Beer and football VI — playoffs, week one (bye)

The beer: Ipswich Route 1A Double India Pale Ale
The commentary: And, lo, on the fourth day of the fourteen billionth (or so) year, the Mercury Brewing Company opened (soft-opened) its Brewer's Table pub and restaurant, and it was good.

Well, decent. Still some kinks to work out like the lack of a children's menu, any vegetarian options other than salad (not that I mind) and, seemingly, a reliable hostess. My burger was pretty good but A's salmon was barely cooked and lactose-intolerant G's giant meatball (who needs a kids menu?) came smothered in mozzarella cheese despite our request. I also suspect the "pints" total twelve ounces, much like at Nebo near my office. Otherwise? You're goddamn right we're excited to have a proper fucking brewpub a ten-minute walk from our toilet. I've an upcoming day off and will absolutely stop in for a bit to check out the bar scene, which was pretty lively during our Friday-night visit. I should bring along a measuring cup to suss out those pours.

How did you spend your playoff bye week? You say your team doesn't account for this every January? Shame. Bengals–Steelers was everything we wanted and more. What I would give to have the Steelers (whose offense I respect) limp into Foxborough for the AFC Championship after another slobberknocker against the Broncos next week. Seahawks–Vikings was odd too, with a kicker regressing from probable game MVP to goat (not GOAT) after that laces-in affair. And who knows what to make of the Seahawks and the Packers? I guess more teams should run the be-present-during-an-offensive-collapse defense. Surely, this flawless strategy offers no countermove, rendering the tournament a formality. Too bad there are only a handful of MVP-worthy quarterbacks in their way.

Up next: No more Pink Floyd talk, alright? Cheers!

Beer and football VI — weeks sixteen and seventeen

Week sixteen
The game: Patriots at Jets
The beer: Berkshire Cabin Fever Ale
The result: Loss, 26–20
The commentary: Shades of Nausea! The Jets game was disjointed in that G. and I suffered through the ugly first half at home, then ran off to the local toy store and café before I was to meet Hector, Ivan and Ivan's brother Oleg at the Common Ground in lovely Allston ahead of their appalling Mighty Mighty Bosstones concert a few hours later. Their concert. "CG" was the place at one point and we were there every Friday. And then? And then! While we got old, moved to the suburbs and had kids, CG was assaulted by automobile-shaped projectiles (we used to sit behind that window) and rebuilt itself as a Eurotrash haven for people who prefer their bar tops slightly too tall for their stools. I wrote of this… progress… during my "abbreviated" playlist back in May after pounding a couple of beers before a Blues Explosion show. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Raining, listening on the radio, concert plans later that evening. And defeat. The parallels with that Bengals/Misfits Sunday were carved in stone ages ago. From the café I dropped A. and G. at home right as Scott Zolak was stepping all over Bob Socci's call of Gronk's game-tying touchdown—along the lines of "Touchd–" "NNNHHHHH!11!!1"—and was excited to hear a likely overtime on my way south. As I passed the first of two strip clubs (plus a Hooters) that mark our daily commute, heads was the call and heads was the result. Driving to endanger for a second or two I literally made the "receive" gesture with both hands and anticipated discussing a hard-fought victory with the boys. Ladies and gentlemen, Tom Brady! However.

Belichick had other ideas. Ideas that relied more upon Logan Ryan and Jordan Richards than Brady and Gronk. (Ideas that Zolak blindly defended as soon as the decision was announced. Literally "I love this call," if I remember right, followed by several slurred consonants. I've come around on him as an astute analyst when he wants to be, which unfortunately isn't very often. How many broadcasters shout themselves hoarse before a game is half over? So yeah, aside from making Socci's job harder, punctuating every other play with guttural discharges, pouting when the Pats play poorly, openly whining when the opponent is getting the calls and offering no criticism whatsoever of the countless strategic decisions that Belichick makes over the coarse of a football season? He's quite good.) All season I've been reading about how strong this defense is, that nothing is lacking with the departures of Revis and Browner. On paper it might be true. This was their chance to prove it, to earn the team home-field advantage throughout the playoffs, and they failed without giving their once-in-a-lifetime quarterback the ball. Is this what we ride into the postseason? Is this familiar? Drag.

If only it were always as easy and free to park in Allston as it is during a college-break Sunday. After a quick pitcher at CG we crossed over to the Sunset Grill & Tap, where there is such a thing as too many options. Particularly when your table isn't very large. What is it with bar furniture around there? We shot the shit for a couple of hours, openly wondered what the hell was going on with the Packers and made grand plans to attend this year's New England Brewfest. Oleg might even fly in from Oregon, where beer and beer-drinkers are scarce. Grand plans hatched over heavy beer always work out, right? They asked if I was "still writing that nonsense" (paraphrased) and so I've added yonder subscribe-by-email field for their benefit. Who even reads blogs anymore? Who ever read mine?

