Beer and football VI — week eleven

The game: Bills at Patriots
The beer: Ballast Point Black Marlin Porter
The result: Win, 20–13
The commentary: "I'm not emotionally prepared to write about the state of my football team." Lo, had I joined the loathsome rabble? Remain I there? Surely not, so long as ours is somehow a top-twenty defense.

I've recently… acquired… a copy of the bootlegged unauthorized Pink Floyd live set Meddled, which itself seems to be an unauthorized spin on the unauthorized Meddler. Recorded at the Paris Theatre in London for a session with John Peel in September of 1971, I'd be remiss to let its high fidelity pass without revisiting last season's week of panic to retcon myself an improved three-hour-plus concert à la that business with Nomar Garciaparra and the interrupting cow. John Gruden, feel free to listen along while reviewing the game film in your continued search for Sammy Watkins, who is right there at the top of the screen, you buffoon! To recap…

1. Astronomy Domine
2. Fat Old Sun
3. Atom Heart Mother
Smoking Blues, November 1970

4. Grantchester Meadows (a.k.a. "Daybreak")
The Man and the Journey, September 1969

5. Green Is the Colour
Electric Factory 1970, September 1970

6. Careful With That Axe, Eugene
Live in Montreux, September 1971

7. Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun
Electric Factory 1970

8. The Grand Vizier's Garden Party (a.k.a. "Doing It")
9. Cymbaline (a.k.a. "Nightmare")
The Man and the Journey

10. Echoes
Live in Montreux

11. Interstellar Overdrive
Electric Factory 1970

12. Pow R. Toc H. (a.k.a. "The Pink Jungle")
13. The Labyrinths of Auximenes
14. Behold the Temple of Light
The Man and the Journey

15. A Saucerful of Secrets
Electric Factory 1970

16. More Blues
Smoking Blues

Pretty solid! OK, my work is done. But wait! Three Meddled songs are coming in through the window! Alright, let's sit around the fire with a few Pecan Pie Porters (available again) instead of Monday's adequate Black Marlin (and certainly over last week's Coronado Blue Bridge, which tasted of disappointment more than coffee or stout) and see what we can do to stretch this thing out even further.

To start things off, I continue to favor the "Astronomy Domine"/"Fat Old Sun" pacing (and breadth) already in place. But the new 1971 version of the latter is superior, due as much to the recording as to the playing, so it slots in as the new number two. "I am not a number! I am a free man!" David even manages to keep his shit together this time. The transition back to Smoking Blues's "Atom Heart Mother" isn't as fluid but we're talking about recordings of indeterminate goddamn origin here.

The other edits are the additions of two songs and about seventeen minutes. In retrospect, this doesn't seem to be as big a deal as it did when I originally set about recompiling a bunch of Pink Floyd songs on a blog that no one reads. Onward. "One of These Days" breaks up the Waters-y, doom-y "Careful With That Axe, Eugene"/"Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun" block that bogged down the early middle. Hard rock has a place in the world. On that note, I really tried to slot in Smoking Blues's "The Embryo" last year but it just wouldn't happen—perhaps my officiousness demanded an even, divisible sixteen. But now? But now! The vocals are much stronger a year later and Meddled wins out again over the distracting crowd chatter of Smoking Blues. "Aw man, I sat in gum!" Those children's giggles creep me out too—what is this, The Re-Deadening?—and the seagull effects were later rolled into "Echoes" with great success. Redundancy in two-hundred-minute territory is, after all, an offense only slightly more criminal than a hampering WNEW station identification.

Considerations were made for replacing Montreux's "Echoes" with this new one but the opening "Ping!" isn't as well done, for I remain proud of that "Nightmare"/"Echoes" transition. And rightly so! Lastly, Meddled's "Blues" is actually "More Blues" and sounds too, I don't know, produced. It doesn't satisfy as a closing track and I can't be bothered to blow this thing up—clearly, since I haven't really done much to it other than replace one song and add two more. You might even say that's exactly what I've done. And a selection of sane gentleman might even agree with you. You Swiss are just angry that I inferred a "Ze!" ahead of "Pank Floyt!" to serve a comedic agenda.

New! Improved! And may G. kick this godforsaken virus to Ibiza.

