Beer and football III — week seventeen

The game: Dolphins at Patriots
The beer: Offshore Menemsha Creek Pale Ale
The result: Win, 28–0
The commentary: The shutout is a rare thing in professional football. The Patriots haven't done it since Shawn Springs, Adalius Thomas and Brandon Meriweather were making a mockery of things in 2009. It was as much a surprise then as it was this season—how did a defense featuring Kyle Arrington and (albeit in a limited role) Patrick Chung give up zero points? These are the things that people don't worry about until their team gives up too many yards in the biggest game of the year—that is, whatever the final playoff game happens to be. I remain afraid of what this defense is capable of, of the kinds of holes they have the potential to dig. Of a performance so appalling that even Tom Brady (or, if you live anywhere else in the country, "superior quarterbacks" Aaron Rodgers or Peyton Manning) can't score enough points. These guys will go a little bit as far as the defense can carry it and then the whole rest of the way as far as Brady can. Maybe it doesn't seem like a big deal or much to have to rely upon, but if those first couple of miles consist of two bald tires, poor radio reception and no Dunkins drive-thru then it's a tough trip to salvage.

Also… I read a few times since that the Pats apparently got off to a quick start in this one? They went scoreless in the first two drives only to capitalize, at last, following a Steve Gregory interception. That's great, maybe most teams are happy waiting so long to score. But this team? This quarterback? I can't believe they were too pleased to "turn the corner" in this way after lackluster early efforts against San Francisco and Jacksonville. The easiest media gig in this region is to ride the exaggerated highs and lows of covering Belichick—"He's the best ever!" "He's a prick!" Rick Pitino was right when he said "all the negativity in this town sucks." (He was also right when he said "You're goddamn right I boned her! Right on the table!") But he never said anything about the positivity these people manufacture. Sickening levels of positivity, Glenn Ordway positivity. The kind of positivity that insults you as a fan. "Don't bother to play the games, just send them to New Orleans." The complete opposite of analysis.

Thing is, you don't have to make anything up! They won when winning was important, when it gave them a week off and a home playoff game (at least). Gronkowski is back and the offensive line and receiving group have an extra week to get healthy. The regular season ended on a high note against a division foe, the "this team won't win four games" Dolphins. "They peaked too early" might just have been a boneheaded invention of Boston Globe columnists and 98.5 radio hosts in order for them to more easily look down their noses at the 49ers loss. In two weekends we'll host either the Ravens (one of the more competitive losses in recent non-Super Bowl memory), the Colts (a laugher that wasn't even as close as the blow-out score indicated) or the Texans (total domination) and I like our chances against the lot of them.

One more negative though: the Menemsha Creek out of Martha's Vineyard wasn't very good. I recommend jumping over to Nantucket for some Cisco Whale's Tale instead.

Up next: Can you believe there still isn't a safety gate between the kitchen and the dining room? Happy new year!

Beer and football III — weeks fifteen and sixteen

Week fifteen
The game: 49ers at Patriots
The beer: Boatswain Chocolate Stout
The result: Loss, 41–34; Denise, 6–1–1
The commentary: A few weeks ago we visited Hell N Earth Babies R Us in search of the Perfect Winter Coat for G. (eventually purchased at JC Penney, and it is perfect) and afterward I dropped into Trader Joe's next door to pick up some delicious Cat Cookies. And what to my wondering eyes should appear but two fully stocked aisles of liquor and beer! I vaguely recall the location on Memorial Drive supplying such wares alongside the second worst parking lot in the world, behind only the Porter Square Shopping Center soul-crusher. Each of these lots is in Cambridge. Of course.

Imagine my delight when I walked over to the far section of the store to discover row after row of bottles. I could have kissed Joe right on the mouth at that moment and wished I'd shaved. Two male employees were standing nearby with one seemingly coaching the other on the stock ("…this one's more expensive at Kappy's…") and I had to shove one of them out of the way to mutter something about "When did… this… happen?!" Turns out it started the day before. Glory! I grabbed the stout (do you like how nautical terms are rarely pronounced the way they are spelled, as if owning a boat isn't exclusive enough?) and a cheap bottle of red from an enormous endcap display that somehow convinced me it would taste like an expensive one (it didn't). I also bought a few boxes of macaroni and cheese because it is really fucking good there.

