Beer and football IV — week twelve

The game: Broncos at Patriots
The beer: Smuttynose Old Brown Dog Ale
The result: 34–31
The commentary: Fred Kirsch on the Patriots.com live blog put it best after Blount's fumble (the team's third) when he wrote "I'm going to vomit." (In Blount's defense he appeared to be knocked out for a second. The strip sack was a great play by Von Miller. Ridley? People are nervous. Nervous. He looked like a dreidel on his fumble, his arms flailing about as he spun to the ground. Happy Chaka Khan!) And yet… it never occurred to me to change the channel or turn the TV off altogether. Tom Brady still had three quarters left (or so I underestimated at the time). And though no games are alike I remembered two others: last month's against the Saints (win) and last season's against the Niners (loss). How can you count these guys out? No way I'm not watching.

Pro Football Talk tried to have it both ways so you know it was good: "if [Brady] comes back from this one, he'll be a legend" versus "Brady spread the ball among six different receivers, averaging a pedestrian 6.9 yards per attempt." (It's not quite "Terry Bradshaw Dead?"/"Terry Bradshaw Is Fine," but what could be? I'd provide links but Florio & Co. have taken them down. It's a good thing sports journalism isn't really journalism.)

Belichick's decision to defer in overtime—prioritizing favorable wind—confused everyone, including the captains on the field. You can see Ninkovich immediately signal that the Pats would receive until Belichick must have shouted "No, chowderheads, we're kicking!" Put the ball in Manning's hands? Are you crazy? I still don't know if it was the right decision but everything turned out alright. I know nothing about football.

Welker being at fault (and most think he was) on the punt does not in any way validate Belichick replacing him with Amendola. That was and is a mistake, and it's trendy around here, in a contrarian way, to say that Amendola isn't "injury prone" just because he's always injured. I am not making this up. It's hard to say the Pats would have won more than eight of eleven games so far if Welker had still been here because that's asking a lot, but on a loss-by-loss basis it's possible that he would have made enough of a difference in any or all of them. Is he not worth six points against the Bengals? Three against the Jets (and not even that had the bullshit been avoided)? Four against the Panthers? Unless you're an editor at PFT then it's hard to bet against one more win. Or more.

Regardless, there's a good chance the Pats win out. Texans tomorrow (blowout), Browns at home (blowout), a visit to Miami for the AFC Championship, a prime-time (for now) slobberknocker against the Ravens (the biggest challenge) and a light-contact practice session against whatever shitstorm is blowing in from Buffalo. Eleven wins is a disappointing finish. Twelve is likely. Thirteen is within reason. It's good to root for the Pats, so long as the other team isn't facing third and twenty-five.

Quick media notes: Collinsworth couldn't stop talking about how he had never witnessed a team run this successfully against the Pats, which means he hadn't seen them play in four years. It must be hard to watch the all-twenty-two from way up on that Sports Emmy high horse. And Zolak. The Showpony hadn't yet removed his Burberry scarf after standing in the postgame press room for a good twenty minutes. Do cross-eyed people think plaid is a solid color?

Up next: No matter the result in Houston, here's hoping the headlines don't begin with "Field conditions mar." Cheers!

Beer and football IV — weeks nine, ten and eleven

Week nine
The game: Steelers at Patriots
The beer: Berkley Harvest Ale
The result: Win, 55–31
The commentary: Wow. Look at her! Wow… wow. Just when I think the world is too far gone a moment like this is captured. Everything, somehow, will be OK.

Fifty-five points! Despite two no-calls on back-to-back first-quarter touchdowns by Gronkowski and Bolden—Roethlisberger must have threatened to ask the ref's daughter out on a date. And just when I think the defense might finally be coming around (I'm the lone fan to have never bought into their quality early this season, even before Wilfork and Mayo went down) they let the Steelers crawl back into the game in the third, once again forcing Brady to carry the team. Luckily they were still the second-worst defense on the field tonight as the once-admired Dick LeBeau chose to implement the "Leave Gronk Alone" scheme. What in the worldwide fuck?

A. and I had a great date night the Friday before the game. G's caregiver generously offered to watch her through the evening so we stayed in the city for a wonderful meal in South Boston. On the way there we ducked into one of those hipster package stores, whatever they're called now, with the weekly wine tastings and the fridge full of craft beer. We liked most of what we sampled (South American reds) and agreed to pop back in after eating. Another bottle of red with dinner, some "Shrimp with the heat" (actual menu entrée) and an uninterrupted adult conversation later we were back among the hipsters, among the snippets of "release" and "finish" and other sexually charged sommelier terms and picked out our favorite. I then drifted over to the beer fridge toward which, tasting wine samples earlier, I'd been positioned to stare at for fifteen minutes. Needless to say (for why else would I be telling the story?) I walked out with the Berkley and a second bomber I'll save for a cold day later this season. Removed from the context of the evening, the ale wasn't as good as the memory of buying it. Glad it worked out this way and not the other.

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Week ten (bye)
The beer: Samuel Adams Cream Stout
The commentary: There's nothing like a bye week to make one feel like a lousy father and husband. "The Pats aren't playing today so let's do something as a family." What a selfish asshole I am. So Saturday we met friends for lunch in the city and Sunday we ran errands all over the North Shore. Or maybe it was the other way around? These weekends, man, they just run right together and spin you around a few times. It was fun I think?

No football. (Beer? Of course.) No raking. Barely made a dent in The Dead Zone. But G. did her best Jeff Ament impression and used her blue guitar to set fire to the place. It was awesome.

And that's the bye week.

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Week eleven
The game: Patriots at Panthers
The beer: Atlantic MacFoochie's Scottish Ale
The result: Loss, 24–20
The commentary: Twice now, G. and I have been in the car when an Animals song came on the radio. The other day it was "Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood" and I said "G., it's the Animals." "No, it's not Animals." "But honey, it is! It's a band called 'the Animals.'" "NO!" Maybe she thought it was the Cheese again?