1. Astronomy Domine
2. Fat Old Sun
3. Atom Heart Mother
4. Grantchester Meadows (a.k.a. "Daybreak")
5. Green Is the Colour
6. Careful With That Axe, Eugene
7. One of These Days
8. Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun
9. The Grand Vizier's Garden Party (a.k.a. "Doing It")
10. Cymbaline (a.k.a. "Nightmare")
11. Echoes
12. Interstellar Overdrive
13. Pow R. Toc H. (a.k.a. "The Pink Jungle")
14. The Labyrinths of Auximenes
15. Behold the Temple of Light
16. The Embryo
17. A Saucerful of Secrets
18. More Blues

Up next: The league is less interesting without Peyton Manning. Happy Thanksgiving!

Beer and football VI — week ten

The game: Patriots at Giants
The beer: Coronado Blue Bridge Coffee Stout
The result: Win, 27–26
The commentary: It's getting eerie around here. Undefeated (though not nearly so) as in 2007, visiting "New York" to play the Giants in one for the ages. And remaining undefeated through it all! Is this a sign of what's to come? Is that a good thing?

People have been talking around here about an undefeated season since week two, which is admirable even for this fickle fanbase—if we'd blown that lead to the Bills the same people would have called for Belichick's head and #JimmyTime would have blown up the internet. Just see tomorrow morning if Brady plays against type. (Meanwhile, McCourty and Harmon are perfecting the bad angle in the presence, and continued mastery, of Professor Brandon Meriweather. Whenever we do lose it will surely be their fault.)

It's wonderful to have a yard big enough to host parties, ponies and jungle gyms. With a yard, though, comes the hell of fallen leaves. I've complained of our old condo sporting a yard just big enough to maintain for appearances but useless in any other sense, other than collecting flying sheets of that Globe Direct bullshit that you cannot opt out of.

Sunday afternoon the three of us made what might qualify as a dent in the process of filling two barrels plus a dozen yard waste bags with leaves and leaves and leaves. So much remains that A. is demanding we hire a landscaper to take care of the rest. Lesson learned, I suppose, that next year I should not wait for every last leaf to fall before picking up the rake.

It's not all bad.

Big week for health news in our household between virus-related grossness and, oh, this. Whenever you are lying on the bed and your four-year-old daughter is jumping up and down next to you, listen as your brain screams "End this now!" Otherwise it's your own damn fault. Skull met skull and somehow G. didn't hurt herself too badly. I needed to find a local dentist anyway.

Lastly, here is something G. insists is not a self-portrait. Coy smile and all-pink outfit? Riiight. I made the mistake of describing it to A. as wearing a pink tutu, a pink top and pink pants when G interjected: "A tutu and a shirt. No pants!" Never question an artist.

Up next: Tonight! Rex Ryan! Without a net! Cheers!

Beer and football VI — week nine

The game: Redskins at Patriots
The beer: Smuttynose Rhye India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 27–10
The commentary: I thought for awhile that announcers Kevin Burkhardt and John Lynch (sure, John, it was your decision to leave the Pats in 2008) were deliberately avoiding the name "Redskins." With so many awkward uses of just "Washington," a Burkhardt reference to them as "Washington football" and Lynch audibly cutting himself off at "Redsk" later on, it seemed an evident editorial decision. I have no problem with the effort because it is a despicable name, though I question their motivation since ignoring the problem (if Fox feels it is a problem) seems an odd way to solve it. Shouldn't one overemphasize and call attention to the name in order to force viewers to consider it themselves? Anyway, I eventually noticed several awkward uses of "New England" and "New England football" so I suspect the two are just lousy announcers. Shocker.

Speaking of lousy, how about this prescient jewel among an otherwise silly post from 2006? "I'm not PC thug, but it's about time to retire the name Redskins; the team's baseball hats have a cool R they could adopt as a new logo, and they could become something else that starts with R like the Rapscallions or the Republocrats." It was a poorly conceived exercise by a man nine years my junior but, lo, such mature civility shines through! My "Fuckers" analysis of the Broncos and a hot take on 1987's Predator as "a symbol of American triumph" also showed signs of future life. Em dashes and I have come a long way together—how did the ten-year anniversary pass without another visit from Charles Napier? Not the actor!

To football. Not the blowout everyone expected, which I'll chalk up to the game being a glorified (sloppy) practice session for Tom Brady and company. An onside kick ahead by a touchdown in the first quarter? Tighten it up! Two similar outs in a row to Brandon LaFell late in the game? Stay frosty! Jimmy Garoppolo entering the game without notice in the third quarter? Uh, let's not go nuts. Unfortunately for us it was full contact and Dion Lewis is done for the year. Shit. Vollmer banged up, Edelman getting knocked into apparent concussion protocol, Gronkowski slow to stand after a fourth-quarter reception and tackle… everyone deals with injuries and this is where relatively poor draft success might catch up to some teams. On top of that, my "Rhye IPA" exploded out of the bottle and it took several paper towels to clean up the mess. The smallest violin. Things are tough all over when you're undefeated halfway through the regular season.

