once! Best missed opportunity is Gronk's flubbed spike. By a mile. His reactions to his own spikes—for example, following the record-setting touchdown last year when the ball exploded off the turf and he had to scramble after it like Rocky chasing a chicken—are wonderful. And, yes, the worst missed opportunity was Lloyd slowing under Brady's long bomb. If he had kept running that touchdown would have been money. Cash money! His interviews might provide a glimpse into six teams in ten years. "It was an incompletion." Yikes.

The beer was intense. Much too intense for a 1:00 game, even at only six percent alcohol. It differed from last season's first offering in that it was overtly aged in whiskey barrels, whereas the earlier version was closer to the smooth, smoky dinner pairing. I appreciated it as (likely) unique from anything else I'll try in the coming months and I liked the idea of starting the 2012 season, number three in your beer-and-football series, similar to how I did the 2011 season but with a twist. Perhaps the twist at the end of this season will be a Super Bowl victory instead of a loss. Perhaps.

Last and certainly not least, check out my year-old little G. How she grows! She's in the middle of an exhaustive frenzy here, brought on by repeatedly nosediving into a pillow and assaulting her stuffed lamb April, named after the month we gave it to her. (We struggle creatively with names for the characters scattered about her room, so say Miss Kitty, Squeaky Guy and Harold.) As you can see, her fourth tooth is really coming on. And look at the curls! Those things could cure cancer. (Too bad she couldn't save Deion Branch. Yet.)

Up next: It's the home opener. Did you know the state of Arizona actually has a sizable cardinal population? I mean the bird, not the inept football player. Cheers!

There’s this English band called Led Zeppelin

Your local classic rock radio station is either playing one of their songs right now, has just finished playing it or will play it once "Hotel California" is over. The hard rock station up the dial is in the middle of a three-fer ("Rock and Roll," "Traveling Riverside Blues" and "The Ocean") and those sweaty old AOR dudes are going a bit deeper with "Down by the Seaside." Led Zeppelin is everywhere, and if you make it through a day without getting the Led out, intentionally or otherwise, then you either listen to too much NPR or you are deaf.

In 1968 (of course!), Jimmy Page brought his vision of a powerful Cream/Yardbirds noise behind a Steve Marriott/Joe Cocker howl to life—more or less with himself as the star. Writing credit! Bowed guitar! Beard phase! As musical director, Page wanted the songs (and, grouped together, the albums) to speak for our four pasty friends—it's funny to think that a bit of collage work on Led Zeppelin II generated the only front-cover appearance of the band members on any of their album sleeves, particularly considering they produced the most self-indulgent concert film in history at the height of their popularity. Still, their albums were albums, indivisible and complete listening experiences, "the true statement[s] of a group's work." (They released few singles because that would have misplaced the material, particularly if a record company were to chop the (now dated) middle section out of "Whole Lotta Love" in order to squeeze it onto a 45.) Love or hate their music/achievement/pervasiveness, you have to admire their principles (massive success eases things).

At least, you used to—they've since lightened up with several context-free compilations comprised of songs you hear all the time anyway. What's the point? (Money!) It's not quite selling out to Freedom Rock but it's not exactly turning your nose up at the fickle Rolling Stone scene either. Ignoring an album's artful, narrative transitions (not really), we now have:

Boxed Set (1990)
A fine collection I loved in high school. Very well organized—just about every song flows nicely into the next. Spread across four cassettes (or "compact discs") (or like a dozen LPs), it includes a few rarities and/or unreleased songs ("Traveling Riverside Blues" being the highlight, "Moby Dick/Bonzo's Montreux" being a waste of everyone's four minutes) and is a nice package, even though "Good Times Bad Times," the first song on their first album, is curiously absent.

Remasters (1990)
Released a month after the boxed set and I have no idea why. It's basically a stripped-down version containing all the popular stuff plus the aforementioned "Good Times Bad Times." I think Page literally forgot about that song when putting the box together.

Boxed Set 2 (1993)
2? Clever! Page's partnership with David Coverdale went nowhere fast, which makes that silly "merge" album cover even funnier. So he had the brilliant idea of putting out everything that didn't make it onto the first boxed set, including essential ball-munchers like "How Many More Times," "Bring It on Home" and "Out on the Tiles." It's actually a nice collection of deep cuts and includes the previously unreleased "Baby Come on Home," which I dig. Still, at this point why not just release–

The Complete Studio Recordings (1993)
Ah, Jimmy's already on it! Append all the rarities to Coda excepting the embarrassing "Moby Dick/Bonzo's Montreux" and call it a day. After that, feel free to re-release each remastered album individually and wait until whatever format follows compact discs to repackage everything.