It should have been a sign. "Pass interference… not pass interference." "That is fucking brutal!" "So long, everyone." Of course I would never drop an F-bomb on my daughter the way Brady did to Clete Blakeman (Clete? Blakeman?) after the… drama. However, I assure you it was the fucking Animals.

I was never a fan of Mike Tirico and his philandering ways but lately I appreciate that he does a decent job compared to most. Live, I didn't notice how he and Jonny This-Guy handled the non-call—which absolutely was pass interference, and my certainty stems from the fact that if the teams were reversed I would have been thankful to get away with it—but Awful Announcing's recap and assessment is fascinating. "[Tirico] explained everything succinctly and made sure to bring in all available parties for comment and analysis. Most importantly, he knew to shut up when the cameras were tracking Brady and Blakeman as they jogged off the field." I agree wholeheartedly with that first part and it was a refreshing bit of thorough analysis from the play-by-play guy under suspect conditions. (The second part though? Who knows, maybe he was sipping his own MacFoochie's—"dark as night and sweet as love" and the best beer of the season by a mile—or a stacked ESPN intern walked by. Let's not automatically give him credit for not talking.) It was handled well, especially well when heard in hindsight and not in a blacked-out state as I was at the time. Compare it to the Greg Gumbel/Dan Dierdorf exchange, described later in the post, from earlier this season with the field goal(s) to end Patriots–Jets II. (Dierdorf, who I think is pretty good for a dry ex-player, actually comes out clean when lesser color guys would have taken the ref's incorrect explanation for gospel—I can practically hear Collinsworth ranting on some bullshit about the game not being played the right way). Announcers are there to improve the game experience and they rarely succeed, so nice job, Mike. You creepy piece of shit.

On the subject of television, here are a few things I've been meaning to write about. I'll keep it short:

The 30 for 30 on Jimmy Connors's 1991 run at the US Open was enjoyable. I was right in the tennis sweet spot (har! har!) then, beginning my senior year of high school when I was on the verge of abandoning the game because asshole coach Chip Hill, Chip Hill with the really bad teeth, only played his team favorites and I wasn't one of them. So my game regressed and I lost interest. Anyway, as a kid I sort of liked Jimmy Connors. He was funny and successful, which is a good combination in a sport of mild personalities, right? Everybody was rooting for this guy and his ridiculous racquet in '91. However… what a douchebag he was! McEnroe had his thing: he hated the umpires and linesmen and wanted them to know it. But Connors? He hated the umpires and linesmen and wanted the crowd to know it. I get the sense that tennis wasn't too important to Connors (nor was compassion, with the Aaron Krickstein fallout). It was the spectacle of competition (and not the competition itself) that kept him playing. Gamesmanship instead of athleticism, as that extended nonsense with the racquets and towels during the Krickstein match was a dead ringer for Carolina's milking of the clock, slowing the tempo down to such a crawl that I thought Daisuke Matsuzaka was playing quarterback. I never did get McEnroe for some reason, but looking back he was the player I should have liked had I been a little older: cerebral, talented and anti-authoritarian. Right on. Connors was just a gifted prick. Excellent hour of television.

Project Runway double dose! Season twelve ended as it should have with Dom the winner. No one else had a chance—the ones who embrace bold prints (and actually know what to do with them) will always win in the end. And only in the end, in Mondo's case, because the producers at Lifetime (the Network for Women and Jarrod) don't like people with the HIV. In retrospect my sleeper pick of Ken was way off the mark: that motherfucker is nuts. I won't apologize for thinking Bradon would win the whole thing though. He's obviously talented but I couldn't have known he'd wait until fashion week to unveil a color-blind-old-lady mess (the "know what to do with them" ingredient, noted above, went missing). His proposal earlier in the season annoyed me too. Was it any better than some goofball in a backwards hat doing it on the big screen at Fenway? Likely worse. Also worse: what the hell got into the usually lovely Tim Gunn during the reunion show? That was a despicable display normally reserved for Zanna Roberts Rassi. The affair was bitter and ugly all around. Excellent hour of television.

Oh, Zanna Roberts Rassi. As much as I didn't like Tim Gunn on the reunion he's picture-perfect on the show itself (though I think he and the AIDS-victim-hating producers coddled crazy Ken too much by giving him his own room and not kicking him off the show) and, as a teacher, is a genuine mentor. But Rassi on the new season of Also-Rans? She must be trying out for an off-Broadway Heathers revival. "Just show me the sketch, jerk." How I love to hate that woman. I'll keep rooting for Jeffrey even though he doesn't seem long for the show. After him I'll probably fall to Seth-Aaron, whose designs I adore (or used to, at least) even as he annoys the shit out of me—these "Look at me, I'm so outrageous!" types always do. Maybe he'll slice open Viktor the Fop on camera so we no longer have to deal with that little fan of his. That would make for an excellent hour of television.

Lastly, if you attend a Monday Night Football game and try to get on camera by spelling out its acronym, I suggest sticking to initial letters. That's why they're called initials. MOST NASTY DEFENSE most certainly does not qualify, you lazy goddaMN motherFucker. Good defense, though. I'll give you that.

Up next: It is on. Cheers!

Beer and football IV — week eight

The game: Dolphins at Patriots
The beer: Wolaver's Pumpkin Ale
The result: Win, 27–17
The commentary: Several weeks ago, the local Whole Foods teamed up with a neighboring liquor store to hold a Fall beer- and wine-tasting event in the parking lot. Needless to say the liquor store, who cleverly (admirably) provided attendees with checklists to keep track of what they liked (and competitive prices to encourage them to shop), were the clear winners, while Whole Foods's minimalist participation—I showed up about forty-five minutes before closing and sampled all of one kind of cheese—was plain embarrassing. Especially since they seemed to do all the heavy lifting in terms of promotion! Oh well, I was half drunk when I left so who cares. I enjoyed a lot of good beer but the main takeaway was a confirmation of what I already suspected: the Wolaver's Pumpkin Ale I bought a week earlier was the discovery of the season. I like a pumpkin beer to not taste like a pumpkin doughnut or a pumpkin latte—I want a nice, tight ale (or stout) with a mild pumpkin influence. Cambridge's Great Pumpkin was (and probably still is, especially on tap at the Cambridge Common) my favorite pumpkin beer. But Wolaver's came out of nowhere with that farmer and that pitchfork and—shit!—how it satisfied the September yearning. Even the Long Trail guy at the Whole Foods parking lot event had to admit that Wolaver's was the winner, and not just because Long Trail's version tastes like manure.