The beer drama happened last night during the season three premier of Curb Your Enthusiasm (no spoilers!). I nursed an iced coffee during the game, which made it extra rewarding every time Pierre Garçon dropped a catchable ball/made an athletic first down and I shouted—to an empty house, with the girls out for fun—"Garçon, coffee!" Pretty smarrr-tah.

I watched on a slight delay while transferring files to our new laptop, for it was that kind of game. Overdue since our last (still kicking) is as old as Lynch's "retirement." The interesting phase is yet to happen: early in August I dropped my "shock-proof" external drive and ever since it emits unsettling grind-crunch noises and won't fully backup to the cloud. Some files, at least, are since corrupted—files like pictures and songs, for what else is there? Tonight I will begin downloading from said ether an archived version from Before Gravity and, at close to six hundred gigabytes, I figure on a week. Drag. Once that's complete I'll compare everything (mainly MP3s, I think) to After Gravity, see what newer files are missing and hope I have copies at work, where I download most of my music. Wish me luck. The post-millennial surely laughs at my predicament while listening to Spotify on his or her iPhone, decked out to look like a Sony Walkman because eighties. Revelation will come once their favorite bands delegitimize the current state of streaming as a business model and pull all content, leaving Brayden and Brianna to realize that "transferring files" is meaningless because they own nothing. Alas, kiddos, Steve Albini will always be right.

Up next: The Giants are all over the map again this season. Will our worst fears be realized on Sunday? In February? Cheers!

Beer and football VI — week eight

The game: Dolphins at Patriots
The beer: Ipswich Ruby Red India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 36–7; Kelly Ashley, 4–0–0–0
The commentary: Halloween is a big deal in our new hometown. Our previous home was closer to Boston but also closer to madness and the exponential suburban shift has resulted, somehow, in a community more plainly vibrant. As evidence I present October's "Arts & Illumination" weekend (see week seven), with floating bonfires and Tangled-esque candles on the river, live (good) music, face-painting, a shadow theater, ice cream (!) and general merriment. "Would you believe! It's a happ-ah-nee-ying-ying!" Well said, Magic Mushrooms! Fresh, cold Autumn air fueled us that Saturday as G. and one of her best friends led our exploration of new (to us) streets, finding interest around every corner. A wonderful (and late) night that only turned dangerous when we accepted a half-mile ride home in a car without an extra child safety seat. Know that I held on tight.

Overall it was a celebrated warm-up to Halloween itself, falling conveniently on another working-parent-friendly Saturday. (And, by god, the Saturday before featured a chowder-tasting contest!) Daytime trick-or-treating started downtown at noon, with local businesses handing out candy and competing in a "decorate a telephone pole" contest that leaned heavily on whimsy and Minions. Again: vibrant! And then—and then!—the local brewery (huzzah!) introduced its new "Ruby Red" IPA, which is decidedly yummy if dark brown rather than red. A. sampled their Pumpkin Porter, which I didn't even know existed, and it was difficult to tell them apart by appearance. First-world problem. Two four-ounce servings may be a flimsy qualifier for beer of the week but it's my goddamn blog.

Later on during proper trick-or-treating we technically went through seven bags of candy, though some of that can be accounted for by (likely) punk kids (likely) emptying the bowl since both of us wanted to accompany G. up and down our new street for part of the evening. And I thought we were crazy to buy that much in the first place. G. did well as a winged mermaid, acquiring accessories along the way in beaded necklaces and a headband bow that added a "flapper" descriptor to her multi-layered costume. She adores the headband, an alarmingly cheap mash of plastic, pins and rayon that A. wants to ditch. I hope we don't accidentally "lose" it like we have two Pete the Cat volumes. Have you read this reheated garbage?

Here's the shot I called on Thursday before the watching the Project Runway finale, in anticipation of the producers not veering toward political correctness: "Hooray for Kelly from Project Runway! It's easy to root for the local girl when she's likable on top of being a good designer. One last trip to the Basketball Hall of Fame for her and she can bust the hell out of Springfield as every resident should aspire. Never again tempt the suicide dash from the 291 offramp across 91 to the West Columbus Avenue exit. You're free now!"