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Week seventeen
The game: Patriots at Dolphins
The beer: Jack's Abby Lashes Red Lager
The result: Loss, 20–10
The commentary: A. and I were looong asleep on the couch by the time January 1 rolled around so it's a good thing we brought G. to Beverly's "family ball drop" at seven o'clock New Year's Eve to celebrate. Upon that countdown's conclusion, hundreds (thousands?) of beach balls were tossed out of the third floor of a downtown bank. Pictured, the look on my face reads "There is no way they have enough for all these kids." But they did! Oh, the power of branding.

"Please keep Ndamukong Suh away from Brady's and Gronkowski's knees." I am not paranoid. This game was strange all over—Brady playing (mostly) throughout indicates the Pats were taking it seriously and trying to win… with a vanilla game plan and, toward the end, a headset-less head coach that betrayed what might actually have been a "Let's get out of here" lack of effort. Did they lose because they played poorly or because they didn't care? I'm sure Belichick will let us know.

Our quarterback is limping. Ho-hum, nothing to fear. Erm…

The Jack's Abby was labeled an "IPL." India pale lager? I don't even know what that is. If only there were websites dedicated to people letting you know that your favorite beer sucks. I enjoyed it despite the flames and will stick with a "red lager" designation since IPL could stand for Ministry's upcoming Industrial Penile Laundromutt boxed set for all I know. Looking good, Al.

Up next: An interesting hometown development highlights the bye week. There will be beer. Happy new year!

Beer and football VI — week fifteen

The game: Titans at Patriots
The beer: Josephsbrau Winter Brew Dark Double Bock Lager
The result: Win, 33–16
The commentary: No clickbait this week! I'm still waiting to see the Akiem Hicks touchdown anyway, since the L-team behind Eye-Anne Eagle and Dan "You Might Learn the Rules, Dan, Since You Used to Play the Position" Fouts (he earned the nickname after questioning a non-call for grounding against a clearly outside-the-tackle Brady) were busy showing us the ball-less half of the field. CBS must have poached a Fox cameraman since that network has never captured the first snap coming out of commercial. You have one job! Regardless, by 24–3 I was tweaking my Survivor analysis from Sunday. Tasha deserved better.

The bock was a pleasant surprise. Five bucks for a six-pack at namesake Trader Joe's. Boatswain (I lied), Josephbrau, Trader José… they hold up alright on Beer Advocate. And who is harder to please than a group of half-drunk commenters who submit reviews to Beer Advocate? We're all better for the precision of two decimal places when rating something from one to five.

Their wine though? Trader Jérôme's? A five-dollar bottle will get you to the destination but not taste very good along the way. That's just science. But if you pay, say, twelve, and apply the Trader-Joe's-to-real-world currency conversion rate of 1.00:1.25, you feel pretty good about a "fifteen-dollar" cabernet, right? Especially after trying and liking a sample in the store? Until one of three things happens before you open the bottle later that evening and your wife makes a face after her first sip:

1. The wine paired well with the cheese you also sampled, to the point that it was overwhelmed. Smothered, even. Disguised.

2. Up until the tasting, the bottle you took home was stored for months under a mound of spoiled teriyaki tofu and then wiped down with raspberry sorbet and potato pancakes.

3. The motherfuckers pulled a bait-and-switch, shunning a contract forged over the years by people who offer free sips of wine out of little medicine cups. A. thinks I might have something here.

Fifty-seven degrees in Boston today? Must be Christmas!

1. Freeways – Another Holiday
Boston reverb from the first Polk Records holiday compilation and available here for free. We wish you a shoegaze Christmas.

2. Solomon Burke – A Christmas Prayer
I'm a big fan of these spoken-word pieces, more the impassioned telling than any message. "Demonistic drugs!" Solomon Burke, Johnny Cash and Rudy Ray Moore are a kind of holy trinity in some universe.

3. Tia Blake & Her Folk-Group – Children, Go Where I Send Thee
Also known as "The Holy Babe," this has become a favorite carol of mine. John Fahey played us his "barely recognizable" interpretation back in 2012. Again with the links.

4. Can – Little Star of Bethlehem
An outtake of an outtake, recorded (with Malcolm Mooney) in 1969 and compiled on the "unofficial" Radio Waves. "Correction: going up!"