Also on the agenda: one New York-based wine rep who, when a woman asked him to recommend a red, responded "I don't recommend anything. I grew up in New York so we drank French wine. California wine is too fruity. Fruity!" And then he punched her, he punched her right in the mouth, and as she picked her teeth up off the pavement he opened his emasculating little backpack, those weird drawstring ones you see the kids wearing these days, and he just started chucking grapes and apples at the poor woman. "Here's your fucking fruit! Choke on it ya trash! I'm from Noo Yawk! Fraaaance!" Seconds later I looked at the handy liquore store flier and said "I'll try the fifty-dollar wine." "Well it's not wine," he said, "it's (x)," that being whatever you call an expensive version of Jägermeister. "Do you know Jägermeister?" Here I am, a man obviously (barely!) in his thirties, and I have sideburns—sideburns!—big, American sideburns, and he's asking if I know what Jägermeister is. If you're picturing him with a shaved head, black-framed glasses and about one hundred twenty pounds of near-man then, by golly, you've nailed it. Oh, and that stuff tasted like manure.

The afternoon was a bit of a bust, except for the part where I drank a bunch of free beer and wine. Our original plan had been for the three of us to meet another family of three at the event, because who doesn't want to have their underage daughter toddling around a liquor store parking lot? Unfortunately G's failure to nap—note the common theme to this football season?—meant one of us (A.) had to stay home, and by the time I got my shit together our friends were long gone. Oh well. More time to focus on tweaking uptight eggheads.

Fast forward to Halloween, when we went trick-or-treating with that same family. Their little girl (only eight days older than G.) was seriously the cutest cowgirl there ever was. The boots? The boots! They live up the street so we stuck close to home. I'd have included pictures of her if it weren't so weird to ask her parents "Hey, do you mind if I put a picture of your daughter on the internet? I write a series of blog posts about the Patriots, except I don't write much about the Patriots, it's mostly about how people should be lining up to buy my amazing—amazing!—music collection. I also compare the logo for the InterContinental Hotel to a vagina on an annual basis. Wanna buy some Hawkwind?" That arrest warrant writes itself.

Guess who dressed as a cupcake? Ever seen one balance on a stack of books? OK, so it's not completely unexpected. At least we got her a costume this year. Check out the home-grown photography in the background: of the three framed pictures, A. took the middle (the Alcatraz water tower's spiral staircase); I took the one you can't see (some beautiful trees on St. Lucia, where we honeymooned… and honestly my favorite print of the three); and neither one of us will take credit for the unfinished Bermuda church at left. We're each convinced the other snapped it. Anyway, that's our display. Bidding queue forms to the left.

The preciousness will drive you mad. Accessorize.

I promise we're not standing in the middle of the road here, it's just the end of a driveway. Anyway, if one of us was going to be hit by this passing white car it would have been me, alright? So put the phone down and stop trying to involve the authorities all the damn time.

Up next: It's always a competitive game against the Steelers, except when it's not. Cheers!

Beer and football IV — weeks six and seven

Week six
The game: Saints at Patriots
The beer: Cambridge Sgt. Pepper Saison
The result: Win, 30–27
The commentary: G. was on fire today. First we went to A&J King where she hammed it up in mom's sunglasses. Outstanding. Later, when she wouldn't nap, I took her out to run a few errands. She rode the cart at Target—the only way to control her while shopping these days, just don't tell mom—and as we rolled by the electronics section she saw gridiron covering every single big-screen TV. "It's football!" You're damn right it is! On the way home to catch the late-afternoon contest against New Orleans we heard "All My Loving" by the Beatles. "Hey monkey, it's the Beatles." "No." "No, honey, the music is the Beatles." "It's not the Beatles, it's the Cheese." What do I know about music anyway?

It was clear once we got home and settled in that she still wasn't going to nap, so I accepted that she'd be watching with me. I honestly missed that this year anyway. Flipping around before the game, I activated the channel guide and the early game (whatever it was) shrunk to picture-in-picture size. She wasn't having it: "I wanna watch football!" OK, OK. I guess that brief Target sighting really pumped her up. I settled on the Fox pregame show for some reason, with all the laughing ex-players and ex-coaches whose job it is to sit at a long desk and kill time, and she exclaimed "It's Jeopardy!" That's her go-to when she wants to watch something and thinks she can trick us into choosing a show we're interested in. "I wanna watch Jepp-ah-dee." Honestly, we don't let her watch too much television. Right? Anyway, she totally nailed it: football pregame sets look exactly like the wide shots of all three Jeopardy contestants. Only there are so, so many more than three.

Oh hey: this was a pretty great game. Probably the best of the season so far, and not just because of the ending (bullshit). Aside from Thom Brennaman calling Hoomanawanui "the Hoe-man" (the nickname is actually pronounced "Hoo-man," Thom, but I do like the idea of a pimp breaking tackles down the sideline), the Pats coming back from the dead twice and G. saying "Don't say 'yay'" when I kept saying just that were the natural highlights. It was really something else and a good sign of life, not just for a struggling young receiver to step up but also for Brady to make a Brady play. (What no one talked about after was that even if Thompkins had dropped it—and it was a genuinely fantastic catch—they still would have had time to run one more play.)