The Best of Led Zeppelin, Vol. 1: Early Days (1999)
Or, essentially carve up Remasters into two halves. We're entering subjective territory here with the first use of "best."

The Best of Led Zeppelin, Vol. 2: Latter Days (2000)
Let's get nice and literal with those subtitles! "Kashmir" is on this. So did Mark Ratner just not have Led Zeppelin IV?

The Best of Led Zeppelin: Early Days and Latter Days (2002)
Volumes one and two summed as Volume Both. Remasters must have gone out of print—that's the only explanation—so let's see how many times we can make people pay for "Black Dog."

Mothership (2007)
Welcome to the MP3 era! You see, the mothership is a constructivist blimp or "Zeppelin" that once upon a time was responsible for those crop circles.

The Definitive Collection (2008)
For people who (1) forget they already bought the remastered individual albums or The Complete Studio Recordings fifteen years ago; (2) don't realize they can buy a remastered copy of The Song Remains the Same separately; and/or (3) prefer miniature replicas of LP sleeves for some reason. You can't even separate the seeds on those things!

I figure compilation number ten will hit any day now. It's been four years! They'll probably call it Some Large Aircraft, Shit, I Don't Know, Volume Whatever: Eat Another Slice of "All My Love" Because These Unicorns Shan't Feed Themselves. Clearly the world isn't crying for it. Again, what's the point of all this? (Money!) Does Page really care so much to attract new fans to "the best" of his band's output all in one place? And should we trust the man closest to the music to pick and choose for us?

Regardless, I will do the man's work for him. But rather than hit you with another predictable set or, more likely, a homemade playlist of my favorite Zeppelin tracks, I'm presenting the ten best moments from their official, active-band history—no outtakes or overdubbed BBC treatments released decades after they were recorded, just the proper discography: eight studio albums, one live double album, one exclusive B-side ("Hey Hey What Can I Do") and three Coda tracks ("Wearing and Tearing," "Darlene" and "Ozone Baby") that, according to Hammer of the Gods (reliable!), were considered for a post-In Through the Out Door EP release before Bonzo flew too close to the sun on wings of vomit.

Presenting: Rammer of the Broads.

10. "Good Times Bad Times" (2:00 – 2:30)
"Hello, my name is Jimmy Page and we are Led Zeppelin. This is what our better moments will sound like for a few years. You might get a nice little Jonesy bass riff followed by some of my double-tracked guitar, and Bobby Orgasm over here will ad lib a bit as we fade out. The monster in the back… erm, Bonzo… will provide solid drumming and creative fills but don't worry, my ego will tell him to knock that off before too long. Ginger Baker got center stage? I am the star of this show. Anyway, I'll give him a solo on the next album but that's it, heavy drumming by rote thereafter. For all I care he can take a frustrating decade to drink himself to death. Thank you."

9. "Misty Mountain Hop" (2:10 – 2:19)
Plant totally flubs the meter of the "There you sit…" lyric by not spacing out the syllables the way he does in the other verses. As a result, he finishes much too early and chooses to fill the silence with… strained silence, followed by a breathy, panicked I've-got-to-fill-this-silence yelp. For all their overwrought excess, hat's off to them for keeping the mistake—the rest of the take was too good to toss. Awfully punk rock for 1971 megastars.

8. "The Lemon Song" (4:33 – 5:05)
Plant lays out and the band jams a bit on some blues flavor. "Got tha flavah!" Jones is criticized for overplaying here but fuck that, he's got it going on. I'm taking off my shirt.

7. "The Crunge" (0:03 – 0:18)
Critics give them shit for including two "joke" tracks on Houses of the Holy between this and "D'yer Mak'er" but the opening drums-then-bass-then-guitar build-up is one of the absolute coolest things they ever did. Just ask Steinski!

6. "Nobody's Fault but Mine" (3:00 – 4:00)
Plant's redemption (via harmonica) after… oh wait, you haven't read "the worst of" yet. Spoiler! A total Yardbirds kind of rave-up, slightly overproduced but killer nonetheless.

5. "In the Light" (2:45 – 3:28)
I love that it takes three minutes for the real riff to kick in. I'm talking about the menacing one behind the vocal. I don't know what different parts of songs are called.