You remain free, as I expect you'd do well whether or not you were robbed almost as badly as Mondo in season eight. Whatever amount A. and I "trust" a reality show, it's slipped a notch because the supposed (and, perhaps, genuine) importance of presenting a fashion show for plus-size women, no matter how banal, is more deserving of praise and reward than a truly cohesive and chic collection that put guilt-free smiles on everyone's faces. I hope the judges purged extra well after dinner.

Up next: The Patriots close out a three-game home stand tomorrow with a visit from the Washington Kikes Niggers Redskins. This is the twenty-first century. Cheers!

Beer and football VI — weeks four, five, six and seven

Week four (bye)
The beer: Oskar Blues Pinner Throwback India Pale Ale
The result: Raiders/Jarrod lose, 22–20
The commentary: Jay Cutler, of all people, has made me a better father. The Pats were off and my gambling hopes rested on, rested all over, the Silver and Black Attack. Or, precisely, rested against the Bears of Chicagoland. The undefeated Falcons tugged on my sleeve to ask "Are you sure?" and I answered "Of course! I'll save you dirty birds for a later date as I remain unconvinced of your significance." Were it more likely for the Bears to remain winless than for the Falcons to remain undefeated? And were it likely for the Raiders to ascend to 3–1 before correcting to an inevitable and representative 3–2 next week against the Broncos? I thought so on both counts. In the playground behind the elementary school—G. on her belly down the slide, G. spilling off the pint-sized suspension bridge—I wondered how to break it to A. that the fucking Bears (them again) just won on a last-second field goal. Forty-five dollars later the run to repeat is over and, as a result, I am able to be more present as a parent the next several Sundays. "I take care of my kids." You're supposed to!

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Week five
The game: Patriots at Cowboys
The beer: Newburyport Yeat! Extra Special Bitter
The result: Win, 30–6
The commentary: "'Yeat!' is a colloquial word used in Newburyport, Massachusetts at least before the Second World War (1939–1945), allegedly shouted from one naval ship to another to identify a resident of Newburyport." Sailors were just floating around the Mediterranean shouting "Yeat!" at one another? Looking for Bobby from Plum Island? How did we win this thing? "Also used to show both affirmation and disapproval." You clarify nothing and doom the Allied Powers.

Despite this, life Up North is certainly easy on the event calendar. After a trip to Portsmouth (and the Portsmouth Brewery, where yonder Pinner outshone the flagship offerings) last weekend to sell more CDs and cash in a used bookstore credit, this one found us attending the eighth annual (though our first, after 2014's week-too-late visit left me staring in horror at an outdated banner) Chili Cook-Off & Craft Beer Fest. The beer was an afterthought—decent offerings, but at two ounces a pop how can you really tell? I'm sure the Jack's Abby's "Fire in the Ham" bacon beer would have graduated from tolerable to disgusting halfway through a pint. The chili, though, was good all around, even if David's Tavern (my favorite) didn't place. Drag. At least our quarterback didn't break his collarbone. At least our quarterback isn't Tony Romo in the first place. And at least the Browns gave up on their forty-five-year-old first-round draft pick after two seasons.

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Week six
The game: Patriots at Colts
The beer: Stone Enjoy by 10/31/15 India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 34–27
The commentary: The Colts game started with Tom Brady running onto the field to a chorus of boos… and to channel 4's embarrassing Steve "Thee Crazy Eyes" Burton snapping pictures of him on his iPhone. This is the man who shoots dim, short-sighted daggers at my guys Mike Reiss and Paul Perillo whenever they have the nerve—the nerve!—to forecast single-touchdown victories for the hometown team at the end of Patriots All Access every Friday. (On a related note, my favorite part of Patriots Game Day each Sunday morning hits at prediction time when the "season records" of Scott "Murdering the Legacy of Edward R. Murrow on a Weekly Basis" Zolak, Levan "Ignorant and Spoiled Homer Representing an Ignorant and Spoiled Fanbase" and Dan "Seems Nice, but What Exactly Is His Role? Fantasy Bullshit?" Roche match whatever the Pats' record is so far. Strong critical analysis informs those picks, I'm sure.

As for the game: fuck yeah. The entire Colts organization and satellite media deserved a botched fake punt and can eat a bowl of dicks. (Yes, I still think Brady ordered the balls improperly deflated.)