The beer was a gift from my aunt to me on G's second birthday. OK? Based on the earlier father/daughter conversation it was the natural choice on this day. Saisons aren't my favorite, in fact I'm not sure I really care for any other than Notch's, but this one did alright. High expectations for a Cambridge (the brewer, not the Republic) beer that didn't quite get met, just like the album it's named after. Even in mono. Of course the beer and A's interest in "It's All Too Much" reminded me to extol the progressive genius of a three-year-old Beatles post during our drive to work the next morning. I consider it one of the best things I've written. I am my biggest fan.

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Week seven
The game: Patriots at Jets
The beer: Ipswich Five Mile Equinox Pale Ale
The result: Loss, 30–27
The commentary: What's with two stinkers against the Jets this season? At least they scored more points than last time (though some of them were on defense). Everyone around here is up in arms over the overtime penalty and I suppose I am too. The rules are the rules, sure, but you pick now to call it for the first time ever? Anyway, enough's been written. I'll be glad when the Jets are eliminated from the playoff picture. Who the hell knows when that will be.

This morning we returned to Connors Farm for a another child's birthday party. Apple cider, orange cupcakes and the roughest hayride off all time made it a great day for everything except my ass. G. posed for several pictures, picked out the most perfect little G-sized pumpkin and managed to make a cloudless day even brighter, though a near-favorite moment was when an obviously overwhelmed teenage farm employee pointed to G. and asked "Is this yours?" The context does not matter.

Up next: The Dolphins are one win away from clinching the AFC East, or so I hear. Cheers!

Beer and football IV — week five

The game: Patriots at Bengals
The beer: Martha's Exchange Olde London Stout
The result: Loss, 13–6
The commentary: Bob Socci must be stopped. The new radio voice of the Patriots lied to me four times in an hour during a rainy second-half drive to Nashua: an interception (not an interception), two receptions (two drops) and Julian Edelman's amazing "touchdown catch." The world's smallest violin.

Why the hell was I wasting time in the car during a playoff-implication game against a tough Bengals team? Because my old friend Ivan and I ventured north on Route 3 to witness the Misfits declare war on Nashua, New Hampshire. The last time we saw them was one of the greatest nights ever, so who was I to refuse? (No pantsings this time, but they did play "TV Casualty.")

The evening (afternoon, actually) started at Martha's Exchange in downtown Nausea. I was frantically flipping between the FM band and the Bluetooth receiver to hear the driving directions and drove right by the place, of course, just as the Pats' chances were dwindling. I parked and Ivan pulled up right next to me. He had gone ahead to the concert venue (improbably called Bernie's) to get tickets and asked me to guess how many opening bands there were. "Six," I responded in jest. "How did you know??" Uh-oh, I wasn't going to home before nine liked I'd hoped, and the "No nap" text I got from A. halfway through my first beer didn't make me feel any better. We got inside Martha's (which was attached to a gourmet chocolate shop because why not, so of course I grabbed an enormous peanut butter cup for A. before leaving—she had earned it) as the hurricane hit the fifty yard line and there was just a feeling of malaise about the game. Bob Socci and a mediocre stout will do that to a man. The inevitable loss couldn't get us too down though—we had a long night ahead.

Next stop was Boston Billiards across town. That's the thing about New England, you can stick "Boston" in front of anything unless you're in Vermont. I think it used to be a bowling alley and it was enormous—there weren't many people there and it felt like even fewer. The waitress was practically waiting for us at our pool table, and when I picked up the modest beer menu to ask "Is this what's on tap?" she answered "These are our craft beers." I stared blankly at her for several seconds, wondering what kind of world she lived in where craft beer cannot be found on tap, and she stared back at me with equal puzzlement, wondering if I could sneak her into Bernie's. I broke the silence by settling on a "Sam Adams, please," settling because their selection of "craft beers" didn't move me. Nice safety beer though.

Ivan and I are pretty evenly matched so we traded wins and losses, much as the Broncos and Cowboys did touchdowns on the eight thousands TVs about the place. Did you see that game? Far out. Speaking of far out, we'd better motor if we're going to catch the last three opening bands.

We arrive at Bernie's and it's exactly what I expected, in that it was Good Times North. Bad highway weed was everywhere. And the Misfits fans? The Misfits fans! And the Sunday Night Football! The… Sunday Night Football? I was thankful for the Niners and the Texans as some local shitstorm belted out its nonsense onstage.

The place was the place. We got a couple of beers (slumming with Captain Budweiser & His Magic Trots) and went upstairs, which provided the best view of the game and the din. Mohawks, cleavage… you could smell the damage. Bring on the Misfits already.

Our timing was perfect because Local Shitstorm closed amateur hour (amateur two-and-a-half hours). We made the educated guess and returned to the lower level, got some refills and moved to within fifteen feet of Jerry Only's eventual microphone. Not three minutes later he entered from the parking lot via the general admission entrance (somewhere Glenn Danzig chuckled as he searched his couch cushions for autopsy photographs). Jerry and Dez and not-Robo were full-on and they opened with "We Are 138," if I remember right, and I probably don't. And look! Jerry's wearing a MISFITS shirt. Just like everyone else in here!

Vest-less! What do you call a combination receding-hairline devil-lock? That poster makes him look a little fuller on top, don't you think? We ended up in a perfect little spot, right between the pit and a wall. Maybe not everyone's idea of perfect? It was like old times except I'm pushing forty. I impressed myself by not overreacting to some knucklehead spilling my own beer on me. It should have been water anyway. Finding that Dunkins on the way home was a bit of a life-saver.

Text message, 12:02 AM: "Wow, just leaving Nashua now. Mistake, but still fun. XO." I survived a shirtless Jerry Only (not documented here), I survived that skank in the wheelchair, I survived nine-ball, I survived Geno Atkins and, thanks to G. crashing hard to sleep at some point in the evening, I survived the wrath of an exhausted wife and mother. Part two in a series of great nights with the Misfits.

Up next: Did you hear Dr. John's comeback album last year? It's pretty good. Cheers!