5. Charles Bradley – Mary's Baby
A cuckolded Joseph proclaims "I'm standing right here!"

Up next: A Patriots win ensures home-field advantage throughout the playoffs. A Jets win increases the chances of the moderately frightening Steelers missing out. Hmmm. Merry Christmas!

Beer and football VI — week fourteen

The game: Patriots at Texans
The beer: Clown Shoes Coffee Pecan Pie Porter
The result: Win, 27–6; Jeremy, 10–0–0
The commentary: Leave it to fantasy origin stories involving turkeys to reclaim first place in the AFC. These past few weeks have become awfully meta around here: repeated self-referential links to a year-old post about the ineptitude of an eventual champion and the compiling of a monstrous space-rock concert are in. The timeline so far…

2014, week four – The Patriots lose to the Chiefs on Monday Night Football, digging their own graves (I did not handle it well, "suffering from night terrors about special teamer Matthew Slater being the Patriots' MVP for the second week in a row") while somehow showing life toward the end. Postgame Belichick talks of the respect he has for his players. Mike Felger and Tony Massarotti commence simultaneous six-day orgasms.

2014, week five – Apparently I've already moved on to understanding that the Patriots, realistically, do not suck. "For at least a week." I seem more concerned about the previous year's loss to the Bengals as it related to a Misfits concert in New Hampshire. More linkhole fodder.

2014, week nine – If I may say so, a marvelous couple of paragraphs about the state of the Patriots, their fanbase and the Boston media. I believe in this team again after the Denver game, which I didn't expect them to win either.

2014, week twelve – "Monday night, I couldn't remember ever seeing a losing team kneel on the ball to end a game. That's what this season is becoming around here."

2014, week thirteen – The last real loss (sorry, Bills) until week twelve this year.

2014/2015 playoffs, week two – The beginning of a thirteen-game winning streak peaking in February but not celebrated until June.

2015, week eleven – This success is getting dull. Let's fuck it up with more Pink Floyd talk.

2015, week twelve – Curse you, Pink Floyd!

2015, week thirteen – Curse you, Founders!

Now today. My reader (!) surely appreciates how this blog circles back upon itself. In all the madness over certain England-based psychedelic bands and/or Michigan-based craft brewers, should I instead have looked closer to home—up the street, in fact—toward a certain New England-based craft brewer that had been waving its arms the entire time? The beer during my woe-is-us nadir: Clown Shoes Pecan Pie Porter. The beer sitting in my fridge for three weeks or so, awaiting an eligibility decision on versioning until precedent was cited (here/here): Clown Shoes Coffee Pecan Pie Porter. Coffee… wake up! I'm here! And all is well again, as Denver, Cincinnati and Houston conspire to transition the Patriots from "Will this team even make the playoffs?" to "Had 'em all the way!" Felger and Massarotti weep. For at least a week.

This season's knock-out pool has come to a merciful end. Since losing in week four (what is it with week four?), I decided against buying back in and, continuing to play offline, "won" nine in a row until "losing" with Denver on Sunday. If I had bought back in there's a good chance I would have repeated, since both remaining players stalemated with losses last week. I'm not too down on myself since I don't know that I would have been bold enough to actually pick the Giants in week five after parting with another thirty units. C'est la goddamn vie.

Tuesday, as teased last week, saw the release of part five of InterContinental VaGina highlights. Not much to discuss because I was sufficiently responsible (four—five?—beers, 9:20 train, no after-party), though as I stood eating shrimp the dripping cocktail sauce that would have fallen straight to the floor a few years ago instead grazed my expanding midsection. Drag. Day-after gossip revealed that I didn't miss anyone, like, getting tossed out of a bar for pouring his own beer. There's always next year.

Survivor! I've had my issues with the city of Cambridge and its residents (however varied) but I was rooting for Jeremy and I'm glad he won. Normally my inner cynic would revolt against what might appear to be a sympathy grab of a closing statement but, as with his (few) other displays of emotion, he was hollering—almost fugue-like—from far below the surface. That thousand-yard stare as Jeff retreated with the votes (unfortunately not toward a winged, ultraviolet mastodon)? It was the stunned realization that he may have done this for nothing. Or else a fine imitation. I believed him.