4. "Stairway to Heaven (live)" (4:13 – 4:20)
"Does anybody remember laughter??" The crowd cheers and whistles in assent: "I do, Robert! I remember laughter! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!" Nothing ruins a good live album like a goddamn audience. Thankfully this bunch mostly stays out of the way on The Song Remains the Same, unlike contemporary fanboys who think it's cool to sing along to "Jolene" and "Karma Police" as loudly as possible.

3. "Black Country Woman" (3:26 – 3:27)
Welcome back, Bonzo! You got fat.

2. "Tangerine" (2:24 – 3:08)
Beginning with Plant's droning "…betwee-ee-ee-een" but focusing on the guitar sound(s)—this is the only "acoustic" song on III I think they fully pull off, displaying a nice Byrds-ian country influence. My wife adores this one.

1. "How Many More Times" (0:00 – 8:28)
The entire song! Eight and one half minutes of career apex. Zeppelin never again fulfilled the brilliance of the end of their first album. To be exact:

1A. (0:34 – 0:37)
The riff around which the entire "How Many More Years"/"The Hunter" opus rallies. The greatest three seconds of your life, over and over.

1B. (1:19 – 1:21)
B-bash-bash! B-bash-bash!

1C. (3:07 – 3:38)
A fine shout-out to "Beck's Bolero" from '66 (featuring Page and Jones). The barely audible moan at the end of this stretch is Plant's finest contribution to the group.

1D. (5:47 – 6:38)
I could listen to the riff that kicks in at 6:08 for twenty-four straight hours. And the drumming? The drumming! I think Bonham misses the cymbals at 6:35 and compensates with a little fill. Remarkable. How did he become so mediocre after this album?

1E. (8:07 – 8:24)
"Let's add some phasing!"

1F. (8:25 – 8:26)
Orgasm. (Inferred.)

And there you have it: the best of Led Zeppelin, reduced to six minutes. You can listen to this whole playlist by the time your girlfriend gets back to the car. What is she doing in there, anyway?

---

I figure it's pretty obvious what my weak link is with these guys: amazingly, it's the singer. Two of the top moments above involve Plant. Two! His retroactive self-analysis (and admitted "I don't really know what I'm saying… but I'm having a good time!" on the BBC set) is correct in that a lot of the time he just couldn't stay out of the way. Nothing gets older more quickly than the guitar/vocal harmony he and Page worked out for the first album and perpetuated for a decade—the tiresome element there was not Page's distorto magic but rather Plant's plainly I-don't-know-what-else-to-do hollering. This guy is Led Zeppelin to a majority of fans. And sometimes he's just a lousy singer.

A band's best moments can only be measured against its worst. Therefore: Stammer of the Wads.

10. "Tea for One" (0:00 – 0:22)
I'm mad about the introduction here. Mad! Unfortunately it quits twenty-two seconds in and we get "Since I've Been Loving You (Part 2)" for the remaining nine minutes, joining Pink Floyd's "Let There Be More Light," Alice Cooper's "Under My Wheels," De La Soul's "DAISY Age" and the Voidoids' "Blank Generation" on the list of songs with excellent false beginnings. It's a good song but what a tease—air that groove out, baby!

9. "Immigrant Song" (1:50 – 1:53)
"Despite of all your losing." It's "despite" or "in spite of," not both! And we Americans get shit for fucking up the English language.

8. "The Crunge" (0:59 – 1:29)
Remember how much I liked the opening to this? What keeps it from being an all-time great is the godforsaken synthesized horn section. Did Sandy Denny break the bank? Just hire a couple of session hacks, you Led Wallet cheapskates!

7. "For Your Life" (3:55 – 4:16)
A good example of a Presence track that stuck around longer than it was welcome, though unlike "Nobody's Fault but Mine" I don't think "For Your Life" has any real worth. Page must have been desperate to fill out both sides of the LP—that sustained note before the (dull) cascading riff reeks of "OK, how long can I hold this before Jonesy walks out?" The solo's alright so I say move it up in the song and trim about two minutes of nonsense. Still a lame effort, but not lame enough to make my list.

6. "Ozone Baby" (3:01 – 3:07)
One of their supposed reactions to punk/new wave. No. This multi-(over)tracked vocal bit is pure chipmunk terror.