Beer and football IV — week four

The game: Patriots at Falcons
The beer: The Tap Sassy Rabbit Rye Ale
The result: Win, 30–23
The commentary: One night last week I stayed a little late at work and walked the Greenway to North Station for my ride home. I knew the carousel had finally reopened (great idea to renovate over the Summer, fellas) but I was not prepared for how G-ready the work had made it. Owls! Squirrels! Butterflies! Whales! Turtles! It's a favorite-animal extravaganza, all we're missing are elephants and monkeys. I texted A. that we must venture into the city on Saturday and blow G's little mind. So that's what we did.

After breakfast at Flour, where G. devoured an egg sandwich and made eyes with a friendly old haberdasher or statistician or something, we walked along the missing shadow of 93 and found one of the whimsical "Play Me, I'm Yours" pianos scattered about the city (a series of public art installations). A. and I temporarily got over our fear of germs and plopped G. right onto the devil's bench, stepped back and listened to her bash out a passable version of "In the Court of the Crimson King." Impressive talent! Impressive parenting.

The carousel was the expected hit. Mom rode with G. first and dad the second and third times. It was wonderful, though the moments when your child's heart is actively breaking as you walk away from all they desire are the hardest. After an extended stop at the Artist's Impulse Jewelry Purchase Fair we swung by Atlantic Wharf, watched some tourists throw tea into Fort Point Channel (the same body of water that swallowed my old phone) and helped some Boston expats take a family picture, marveling with them at what that part of the city had been only a few years earlier: the Federal Reserve, the Harpoon brewery and a mile-wide parking lot in between.

Passage of time is a remarkable thing. Forgetting for a moment that my daughter is two—two!—we've owned a home for five years. I've been at the same job for more than seven and married almost as long. Publishing, resignation and unemployment are ten years behind. Weekly Friday visits to the Common Ground (who only started calling themselves "CG" after we did) ended a four-year run a dozen years ago, shortly before I moved to Northampton. $9.99 Harp twelve-packs. Jedi Outcast. Parking in her landlord's driveway. Butthole Surfers on the "beach." ER at Boston City. Patrick Roy. What were you doing in 1992? There's just no way.

The game… I don't remember. Not much actual football writing so far this year. The late comeback was a little daunting and reminded us that, no matter what any homers have to say, this defense still sucks. Nice progress by the offense though and hopefully that can keep improving. The beer? "Bunnee!" Not as good as its label.

Up next: The Patriots travel to Cincinnati. The Misfits travel to Nashua. Cheers!

Beer and football IV — weeks two and three

Week two
The game: Jets at Patriots
The beer: Maine Peeper Ale
The result: Win, 13–10
The commentary: What's the sound of grown men crying for a solid week? All I remember from this game is four hours of Mike Mayock talking about Geno Smith's lousy "internal clock" and how the Patriot rookie receivers "can't get on the same page" as Brady. That's it: lousy rookie quarterback for the Jets, lousy rookie receivers for the Pats. No analysis as to what led each team to rely so heavily on these rookies or any culpability on the parts of the coaching staffs or veteran players. It's easy to criticize rookies, that way you don't injure your personal relationship with Belichick—maybe it's a blessing to be stuck with ESPN on draft night after all. Admittedly, it did seem to be Thompson's or Dobson's fault a lot of the time (mostly giving up on routes or, egregiously, just standing still along the sideline or at the back of the end zone) but I don't know anything about football—just ask the fucking Bears. Elsewhere, the most exciting sequence was "playmaker" Aqib Talib forcing a turnover by accidentally kicking a ball out of someone's hands after that someone scorched him for a thirty-yard reception. The post-Ty Law defense will surely be the death of me.

I wasn't kidding when I said Maine produces nothing but good beer: the Peeper is a stone-cold stunner. What?? This is one of the ones I picked up in Northampton a few weeks ago. It was closer to an English pint than an American bomber (standard measure of volume) but I didn't mind. Too much.

The Thursday game allowed us to go apple-picking on Sunday, along with every other Patriots fan in the world. I think the farmhands were knocking down trees all day to accommodate more cars. We didn't actually pick any apples because that required riding in a wagon to go somewhere else, and that seemed a little silly. So we let G. play with some pumpkins and then went off to visit a few farm animals. We also ran into everyone A. has ever known in her life. It was fun until G. had a total meltdown and we got the hell out of there. Somehow it didn't take forever to get back to the main road.

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Week three
The game: Bucaneers at Patriots
The beer: Bear Republic Racer 5 India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 23–3
The commentary: Guess what happens when you're almost forty, you're a family man and a fancy new mall opens up a couple of towns away: you go spend the morning there! Market Street (with a very MTV logo) is now open in the sleepy, wealthy town of Lynnfield. We don't even have to get on 128! Whole Foods, Starbucks and bunch of other yuppie stores I've never heard of. I'm afraid we're yuppies now so we got breakfast at Starbucks (G. ate most of my sausage, egg and cheese sandwich) and stopped at Whole Foods on the way out (A. said it was the best grocery store she's ever been in, except for the somehow gorgeous co-op in an otherwise scummy Brattleboro). In between we spent most of our time chasing G. in and around a little play area right outside Starbucks. Clearly she was loving life that Saturday but I promise she wasn't as stoned as she looks.

What's the sound of grown men declaring this the greatest defense in NFL history after three weeks of play? It's all ups or downs here, nothing in between. I suppose I understand the need to manufacture discussion/debate with six (or nine) twenty-four-hour news cycles in between games, but that's only because I'm able to avoid the lot of it. Mike Reiss and PFW keep me grounded, then I watch the games and reach my own conclusions. Like how everybody is calling Aqib Talib one of the top cornerbacks in the league? Well, maybe he is. But the pick off of Freeman the other day was the first of his three that really felt like an interception. The two against the Jets were of the Kyle Arrington variety, in that they were thrown right at him and/or ended up in his hands by chance. A turnover is a turnover, and if Talib continues to create interceptions like this then we really do have the greatest defense in sports history. Let's just relax a bit.