Tasha was charming and likable but never stood a chance. Much of her intrigue involved the physical wonders of her breasts growing larger while she lost weight everywhere else. Her bikini top also seemed to go through the dryer on high every week. Amazing. On a related note, I once had an in-depth discussion over a few dozen beers (the O'Neill's session) about breast reduction and how the "tissue," like matter, should transfer elsewhere rather than cease to be. (This man—whose company I did enjoy, as will happen when the waitress proclaims "Fucking awesome!" in response to our heavy appetizer order—turned out to be the type who contributes to rising gun sales after mass shootings and is afraid de gubment gone tek way 'is righth! We are no longer friends. I'm unsure if he is yet to single-handedly bring down a shooter and become the hero all gun advocates aspire to be.)

And Spencer, poor Spencer. He competed well strategically and in challenges, appeared to achieve genuine personal growth and received zero winning votes. I'm pleased that Cass apparently grew disgusted with her own behavior while watching the season and came crawling back with "Get a beer after?" His noncommital was marvelous. Anyway, yeah, he couldn't touch Jeremy's soulful birth announcement. I'd like to see him back another season if only I didn't despise when the show rehashes contestants (Rupert!) more than once. These are the problems I create for myself.

Up next: Tenneseein' is Tennebelievin' the Titans can't possibly lose by fifty-nine points again, right? Cheers!

Beer and football VI — week thirteen

The game: Eagles at Patriots
The beer: Founders Breakfast Stout
The result: Loss, 35–28
The commentary: This is where the heaviness sets in. Perhaps my "Before Floyd"/"After Floyd" theory was too broad. Is it, in fact, a Founders Curse? First the All-Day IPA and now the Breakfast Stout: can it be so simple? Or should I recognize the possibility that what I drink after a game is over (recorded and saved for primetime) has no effect on its already determined outcome? I don't know, maybe it's bad coaching again. My man Fred Kirsch from PFW in Progress likened the odd on-side/mortar kick-off to Ernst Stavro Blofeld explaining to James Bond how he will eventually be killed by this laser beam or that school of piranha. You've got the Eagles where you want them—down two touchdowns early—and most of them have checked out mentally. Why provide an opportunity for some to run out of patience for losing? "Fuck this asshole for practicing trick plays on us. Shit, we can still make the playoffs, right? Let's go! Then all back to the Electric Factory tomorrow night!" These against-all-odds comebacks only come around so often and you can't be expected to win every time. The Pats let one slip against the Broncos but they would have gotten away with something had they won on Sunday—might have felt almost unclean. Strange way to manage a dominant team, despite the injuries. The world's smallest violin…

It's the second week of December and that brings Big Doings. The (fake) Christmas tree was erected… and took up the full floor-to-ceiling height in the living room of our new house. I guess we'll be shopping for a new, shorter, priced-to-move (and equally fake) tree on December 26. Work also had its Second Annual Corporate Subdivisional Acronym Holiday Gathering in Boston's Ladder District (née Combat Zone) on Thursday. This time I got in two free beers and some decent room-temperature appetizers before the Corporate Subdivisional Acronym Tab was closed out. It remains stunning when an open bar becomes a cash bar without notice. Talk of ditching for the Beantown Pub (not only a better spot but also closer to the train station) gave me new life as, inexplicably, some co-op student majoring in Disposable Hipness hooked in her iPhone to undoubtedly stream The Very Best of Millennial Bullshit Non-Music Designed to Turn You Into What You Once Rebelled Against, With the "In My Day" This and the "Blue Cheer" That and dribbled the life out of me one programmed Swedish bleat at a time. Follow me! I spent maybe half an hour there, drinking Coke and never removing my jacket so as not to be tempted to wonder if "Maybe the 11:45 isn't so bad after all." I almost pissed myself during the hurried walk to catch the 9:20 but it was worth it.

And this week? And this week! It's all back to the InterContinental VaGina for another Full-Firm Alphabet Soup Takeover Featuring Shrimp and Architecturally Brilliant Dessert Offerings. (Full-Firm Takeover now playing in back-alley theaters across the country.) I remain exceptionally proud of that CUNT CONT photo. Also to come is my sixth (short) holiday playlist, consisting of MP3 files that I own. Oh, twenty-somethings.

Up next: The football gods conspire to break JJ Watt's hand before the Texans host the Patriots. The queue to rail against injustice forms in the comments section of Pro Football Talk. Cheers!

Beer and football VI — week twelve

The game: Patriots at Broncos
The beer: Founders All-Day India Pale Ale
The result: Loss, 30–24
The commentary: In comparing and contrasting Vince Wilfork and Logan Mankins, beyond the obvious black/white and offensive line/defensive line, one result is obvious: Wilfork's career with the Pats was bookended by Super Bowl victories (2004 to 2014) while Mankins's spanned the full trophy-less period in between (2005 to 2013). Fascinating! "Before Vince" defines a period of success that was not yet over; "Before Logan," a period of success that, though unknown at the time, had already terminated. "After Vince" is a period of renewed success, to which he contributed, with hope for more; "After Logan," this team hadn't won a Super Bowl in nine years.