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Week seven
The game: Jets at Patriots
The beer: Berkshire Russian Imperial Stout
The result: Win, 30–23
The commentary: Rebel IPA, Rebel IPA, Coke, Rebel IPA, Coke. This pattern served me well at the Beantown Pub on Tuesday and, subsequently, I did not miss my train and I did not sleep through my station. The 9:20 was the plan and the plan was realized. Were it a Thursday? Who knows, maybe I decide "Shots, you say? And so the 11:45 will do for me!" An outcome most foul! (Please pardon as I just finished The Turn of the Screw. I fear its parable is more classist than supernatural… and that its length could be halved.) And—oh!—an evening of stick-and-ball most certainly did provide for fine entertainment. That is to say, among my peers and friends and otherwise, said tournament upon the greenest felt, played fairly and leisurely though nonetheless competitively, produced much laughter amid a Black (Sabbath) and Pink (Floyd) cacophony. How the "Echoes" do echo!

My team of two, calling ourselves "It's in the Way That You Floozy," showed well against a series of strong players and progressed further than expected. The brains behind the bracket, though, realized too late that ten teams do not break down evenly round to round, so four (of which we were one) were made to compete in a play-in round after poor—nay, dreadful!—showings in a Halloween-themed word-search puzzle. Drag. Said opening round: win. Proper round one, against one of the better teams: win. I was playing as well as I had in years. Semi-final round, all the darker: scratch on the eight-ball! Lo, what hath bewitched my mastery o'er physics! O'er geometry! One ball away, and the opponents played defensively to tuck the cue behind their remaining stripe and leave me a shot I would not make in ten tries. Try I did, aye, and nearly succeeded on a four-banker toward the near right corner before excess force—physics!—and misjudged angle—geometry!—conspired to drive the Pale Orb into the side pocket. Drag. With a cry of "Motherfucker!" I set my stick on the table and accepted our fate, evermore, as spectators during a final, well played match. I would still pick against the Bears—and again—and I would still take that shot.

Up next: The Pats and Dolphins preempt Project Runway as the resolution of Edmond's contrived limbo is postponed, via DVR, until tomorrow. Happy Halloween!

Beer and football VI — week three

The game: Jaguars at Patriots
The beer: Samuel Smith Oatmeal Stout
The result: Win, 51–17; Seahawks win, 26–0
The commentary: Returning to my roots, I beckoned Samuel Smith from oversea adventure among the whores and skyscrapers of southeast Asia in order to lubricate a week-three, buy-back Seattle victory. Thank god those guys are checked off the list—only twenty-six points against the worst team in the league (seriously, I'm thinking of taking the Raiders this weekend in Chicago); in a must-win game; at home; for Kam Chancellor's return. That's what you could muster? Surely, Sam, you were my safety net as I neared the bottom. Surely, too, it's looking like the Packers, the Cardinals and then everyone else in the NFC.

After twenty of us—twenty!—were knocked out of the pool during week two and nine of us bought back in, eleven of the original twenty-five remain heading into week four. At this point last year only ten of nineteen remained so I'm feeling pretty good.

"I'm feeling pretty good."
Napoléon Bonaparte
June 24, 1812

For the most part I was successful in avoiding Patriot updates at G's friend's birthday party. It takes a special brand of… [undefined]… to schedule anything at one o'clock on a Sunday, especially in a year when we Pats fan (for I had to have been the only one in attendance, right?) didn't luck out with Sunday or Monday Night Football this time. (Indeed, children's parties are my future.) Unfortunately I did suspect a blowout when someone emerged from the house and declared "The Pats scored again," at which point I covered my ears and barked aggressively so as not to overhear more than that. Somehow I was the only one recording the game and planning to watch later with virgin eyes, whereas the rest were content to go inside here and there to see a few plays and report back. Patriots fans are the worst.

As for the game, the results speak for themselves. The most surprising thing was Sergio Brown eliciting this exchange after an admittedly strong pass breakup:

Kevin Harlan: "What a defensive play by Sergio Brown!"

Me: "Pardon?"

Bill Belichick: "Pardon?"

Here's my multiple-source summary of his career in New England, written after Gronk threw him out the club last year: "For two seasons I progressively referred to him as a disappointment who celebrated accidental success, made Patrick Chung look like a superstar and teamed up with Brandon Meriweather to form an ongoing nightmare." The pregame analysis declaring him the best player in the Jags' secondary foretold, clearly, the fifty-one goddamn points they eventually gave up.

The least surprising broadcast development was Rich "League MVP" Gannon complaining about Walt Coleman and the tuck rule. I could listen to Gannon complain about that call for a lifetime. This game's fumble/incompletion mix-up looked like a fumble to me, even as multi-million-dollar safety Devin McCourty jogged right by the ball without worry of falling on it. Just to be safe, you know. "I should've probably scooped up that fumble on the strip sack, and Bill let me know." Easily the most overpaid, overrated guy on the team. I do love his "Free Safety Advice" bit though. "Smart decision with the hat to block the sun. Keeps the sun away." I wonder if there's a "Free Free Safety Advice" video for him to watch.