G. missed the game again. That's three in a row and she is pissed. On this day she went to Cambridge with mom so it was just Chloe and I at home. I had some time to myself after the game and went batshit crazy taking pictures of records and CDs to sell on eBay, some of the rarer stuff like the first and third White Stripes singles, the "gold" reissues of the Pretty Things' SF Sorrow and Parachute, etc. So far I've had one listing come and go without a buyer and I expect that to happen to five more later today. Keep on keepin' on, right? My payday will come.

I actually didn't drink during the game. Friday night a few of us went out after work and I pounded four of these bastard IPAs before catching my 8:30 train by a matter of seconds. I seem to be coming around to hoppy beers lately. Or I'm a degenerate drunk who'll take what he can get, as in later that night with wine: the Dexter finale! I haven't read it yet but The Onion's AV Club review gave it an F. They must have finally gone the satirical route along with the rest of the site. Meanwhile, every episode of the last two seasons of Mad Men earned like an A+ from them. One of my favorite scenes ever on the show happened to fall in season five, when Ginsberg told Peggy that he was from Mars. It was powerful stuff and a complete throwaway. Aside from this there are maybe five genuinely special sequences in the entire series: the "carousel" pitch, Kennedy's assassination, the new agency, Don's realization that Joan had already whored herself out and Lane's multi-episode downfall. Don married his secretary? I don't care. Peggy left? And now she's back? I don't care. Mad Men can afford to play "Tomorrow Never Knows" over the credits? Self-aware irony is unbecoming and odd all over. And Roger? Roger! Who cares.

Dexter though? How was it supposed to end? He'd been getting out of no-way-he-can-get-out-of-this situations for years and suddenly it's ridiculous that he can survive a hurricane? More broadly, was a happy ending even reasonable? Hannah didn't bother to cut and/or color her hair so I wasn't expecting her to get away according to plan (even though she sort of did). Someone close to Dexter had to die because someone close to Dexter always died. It's what kept me watching, what made me a little hesitant to whole heartedly root for a murderer. I enjoyed it. (Masuka's daughter though? Who cares.)

Up next: Hotlanta! Cheers!

Beer and football IV: The trick today will be to try to affect fate’s great wheel

Week one
The game: Patriots at Bills
The beer: Samuel Smith Nut Brown Ale
The result: Win, 23–21; Bengals/Jarrod lose, 24–21
The commentary: Longtime readers (!) might recall this whole "beer and football" thing I started years ago when an innocent, shockingly handsome thirty-something guy got drunk on Samuel Smith pints each Autumn Sunday in the People's Republic. I drank any variety I could find during every single game of the 2007/2008 season, otherwise known as "16–0," and we all remember what happened. Later efforts were equally unsatisfying. So where do I get off opening the season with a classic, the first of theirs I'd ever had, the Nut Brown Ale that is fated to doom the season? Ask me in December.

Is it me or was this the week of the safety? I mean the two-point play, not the defensive position—I didn't hear McCourty's name all game. I paid more attention to the score crawl than usual for reasons I'll get to in a minute, but it seemed like every other team had two points or five points. (Funny thing about two-point plays is that G. is now two years old. Fate! Alas, she'll likely—when all goes well—nap through one o'clock games this season.) Just a strange observation, or rather an astute observation of a strange thing, without a single hackneyed Pro Football Talk headline in sight.

It's week one and it's a win. Everyone around here is totally freaking out because the Pats didn't win by two touchdowns. The game was a lot closer than I expected it to be but I was never worried, even when the Bills had the lead and the ball with six minutes left. In a related note, I'd feel encouraged if I were a Bills fan. (Shudder.) Manuel looked pretty good and held up alright during his first pro game. They put some decent pressure on Brady a lot of the day. Their tight end didn't murder anyone. We'll see in a few hours what the Jets look like but I'll be surprised if the Bills finish below them at the end of the year. (Only if Marrone isn't so trigger happy with the challenge flag—I'm impressed he didn't contest Ridley's lost fumble so that's a step in the right direction.)

About that crawl: on Friday a work friend asked if I wanted to participate in a "suicide fantasy league." When I told him I had no idea what that was he clarified that it was a simple knockout pool. "I'm in!" Ten bucks, Bengals over Bears. Rats. Later on, when I explained to A. that Jay Cutler lost us ten bucks, I went on a rant about how fantasy football and the Red Zone Channel exist merely to reward people who aren't actually football fans. What's the point of being alerted that a team is about to score a touchdown if I didn't see how they advanced that far? Why would I care how many catches Calvin Johnson has if I'm not interested in the Lions' success or failure? Fake football fans used to watch a few minutes of Sportscenter to stay in the loop, now they spend all night coming up with clever pop-culture names for their fantasy teams. To hell with that.

Also in this category is channel four's postgame exit poll. Escalating New England's reputation as a part of the country that loves its overachieving white players, Captain Crazy Eyes asked "Which Patriots receiver was more clutch today: Julian Edelman or Danny Amendola?" Shane Vereen—technically a running back, but why not ask "Which Patriots player…"?—had over one hundred and fifty total yards, and (though it wasn't yet known) it turns out he played the whole game with a broken hand, for crying out loud! Definitely to hell with them. With the whole lot of them!

Up next: The Jets visit Foxborough tonight and unveil the Super Bowl trophy they apparently won last week. Cheers!

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

The game: Patriots somewhere
The beer: Northampton Daniel Shays Best Bitter
The result: Who cares
The commentary: New England, as a region, is comprised of six states:

1. Maine
2. New Hampshire
3. Massachusetts
4. Half of Connecticut
5. Pawtucket, Rhode Island
6. My own self-importance

Despite rumors to the contrary, Vermont is not one of them. Northern New England (Maine and New Hampshire) is wonderful: the people are friendly, the air is clean, the beer is delicious. Vermont? The people are rude and/or hippies. Like real hippies, the smelly homeless kind. The air smells of hippie filth, except when you're in your car driving through the glorious Green Mountains, which is the best way to see Vermont anyway. And OK, the beer is pretty good. I'll give them that. But Colorado has delicious beer too. Pennsylvania. Fucking Old England. And they don't need to fly under the New England flag (a triptych of me barfing in the Hub Bowling Center in 1982, outside the Small Planet Bar & Grill in 1994 and on the inbound platform at Arlington station in 2002). Vermont is another part of the country and perhaps a whole other country altogether.