Sunday evening I sipped the stout while G. missed her second straight primetime game. Poor girl. Maybe she dreamed a better outcome. Anyway, the beer cost three bucks—for all I knew a team of bagboys "brewed" it out back using spring water, chocolate syrup and breadcrumbs. I assumed it would be overly sweet but it is an actual beer from an actual brewery called either Rhinelander or Minhas. Google results are spotty. Maybe it was made out back after all. They did a good job though—I'd have paid six.

The game speaks for itself: bad defense, Brady heroics. As it snowed that afternoon I posted "Advantage: Patriots" on Facebook and I was dead wrong, the home team looked like a bunch of Dolphins out there. NFL Turning Point (now mercifully aired on the NBC Sports Network instead of the no-longer-subscribed-to NFL Network) didn't paint much of a picture of how far apart the teams' performances were through two and a half quarters—it's hard to believe the "turning point" came with almost seven minutes remaining because it should have been over a long time earlier. What a game.

The Dexter and Survivor: Philippines finales once again interfered with the game but this time it was all live. Do it live! The plan was to watch Survivor up until the winner was announced, speed through the recorded game after that and then save the reunion and Dexter for Monday night. A. and her lack of sleep had other ideas, though, and she was out cold an hour into it. So my beer and I switched over to the (by then) massacre and rode the rollercoaster until much too late—it was my turn to fall asleep on the couch before I even had a chance to hear Steve Burton talk only about what a historic comeback it would have been if they'd managed to win. Small details!

Back to Survivor. After Malcolm lost his mind and decided to get wishy-washy with Denise (why not rope in crazy Abi-Maria at five to vote out Michael and Blair?) and subsequently got voted out it became clear that Denise was the only way to go, so we were very satisfied with the outcome. I mean, the other two options? A returning player (I hate this crap!) with clumsy little scorpions for brains or a former Facts of Life star who seemed nice enough most of the time but see-sawed every episode and often within individual episodes between "But I'm a Christian!" guilt and "I will eat his balls!" cunning. No one likes that kind of player even before learning she probably does alright on that Eastland High money.

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Week sixteen
The game: Patriots at Jaguars
The beer: Berkshire Gold Spike German Style Kölsch Ale
The result: Win, 23–16
The commentary: No "patriots utter dominance" label for this two-fer even after a win. And no "broadcaster utter dominance" label for color man Solomon Wilcots after he called Michael Hoomanawanui "Oh-uh-uh-moo-ah-hoo" following the big first-quarter reception. How hard is it to study the handful of difficult-to-pronounce names in the game you're about to call? I hate announcers. I hate them all so much.

Speaking of "Huh-oh-mah-nah-wah-noo-wee," he's doing an admirable impression of the injured Gronkowski with a couple of big receptions the past two weeks. Unfortunately he mustn't be anywhere close in terms of blocking because the protection hasn't been up to the task recently—injuries and capable defenses play a role, sure, but Brady's been getting hammered. Hopefully Gronk is back this week in a possible must-win game that could ensure a playoff bye.

Intriguing AFC scenarios come Sunday. It's a steep one to expect the Chiefs to beat the Broncos in Denver when Denver has a legitimate reason to play for the win. Houston at Indy though? Sure, it's in the Texans' interest to win as well, but they've played two absolute stinkers the past three weeks. The Colts and their fans are going to be pumped and I'm not sure Kubiak and friends can handle this kind of pressure, or any for that matter. Fingers crossed.

Yes, I'm assuming we'll beat the Dolphins… the team that parted ways with Chad Henne… who basically had his way with the Pats' secondary last week… as a backup quarterback… on one of the worst teams in the league. What can possibly go wrong? (On that topic, just reread this and then this. It's painful. Painful!)

Up next: The three of us will have a nice family Christmas Eve at home before heading to Connecticut tomorrow to see a movie about Hobbits. Merry Christmas!

Beer and football III — week fourteen

The game: Texans at Patriots
The beer: Smuttynose Scotch Ale
The result: Win, 42–14
The commentary: I had it all figured out. Thursday, December 6 featured Smuttynose Shoals Pale Ale in my 365 Bottles of Beer for the Year calendar (it's leap year: plus one, suckers!). When I saw it last week I said "Snap! I've got that in my fridge!" I was pumped. Even transcribed the full review in order to put my own naive spin on what I was drinking, so "…it has a bready, toasted biscuit aroma with a touch of hops and sulfur" was to become, like, "I'm getting full and drunk and what's that smell?" Turns out, though, it was actually the Scotch Ale I picked up a couple of months ago. The labels aren't even similar! Luckily it, too, was "captivating" ("yummers!"), thus avoiding the shame spiral.