Up next: You really couldn't wait until the bye week to rent a bouncy house, huh? Cheers!

Beer and football VI — week two

The game: Patriots at Bills
The beer: Ipswich Route 101 India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 40–32; Saints lose, 26–19
The commentary: "You guys mind if I run back inside for the last minute of the game?" With my mom visiting we retired to the back yard, the Pats seemingly in control with eight minutes remaining and an eighteen-point lead. But then the noises—"Gah!" "Noooo!" "Fuuuuuuck!"—were heard from neighboring homes. What's their problem? Did they pick the Dolphins or something? Might as well check my phone to see if the Pats game is over yet. "Gah!" Five minutes left and the Bills down by five? Refresh! Refresh! I could barely stand it at the two-minute warning and eventually begged off, leaving A. and my mom to watch G. hop around the yard and climb all over her new jungle gym (which was not assembled in time for her birthday party because, I don't know, weeds).

Minutes earlier A. and I were mourning the Saints' loss and my resulting exit from this year's knockout pool. "Well," I told her, "if only one of my teams could win today I'm glad it was the Pats." Next thing I know I'm muttering to myself on my way up the steps, wondering how it's possible for both teams to lose. TV: on. Sole hope was for Tyrod Taylor to continue exposing himself as not the bearded droid—now winning games in Jersey—Bills fans are looking for. And… wait for it… interception! Rex Ryan's hubris can have a strong influence on the weak-minded.

And the Saints? The Saints! Apparently they suck this year, as they did last year despite my lucky week-three victory before the hopelessness set in. On Sunday they took down ten of us. Ten! Ten! Others went out on the Seahawks in Green Bay, the Ravens in Oakland, the Titans in Cleveland and the fucking Dolphins in Jacksonville. All away teams, you say? The first two I can understand, as it's hard to believe both the Seahawks and the Ravens are winless. Still too risky this early. And the Titans? Who impressed the world by beating the (mostly) godforsaken Bucs last week? They're worth a pick? No. But hats off to the guy who trusted the barely-beat-the-Redskins Dolphins. Come on, man. Just admit you can't smell what the Rock is cooking.

The Saints, though, were This Week's No-Brainer against the lowly, Titans-fearing Bucs. One hundred percent of "experts," as collated by the helpful NFL Pick Watch, confirmed my decision and favored the Saints. I figured I'd move on to week three with, say, nine other people who were fine to play it safe like Swapnil in Project Runway. (Listen, Swapnil, I've liked your stuff so far but if you don't win one of the next four challenges you're going home after Laurie, Merline, Lindsey and Lindsey's ironic granny glasses. God, I hate her.) It's hard to be angry over a fluke result. Drag. However, with only two people (two!) moving on to week three unscathed (Bruno is officially out, wishing he'd saved his ridiculous Bucs pick for Sunday), I figure now's as good a time as any to throw twenty-five more units on the fire and keep things rolling lest my superior tracking spreadsheet go to waste. I have A's permission and I'd already sketched out the next three weeks anyway. Hubris indeed.

Up next: Oh good, someone scheduled a kid's birthday party on Sunday afternoon. Cheers!

Beer and football VI: You know, he shaves his eyebrows

Week one
The game: Steelers at Patriots
The beer: Samuel Adams Brick Red Ale
The result: Win, 28–21; Dolphins win, 17–10
The commentary: Where were you when Tom Brady's suspension was overturned? I was working from home so diligently that four hours went by before I broke for a late lunch and skimmed headlines on my phone. Oh, Roger. Already with the appeal. That was the best goddamn peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich I've ever had.

Thursday evening was spent at the Beantown Pub, where so many nights have turned ugly over the years. This was no different as I slept through my train station after midnight. Oops! We got out of work early to participate in some Amazing Race action—for the second straight year—and got soaked in the rain—for the second straight year. This time I remembered an extra pair of socks. Normally I would have ditched early to be able to concentrate on the game at home but I thought it would be cool to watch in a bar for the first time since the Misfits invaded New Hampshire. The outcome was much better this time, even if I had to leave before it was over and didn't actually catch up (all the way through again, since much of the pub time was spent asking if I was stripes or solids) until Sunday. What is there to say? Brady, Gronk, Edelman, Dion Lewis, even Amendola. Throw LaFell back in there in a few weeks and we're scoring thirty-five a game. But the defense? The defense! We might give up thirty-two. I'll leave the complaining for another week as this is one of celebration.