Guess where we went last weekend? Brattleboro, Vermont! We'd been curious about the town for years and chose it as a quick getaway. Urban! Artsy! Pubs! It read like an upscale Northampton without the baggage. Unfortunately: hippies. Ten years ago we probably would have been alright. I'm sure A. and I could have found a nice restaurant followed by late-into-the-night drinks at a funky bar. But, see, we've got a toddler now. Dinner starts closer to 4:00 than to 8:00. And even if we settle in somewhere nice, as we did on the roof deck at Whetstone Station Brewery, G. enjoys the scene for a limited amount of time until "Geddown… geddowwwn!" Needless to say, vacations aren't what they were before G. came along. Also needless to say, we wouldn't trade her to pretend we're still young. Our independence will return once we're old and pissing ourselves.

Skipping the details of the trip, we recovered by detouring through—yes—Northampton on our way home. It's been almost a decade since I've lived there and we've been back once or twice. Weird time for me, ten years ago. But it was nice to be there on a beautiful day, enjoying lunch at the Northampton Brewery. The beer, the catfish bites, A. across the table. And G. alongside us now. She was great throughout this meal, better than at any of the Brattleboro stops. It was good to be in New England again.

We walked around awhile, found a nice little playground, a really nice farmers market, a really, really nice craft beer/wine/specialty foods shop called Provisions (where I picked up four bombers, including a couple from Maine; Maine produces nothing but good beer; I purchased none in Vermont) but somehow didn't duck into Turn It Up, since I'd left all my shit for sale at home. There's one in Brattleboro too. What was I thinking?

Anyway, the hometown team played a preseason game last week and got schmucked by the four-win Lions. I didn't watch a second of it because I forgot they were playing—Project Runway is on Thursdays, you know—and apparently I missed the end of the Brady/Belichick dynasty. Again. Oh well, somehow G. and I will survive a doomed season. You say they're playing another tomorrow night? The unimportant fourth preseason game? "Well… the line was so long I said 'Fuck it!'" They'll still win the AFC East.

Lastly—and if you're reading this then you are he because no one else does—a sincere shout-out to my old blogging friend Steve, who has had an unfair run of horrible blogging fodder for too long. Here's to Jay Cutler elevating his game to that of a serviceable spot starter in Steve's honor. Also, go read his blog. He has interesting things to say and excellent taste in music. Too bad about the creep who keeps harassing him to write more, goddammit! Cheers, my man.

Beer and football IV — training camp

The beer: Green Flash West Coast India Pale Ale
The commentary: My plan was to go Friday morning. On the road by eight, Foxborough by half past nine. But the rain! What happens to the first day of training camp when it rains? I knew of the Dana-Farber Field House, as in "Practice has been moved indoors to the Dana-Farber Field House because it's snowing like a motherfucker out there." But the first day of training camp, which people had circled on their calendars, which I had circled on my calendar? Took the day off, arranged for G. to skip daycare, her little 2T Patriots dress (not yet worn) all set to go. But the rain!

Mike Reiss always says "Be sure to call Gillette Stadium or check Patriots.com in case it's snowing like a motherfucker out there." So that's what I did. Gillette's training camp hotline? "Training camp starts on Friday, July 26 and is open to the public." I've known that for a month! Patriots.com? "Aaron who?" Eventually I decided that if it were to still be held outdoors (which it was) and, thus, open to the public, did I really want to drive an hour and back to stand around in the rain? To have G. stand around in the rain? The answer, of course, was no. It's ridiculous how long it took to realize that.

So the dream of bringing G. to training camp was dead for the second year in a row. Friday was the day, it had to be the day. Who wants to go to training camp on a weekend and deal with all those… people? Monday's session was to be restricted to season ticket-holders and Foxborough residents. Tuesday… Tuesday? Hmm, I'd have to take another day off. And what if it rains again? This Summer has been batshit crazy when it comes to weather.

On second thought, how about Saturday? Sure, the crowd will be enormous. Also, there will be a lot of people (har! har!). But the majority of these enormous people will want to get there right at nine, right when it starts, and for what? I wouldn't even want to stay the whole two-and-a-half hours anyway, what with the logistics of a toddler's survival (breakfast/lunch/nap). So it was "Hey mom, would you like four hours to yourself?" G. and I were on.

(I should clarify that I still took Friday off to spend the day with her. We drove mom to work and when we got home I taped a bunch of newsprint to the hardwood floor and tore open a new pack of "washable" markers. The resulting artwork—pictured—was stunning, as was her desire to use every single color, but the dark blue she used on our red couch sent me into panic mode. Only after several applications of mom's amazing internet-inspired vinegar/Dawn dish soap concoction did it wash out. Seriously though: panic.)

We left the house at nine and though it was later than I'd hoped it actually worked out better. After a stop at Dunkins (where stereotypes came alive and we waited behind a Revere cop at the drive-thru) we cruised all the way to Foxborough. No expected 93 South delays (I will never, ever live south of Boston), no Cape traffic (!). The only hitch occurred upon arrival at Gillette Stadium when I stupidly followed signs that read TRAINING CAMP PARKING. I know! After nearly circumnavigating the entire grounds, no doubt to take in all the shopping and dining it had to offer and determine there was always time for a Victoria's Secret shopping spree followed by a Red Robin burger, we reached LOT 20. Lot 20 was, yes, about the size of twenty football fields. "G., just remember we're near the porta-potties."