Since we're here, I've got four bombers left in the fridge. One or two of them date back to summertime. Do beers age well? What is bottle-conditioning, anyway? Regardless, the only thing keeping them from lasting me through the first playoff game is if the good guys earn a bye… I'll gladly pick up a fifth bottle for that! And honestly, I like our chances of obtaining the top seed—the Texans team I saw can't sweep both upcoming games against the Colts. I know they aren't as bad as they looked, having won eleven games, but I think this loss is going to stick with them awhile. Texans drop one, Pats win out (possible, though it will be a challenge Sunday night), voilà! Still not buying more beer-and-football beer until necessary, of course.

G. is disappointed that she's missing all these primetime games. It's too bad because she would have loved Monday's. High-fives for everyone! Look at her here. I'm not even going to Photoshop out those drool stains because her drool is the cutest. The cutest! How long before drinking a giant beer and sneaking into your daughter's room to take pictures of her while she sleeps is considered creepy? Too late?

I guess I should write about the game. I haven't done much of that recently. I didn't sit very comfortably on the opening drive, with Foster's negated first down being upstaged by his subsequent first-and-fifteen first down. Time out, Patriots, with fifty-nine minutes and fourteen seconds remaining? Uh-oh. Buy hey, I guess it was a good time out because Schaub and company went three and out after that. It was basically over right there, even if I didn't actually say "This game's over" until Brady scrambled for that first down at the end of the third quarter.

See you next year, Donté! That was an amazing play. I thought you were faster though? (No one seems to have any idea why he went on injured reserve. I wonder if there's an injury settlement in his future. If he makes it to training camp in 2013 I certainly don't expect him to survive cut-down day.) I loved the quick pace all around against a talented, aggressive defense—it pits one team's conditioning against the other's and I like our chances every time. JJ Watt sucking wind on the sideline? Sign me up! Hopefully Patrick Willis and Aldon Smith tucker out just as easily. Wouldn't mind a little wintry mix action on top of that.

We had another holiday party at the InterContinental VaGina the other night, so it must be time for this season's Christmas playlist! Good thing, because the DJ sucked reindeer balls. This one runs a little Santa-heavy, just like his sleigh. Har! Har!

1. Kay Martin & Her Body Guards – Santa's Going to Be Late Tonight
She's gotta have it! Kay mellows out and leaves the double entendres behind. "Lover."

2. The Soul Saints Orchestra – Santa's Got a Bag of Soul
"Yeah! Unh!"

3. Wild Billy Childish & the Musicians of the British Empire – Santa Claus
The preamble is even funnier here than on the Headcoatees original cover (?). That one, by the way, is purportedly included on A Damaged Christmas Gift To You but be forewarned that the track is actually 1992's "Cum Into My Mouth," an error so shocking that it can't actually be an error, right? Merry Christmas! Dirty sex!

4. John Fahey – Children, Go Where I Send Thee
A friend of mine sings in a chorus. Our family tried like hell to attend one of their holiday performances last weekend and let me just say the challenges of parenthood got in the way. We missed "Children, Go Where I Send Thee" and it's too bad because that's one of my favorites this year. So I'm including Fahey's barely recognizable version in my daughter's totally-refused-to-eat-or-nap honor.

5. Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band – There Ain't No Santa Claus on the Evenin' Stage
I first posted a holiday mini-playlist two years ago and eulogized Captain Beefheart in the same breath. Clearly I wasn't aware at the time that my man released a "Christmas song" on The Spotlight Kid back in '72. In my defense I've been distracted by Trout Mask Replica and The Mirror Man Sessions for a solid decade and, by 2010, hadn't yet ventured too deeply into their seventies output. This one's for him.

Up next: It's a tough one hosting the 49ers. Colin Kaepernick is the type of quarterback (athletic, accurate, unfamiliar) who tends to expose weakness in Belichick's recent defenses. We'll see. Cheers!

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!