Celebration, yes, for the Dolphins defeated the Redskins in inglorious fashion. What is this, December? You're supposed to own September, fishies! It was a risk to rely on them in mark three of the knockout pool and I'm glad to never again be tempted. Twenty-five of us are competing this year and six others went along with me so I hope my practice of picking against losers doesn't catch on. Fucking Bruno, though. Bruno! He got knocked out last year in week one by trusting the Buccaneers and then ran some numbers, swallowed a shitload of pills and picked them again this year. Knocked out! This was my competition over the final four weeks? Good lord, you know he's going to buy back and take Cleveland or something this weekend. And probably skate by. Anyway, the no-brainer pick last week was the Packers over the Bears and three morons decided to blow those loads. Congratulations, you'll have to pick the Dolphins at some point if you go anywhere. Two more lost on the Seahawks and probably haven't bought back so we're down to me and twenty-two other stiffs. It's painful that four people should have gone out on the Cowboys—I will never, ever choose that team. At least two more are probably out after Chief–Broncos the other night. It feels like one of those games where people would have taken either team (rumors of Peyton's death may be exaggerated), but I can't know for sure because our administrator won't email with everyone's picks until after the weekend. That's a little shady, right?

In other household news (because the above action is riding on twenty of our household's units), G. has begun her second year of preschool. It's a new school in our new town and she has new (pink, stuffed) doggie Pickles to keep her company. "I'm nervous," she told me as we left the house. I was a shy kid too. Still, she put on a brave face and danced around the driveway like there were more ponies in the yard. It gets easier, baby.

Up next: Welcome to Super Bowl 50 in beautiful Orchard Park, New York. Cheers!

Beer and football VI — training camp/the all-important third preseason game

The beer: Samuel Adams Rebel India Pale Ale/Dogfish Head Indian Brown Ale
The commentary: Welcome back! Is your favorite team the reigning Super Bowl Champion? Is your favorite team-oriented podcast making "Highway to L" jokes? Has your daughter not yet outgrown her team apparel from two years ago?

I'll keep this short with kickoff a week away. Training camp was all sunshine again as my dad met G. and me in the shadow of the Dana-Farber Empower Field House. To celebrate the Pats' fourth title, I will limit each photo caption to four words.

Imminent Super Bowl letdown?

Forget that, let's roll!

Again! Again! Again! Again!

Let me get that.

Is Joe Flacco elite?

Neat flowers. I'm hungry.

Dessert? Tuck in, then!

I impress even myself.

The practice session was tough to make out from afar, though my dad and I agreed that Gronk looks enormous from any distance, like he's fifty feet closer than anyone else. One drill seemed to focus on blocking field goals, to the point where either Gostkowski was deliberately kicking them low or Jabaal Sheard's blocker was deliberately letting him through the line. He looked like Lawrence Taylor out there. Hey, I'm just impressed my dad recognized who it was before I did. Who's the reader-less blogger in this family?

The above dessert was enjoyed at Gillette Stadium's Red Robin. I always thought it was a take-out burger joint but it also doubles as the only affordable restaurant within the Kraft Kompound (last year's Olive Garden and its authentic, straight-from-Palermo cuisine was a tad overpriced). To my surprise they had a decent beer selection (the Rebel IPA is nice), red balloons that hold their helium for days and weekend dads at the next table who put their phones down long enough to order a Whales Tale and then revert to Coors Light when the waitress says they've run out. The pro shop set me back a few bucks once G. spotted new family member "Huggle Buggle Bear," a hot pink bear in a Pats shirt that has already been stripped off. It was inevitable. I'm still looking for the simple "XXXVI XXXVIII XXXIX XLIX" shirt the waitress was wearing. Drag. Hey, speaking of shirts, PFW in Progress is jerking us around by claiming to choose from submitted designs for a shirt of their own. Here's my entry, followed soon by one that reads "Hey Fred, how's that bullshit shirt contest coming along?"

I impress even myself. I remember nothing of the all-important third preseason game. Do I ever? I am, however, fully aware that I have a four-year-old daughter and we rented ponies for her backyard birthday party. "That's a high bar," I told our friends who also have a four-year-old daughter.

Honest-to-god ponies! The novelty of a proper backyard at our new house, as opposed to our previous strips of lawn that were significant enough only to mow, may never wear off.

Bow and hat? Indeed!