We followed the crowd (cautioning her to almost always avoid doing so) toward the stadium, and after a quick stop in the shade of a hotel to lather on the sunscreen we were on our way. Hey, here's that "Fan Zone" I read about! Nothing but lines of people in there—I'm glad the Fan Zone wasn't on our agenda. We followed what remained of the crowd (I can't believe how many of them stopped off at the Lines and Lines of Fans Zone) through a peculiar and unnecessary maze of sorts and arrived at the practice fields, or at least a stretch of pavement behind the aluminum bleachers that overlooked the practice fields. By this point G. had been saying "Football, football!" for about five minutes. She's the best. Her enthusiasm, though, did nothing for my hygiene. I was sweating like a bastard.

To our left was a nice grassy knoll (look out!) that I'd spotted from some point in the maze. A perfect place to settle in, give G. a little breakfast and maybe catch some of the on-field action. I'm no good at describing things unless they are guitar distortion so let's allow pictures to relate our story. (I apologize that some of these are a bit dark. It's difficult to adjust their exposure without washing out the blue sky.)

Ah, some nice shade under a nice tree. "Let's eat!" And look, it's the Dana-Farber Field House! Somewhere it is snowing like a– well, I won't drop that bomb next to her picture.

"Whadat?" I think we should see what's down there. Immediately.

"Hurry!"

OK, back to the stroller. That was fun! In truth, there wasn't much for us to do as we got closer to the viewing area. Clearly I couldn't just let her run loose amongst the crowd ("Toddler runs onto practice field, injures Danny Amendola") and she refused to be held ("Geddown!"), so I kept directing her toward the knoll (duck!) and asking "Where's the stroller?" Then she would run and find it. I did this like five times and she never tired of the fun of finding it. She's my little detective. Here, after finding it again, she somehow doesn't look like herself (she's in mid-song or something) but it's still quite stunning and precious and beautiful and I love her so much.

Bless you, dear tree, for your dad-cooling shade.
With my milk and his coffee we've both got it made.
No way he pays five for a small lemonade.

I vibrate with joy as I dance in my dress.
All this black mulch will make a fine mess!
To get the stains out, which cycle works best?

Here. Here! This is the coolest cool thing.
Maybe it will fly like a kite on some string.
So many songs and just one voice to sing…
E-I-E-I-O!

G. is nothing if not a social butterfly but she has her shy moments. Several kids were hanging around this tree but she only opened up after they drifted off. See that woman in the white jersey behind the fence? I'm pretty sure either she or her obscured friend later said "I can't believe he's changing her diaper in front of everyone" when I did exactly that, right there on the grass before leaving. I only suspect as much because I heard one of them say (presumably in response) "What's he supposed to do?" I'm not overly narcissistic and I realize her remark could have been in reference to any other "he," anywhere, doing anything, but I still think it was this guy. So thanks for coming to my defense, white Patriots jersey woman or obscured woman. And go to hell, white Patriots jersey woman or obscured woman.

Time for a series of unprovoked Project Runway-quality poses. Please note that the practice field is in the complete opposite direction from where she is looking. (Gillette nosebleeds at upper left.)

Based on the first two episodes I think the competition is Bradon's to lose. Then again I thought the same thing about Anthony Ryan at this point in his first season a couple of years ago. Ken is my sleeper.

Nice to see Kate got her single win out of the way. She'll keep making the same dress, will get warned by the judges to do something different, then scolded, then yelled at. And she'll be out.

Before finishing the first episode, figuring she was safe (we watched it the day after it aired), I googled Angela to see if I'd heard of any of her bands. Of course the first result was "Last night, Richmond designer Angela Bacskocky was eliminated from the first round of Project Runway." It was my own fault but jeeez.

The two Alexes: Alexander and his ridiculous eyebrows surprised me with their skill and sophistication. Alexandria betrays the genuine (physical) beauty of her youth by aging into a weathered, damaged woman with the personality and warmth of an applied math textbook.

I think it's going to be a good season. Sandro and Helen are clearly insane, which makes for good television, which means they'll stick around awhile. Sue is only a few years older than me but, courtesy of the sun and/or tanning salons, looks significantly older and thus will boost my self-esteem. Timothy is a fruit loop who "cares about the environment" but doesn't consider the ill effects of burning synthetic fabric with a cigarette lighter. His run ends this week.

Just to prove we were actually there. If you look closely you might see Tim Tebow missing his target by twelve yards. On that note, although I failed to capture the scene I'd like to offer a big blank stare to the woman we saw wearing a replica Tebow jersey. Hot off the press! She must—must—be married to the dude who commented, in response to a Mike Reiss blog post about the first day of camp, "How did Tebow look? That's all I care about." These are my fellow fans.

Just before we left I chugged a bomber of the Green Flash IPA. Made for an interesting ride home! No, that can't be right, I only felt drunk after witnessing a handful of idiots try to direct a manageable number of cars exiting the parking lot. We left well ahead of the majority of fans still hanging around for autographs, cheeseburgers and lingerie so I can't imagine how horrible it must have been an hour later. Luckily there was no in-depth tour of the facility on the way out because Route 1 was right there. Wish I'd realized that coming in.

Really, though, I did try the IPA that evening. A new wine and beer shop opened recently in the center of town, ostensibly replacing the one by the train station that closed down a couple of years ago. They do a good job with wine tastings (inexpensive wine tastings) and we've walked out with a bottle every time. Decent craft beers are available as well—sooner or later, I figured, a beer tasting would come along. And it did! Saturday, after the three of us drove to Beverly for some delicious caffeine and cupcakes, G. and I took a walk down to the water and swung by the shop on the way home. Pale ales were on the agenda, one of which was featured by some know-it-all hack in January! I didn't much care for it then but Saturday it tasted alright, possibly because I was sweating like a bastard again. Surprisingly, the best of the batch was the Green Flash. I rarely go for these extra-hoppy west coast styles—I don't think there's much art in trying to outdo everyone or be the most outrageous. That's no way to brew beer, to go through life. Whatever they're doing in this neck of San Diego, though… maybe it transported me to that wonderful seventy-five-degree haven again. Maybe G. squished up her face just so when I showed her the purple label ("Purple!"). Who knows, maybe it just happened to be the last beer I sampled (it was). But I walked out of that store with a goddamn west coast IPA! California love.