Similarly, two distinct whens may have emerged in the Biff/Bang/Pow sector of yonder World Wide Web. "Before Floyd" raised a white flag where "three hours of entropy in Kansas City" marked the end of a run of sustained dominance—since 2001—that had not always been measured in championships. Darkness overwhelmed as gradual worsening seemed inevitable. Until it reversed. Another trophy and ten straight regular-season victories later, I decided to revisit the moment of panic and alter not only a silly playlist but also, perhaps, fate itself. Are we now rutted in "After Floyd"? Is the team doomed to futility until, say, Wilfork signs a one-day contract to retire a Patriot? Will fans forever debate the merits of "The Embryo"? What have I done?

No matter. You (!) haven't even listened to the whole thing anyway.

Oh, undefeated season. Your kind is certainly hard to grasp, though did I ever really believe in its possibility after the unpleasantness? Twelve wins is commendable and fourteen is attainable but who gives a shit once the final win comes in February. That remains the goal.

Sunday night, in which Brock Osweiler reminded everyone of the Brady/Bledsoe debate and Gronk scared the living shit out of a fanbase that immediately jumped to "Why can't Belichick surround Brady with more talent?!" panic (they have a point, this time), the game really was remarkable in that it took a hostile environment, injuries, bad officiating (on both sides) and overtime for the Broncos to win. I have to hand it to Brady (and Gostkowski) for coming back in regulation but also to Osweiler for not throwing up on himself. It will be interesting to see how everything plays out at five thousand feet over the next ten months. (Said altitude had to be what caused Collinsworth to pronounce "breadbasket" as "bread-bahh-sket" when Tavon Wilson slammed Osweiler to the turf. You can only suppress your Dayton Brahmin heritage for so long there, Chris.)

The "All Day IPA," which I edit to a hyphenated "All-Day IPA" because it is a compound goddamn adjective, was perfect for an extended Thanksgiving weekend with the in-laws. Session beer is a must when presented with ten hours of football and puzzling halftime performances. (It also prevents a morning-after hangover from snapping at your hosts when your four-year-old daughter is allowed to wander into a living room where Fox News is showing the fallout of another mass shooting and declaring that all is well.) I had a weird discussion with A. last night after Coldplay was announced as this season's Super Bowl act. Who cares? Who tunes in just for the halftime show? "My mom and I always did." Really? I haven't missed a Super Bowl since XVII in 1983 (Redskins–Dolphins, family room floor, Chinese food) and I remember two halftime shows from before February (Katy Perry, and just see if I remember her a year from now): U2 during XXXVI (Hector's house, Ivan's infant daughter in my arms) and the Wardrobe Malfunction during XXXVIII (first night in our barely furnished Cambridge apartment, pizza, Steve). Two Patriots games. Two situations in which I was compelled to watch. Likely, the two most high-profile performances in decades, what with the 9/11 tribute and the nipple. Those first two are the reasons I saw them at all and the last is why I remember them still. But what others? Since U2 and prior to Katy Perry, the good guys have appeared in four others, and I can't name or place a wrinkled rock band, lip-syncing R&B superstar or jingoistic country hack. And yet there are people out there, maybe even people I've married, who can. I know nothing about—or around—football.

Oh, and that bit last week about McCourty and Harmon "perfecting the bad angle" and "whenever we do lose it will surely be their fault"? Local knower of things Mike Reiss offered some rare pointed criticism along those lines in a piece titled "Tackling in Patriots' secondary a top issue to address from loss": "safeties struggled to tackle and shed blocks"; "Harmon having a chance to bring Anderson down at the 30 and failing to do so because of poor technique"; "McCourty missed a tackle in the backfield"; "Harmon bounced off Anderson while attempting a touchdown-saving tackle"; "Harmon's poor angle on Ronnie Hillman's 19-yard touchdown run in the second quarter"; "McCourty taking heat from former teammate Talib about all those live kittens he once ate on a dare." I left out the deserved scrutiny of Butler, Ryan and Chung (who usually plays more like a linebacker) to focus on those who are specifically on the field to defend against the big play. It's a wonder how much Pro Bowl talk McCourty gets during national broadcasts from people who don't have to watch him every week.

Up next: It's either "We got a lot, a lot of culture" or "I ain't no goddamn son of a bitch." Cheers!

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!