Was it worth it?

Yes. (But never again.)

Up next: Tom Fucking Brady. Cheers!

Beer and football V — playoffs, week fiveSuper Bowl XLIXPart 2: You say there was a game?

The game: Patriots vs. Seahawks
The beer: (See part 1)
The result: Win, 28–24
The commentary: Specific memories of the play-by-play have fogged over but I can't exactly have a "part 1" without a "part 2" and maintain my dignity. Who am I, Remo Williams? Fingers crossed that my T-shirt design is chosen by PFW in Progress and I win a copy of the season's Three Games to Glory on Blu-ray. A fine refresher! Then I'll just have to buy a Blu-ray player, as an already-earned, shrink-wrapped, dusty copy of Help! awaits as well. "There's more here than meets the eye!" Except when there isn't. Here are some shitty Shaughnessy-esque bullet points regarding the greatest Super Bowl of all time.

It should have been roughing the kicker on Allen's punt after the Pats' first drive. Even Jon Spencer couldn't believe it. "Plant leg, babeh!" The good guys got away with something later on that I can't remember so it probably evens out. At the time though: "This shit?"

Vereen averaged fewer than six yards per catch and each of those plays possessed the excitement of a six-yard play. Important first downs, though I don't think he broke a single tackle—lots of scrubs throughout the league could have been as productive in that role, which can be said for most of his tenure here. Amendola is one of those scrubs and looked like a dynamic all-pro in comparison. (This is not homer-ism because I felt the same way before Vereen signed with the Giants. They can have Amendola too if they want.)

Al Michaels still doesn't know how to pronounce "Hooman." He must have the over.

Brady's pick in the end zone might have been the second-greatest contribution to the win. It sucked, but I was pleased with how he was moving the ball. Meanwhile, Lane's arm looked like was wrapped in a golf bag afterward.

"Are you hyped for halftime??" I skipped it live but did watch the second time around. Katy Perry justifies my standing as a twenty-plus-year popular-music divorcé. Anyone older than ten who genuinely or ironically enjoys her spectacle should, plainly, drop dead. Please note that I have seen Kiss in concert six times and will jump at the next opportunity.

It was likely part of the defensive scheme to contain Wilson but the Pats' pass rush was nonexistent in this game. It's been so frustrating to track the degradation since McGinest and Vrabel were killing it every week. Unless Chandler Jones makes a huge leap (which he would have by now if it were going to happen) or Jamie Collins evolves into an unstoppable X factor (don't rule it out) I will be terrified during every opposing pass play, especially in a year when we play the fucking Giants. (On that note, it's confusing why I'm the only person who thought Belichick's number one target in the post-Revis draft should have been a cornerback. Even if he had reached for Darryl Richard in the first round instead of the seventh I would feel a little better. Only since then has everyone recognized how bad this secondary has the potential to be. I know nothing about football.)

Remarkable what knowing the outcome does to a promising drive that ends in a turnover: "Fuck it."

LaFell's touchdown was fun all over. Perfect route, perfect throw, perfect celebration boogie.

That Dove for Men commercial was the biggest waste of all I hold dear as a father. The kid on the monkey bars nearly brought me to tears and it was just pitching deodorant?

Party-goers who don't watch for the game were also treated to The Rise and Fall of Men Who Buy Nissans in its entirety. "Son (Age 5)" is a shoe-in for best supporting. Good day for child actors!

Slight detour to the non-blogged draft: Shall we ponder ESPN's use of "Superfly" as a theme song during their coverage? "The aim of his role was to move a lot of blow." Hold on, I get it. I remember Boys Will Be Boys.

Plus a Deflategate sidestep: The fallout from what is likely a league-approved conspiracy will get worse before it gets better. Cockroaches dream of Goodell's resilience and any—any—outcome of this "independent appeal" of an "independent ruling" based on an "independent investigation" is possible. Hangings. Bowling tournaments. A full Misfits reunion. I still think Brady was in on it.

Back to it. Mark Wahlberg, Will Ferrell, Steven Tyler and Paul McCartney in attendance. I wonder if the last three are also trying to wipe clean their hate-crime convictions.

"Nice pass breakup by Logan Ryan to force a three-and-out," said no one ever.

I basically put my phone down during the closing minutes because a game that's been in the books for four months is still tough to watch. Uptight! Here is the shorthand: "Not again!" "Malcolm, go!" "Encroachment!" And then…


Indeed. Your New England Patriots are world champions.

Up next: We're on to 2015. G's jumper should still fit. Cheers!