5. "Dancing Days" (0:00 – 0:17)
How did this keep the super-tight title track off of Houses of the Holy? Didn't they learn from 1968's exclusion of "Waiting for the Sun"? What a lazy bore. Nigel Williamson wrote The Rough Guide to Led Zeppelin (enjoyable despite a share of factual errors) and spent half the book talking about how "Dancing Days" is the only thing keeping Houses of the Holy afloat. Whatever you say, Nigel.

4. "Thank You" (2:47 – 3:00)
This song got a surprisingly solid Humble Pie-esque rock treatment in a 1971 performance that was later included on BBC Sessions. Unfortunately the studio original is a lightweight affair until Jones fashions a nice coda out of what sounds like a toy organ. Otherwise it's all "Happiness, no more be sad… happiness, I'm glad." Skip James is rolling over in his grave.

3. "Going to California" (1:41 – 2:01)
"I think I might be sinking." You sure are, my man. Even muse Joni Mitchell is avoiding eye contact and she sings high-pitched crap about parking lots.

2. "The Song Remains the Same" (4:46 – 5:18)
Plant took what was supposed to be an instrumental and turned it into another one of his ridiculous don't-forget-about-the-singer trips. His recorded take must have accompanied the backing track too slowly or something because they had to speed up his vocals to sync it. The result is a shit sandwich on AIDS bread.

1. "Carouselambra" (7:05 – 7:23)
Yes. I wanted to break this song down the way I did "How Many More Times" but that joke's been done. It's been done! So I'm focusing on the awful disco synthesizer that stabs the life out of you one sixteenth note at a time. The antithesis of rock music.

Led Zeppelin? Yeah, outstanding. A lot to like on that first album, progressively less value after that until a slight uptick with Houses of the Holy and then a much sharper one with Physical Graffiti, but the wheels sort of fell off after that. Great musicians. Good but overbearing singer. Have you seen the bridge? What's to stop us? They are the soundtrack of your life whether you like it or not. That's gonna be the one, innit? The song you'll treasure from your youth is "Dazed and Confused." The song you'll long to hear upon your death is "Bron-Y-Aur Stomp." How did these not make the list?

Beer and football III — the all-important third preseason game

The game: Patriots somewhere
The beer: Anchor Porter
The result: Who cares
The commentary: Are you ready for some third-stringers? Then you're ready for preseason game three. Feel the heat!

I didn't pay much attention to the action. A. went out with some friends and G. was down for the night, so it was just me, some substandard Chinese food and the Anchor Porter that I didn't even finish before falling asleep myself. Here's what I remember.

The beer was good but not great. In January I bought a 365 Bottles of Beer for the Year calendar for fifty percent off at a Northshore Mall kiosk. (Dear producers of the 365 Bottles of Beer for the Year calendar: It's leap year, dammit! Sincerely, your mother.) I've been saving the "days" I'm interested in trying and at least a third of them are porters I'm much more excited about than Anchor's version here. It was increasingly not-great when I finished it yesterday afternoon. Flat city!

I don't know if Deion Branch, my daughter's favorite player, actually played Friday night. But I will stake my reputation as someone who tries really hard to use correct spelling and grammar while blogging about the Patriots and Nico and Cambridge and Newsweek and… anyway, Branch is making the team. I don't know what the hell the sports writers in this town (outside of the guys at PFW) are thinking.

Speaking of what the hell, I'm ready to welcome a team of retarded monkeys to take over for Ron Cricktee and Sandy Ross on the preseason broadcasts. I still don't know if it was rookie receiver Jeremy Ebert or rookie safety Nate Ebner they repeatedly referred to as "Eeber." Also, when introducing the starting lineup they must have said "Love, Jones" two or three times (referring to defensive linemen Kyle Love and Chandler Jones) without adding "What's happenin', baby? Did you miss me this weekend?" Assholes. Bruce over at Boston Sports Media Watch summed it up perfectly: "I felt really, really bad for Don Criqui last night. I lost track of the player misidentifications, the errors and just general confusion that was on display. It's time for the Krafts to make a move on their preseason telecasts." The only missed criticism was that Cross was almost as bad.

The backup quarterback situation? Thanks for asking! Hoyer and Mallett are both pretty bad, but you've gotta go with Mallett here. The post-Brady future surely isn't Hoyer and most likely isn't Mallett and there's a difference. So why not see what he can do? Besides, some desperate team is seconds away from packaging two first-round picks to acquire Hoyer via trade anyway. Football analysts are idiots.

That's enough. I mainly wrote this for the "Love Jones" joke.