Beer and football VII — week nine (bye)

The beer: Clown Shoes Third-Party Candidate India Pale Lager
The result: Chiefs win, 19–14; Trump wins, 304–227
The commentary: This is my two hundredth post. I am close to dropping an overdue essay regarding the importance of Trout Mask Replica (currently entitled "Tight also"), having reserved its epic for a weighty round number, but it can wait.

Earlier this week, the country I call home elected as its next president a man who colored recent history with the following on-the-record remarks:

"An 'extremely credible source' has called my office and told me that Barack Obama's birth certificate is a fraud."

"[John McCain] is not a war hero. He's a war hero because he was captured? I like people who weren't captured."

"I am being proven right about massive vaccinations. The doctors lied. Save our children and their future."

"NBC News just called it 'the Great Freeze,' coldest weather in years. Is our country still spending money on the global warming hoax?”

"It's freezing and snowing in New York—we need global warming!"

"If Hillary Clinton can't satisfy her husband, what makes her think she can satisfy America?"

"You know, it really doesn't matter what the media write as long as you've got a young and beautiful piece of ass."

"I've said if Ivanka weren't my daughter, perhaps I'd be dating her."

"You could see there was blood coming out of [Megyn Kelly's] eyes. Blood coming out of her… wherever."

"[Emigrating Mexicans are] rapists. And some, I assume, are good people, but I speak to border guards and they're telling us what we're getting."

"I have a great relationship with the blacks. I've always had a great relationship with the blacks."

"Just had a very open and successful presidential election. Now professional protesters, incited by the media, are protesting. Very unfair!"

"I have never seen a thin person drinking Diet Coke." (I do like this one.)

In my head, before Tuesday, week nine's post was to begin along the lines of "Did you vote for a third-party candidate? Did you throw your vote away? Well, I didn't. But I did drink the beer." I did not vote for Gary Johnson even though Hillary Clinton was a shoe-in. Massachusetts, a.k.a. "Don't Blame Me, I'm From Massachusetts," a.k.a. "Except We Did Vote for Reagan Twice," was with her, but why risk it? I even took my five-year-old daughter into the booth with me and said, more or less, "You're helping me elect the first female president… isn't that cool?" It's a cliché but I was excited about what this meant for her and her future, even if I didn't think Clinton was much of a candidate or were to be much of a president.

Not only is none of that the crux here, I also never drank the beer. A cheeky name moderately tied to any old election was enough for me to buy the eleven-percent lager a few weeks ago with the intention of cracking it open once Clinton's victory was assured. By nine o'clock, if we were lucky! That's what the polls and analysts said, anyway, neither of which I will ever trust again. I know nothing about politics.

Instead, as CNN declared that Trump had won Florida about ninety minutes after I did (and two hours after reporting that the Clinton campaign had "increasing confidence" there), I had to keep telling a despondent A. that Ohio, Pennsylvania and Michigan were what mattered. When the first two went red and Michigan was looking awfully pink—about half past one at this point—it was time to go to bed. I typed "who won" into my iPad so that when I awoke in a few hours I could just hit enter and learn, formally, the bad news. Drag.

For several weeks, and this is our poor parenting judgment, we occasionally discussed with G. that candidate Donald Trump was mean, a bully and whatever euphemism I invented for a "fear-monger." Had other parents put it into their kids' heads that, I don't know, it was OK to grab kids by the pussy then we surely would have been critical: "How could you?? They're just kids, they don't get it!" But we did the same, albeit with more humanity and soul. (I would add education if you believe the polls, which I no longer do.) Does that make us bad parents? No. Did we do something we would criticize others over? Yes.

G. woke up Wednesday morning and came into the bathroom as I was about to brush my teeth. She was half asleep with thumb in mouth, the picture of innocence. "I need to tell you something, honey. Trump won. He's going to be the president." I hugged her and she almost cried. Mama was still in bed so I tucked her in there, saying everything would be OK (it's kind of my role) though not believing it. A sad start to a sad day.

The rest of Wednesday played out the same. The train ride was eerily quiet as I shoved my nose into Andrew Loog Oldham's Stoned, for the North Shore was Clinton country aside from a few outliers (both wealthy and struggling communities). I resolved to "give him a chance" because I don't have a choice. I'm not going to protest in the streets of Boston from nine to five as that seems to underscore general anti-Obama claims that unemployment is a problem. I'm not moving to Canada, as much as we love Montréal. I never believed Trump would ensure that everyone has enough guns—the modernization and/or destruction of the Second Amendment being my and A's top-priority issue, which is why I was pulling for Martin O'Malley all Winter over Clinton's wishy-washiness and Bernie Sanders's plain, upsetting indfference—or shut down Planned Parenthood. I also didn't believe that lo, these many months, he actually wanted to be president, and it's amazing how this remains a topic of conversation. Will he step down before January 20 and hand everything over to Mike Pence? It that better or worse? Worse, I say. Very much so.

At the least, it appears inevitable that Trump will let down everyone who voted for him by not killing Obamacare on day one, not nuking Iran on day two, not proudly calling someone a nigger on live television on day three and not applying ceremonial mortar to the last "Brown Brick" of a Mexico-funded wall on day four. They will turn on him and threaten everyone unlike them—Muslim, homosexual, employable. Then they'll go back to those burgundy pockets with their rusted-out dooryards and frayed American flags that stay out all night without being illuminated. Trump has both the House and the Senate but do they get along? Can all that hostility just go away in favor of common (?) big-picture goals? Will a blown-up party of Democrats reemerge as they did in 2008 and come on strong in 2018 and 2020 (under the inevitable "Hindsight 2020" campaign slogan) when, I thought, it was the Republicans who would have to start over instead? Will Massachusetts be a progressive buffer or will I and five other commuters be shot after buying coffee one morning? Is this worse than Brexit? Is America crumbling as foretold by past empires? Is my family safe?

As Ivan said Thursday night over beers before we decided to ditch the twenty-seven-dollar Helmet show, "What the fuck is going on with the Celtics?" Maybe nothing changes after all.

Up next: Fifty-one percent of fifty-five percent of Americans get on with their lives by drinking beer, watching football and maybe writing about it. For now, I'll be one of them. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week eight

The game: Patriots at Bills
The beer: Southern Tier Warlock Imperial Stout
The result: Win, 41–25; Broncos win, 27–19
The commentary: I have had enough of rooting for leading AFC rivals in order to advance week to week in the knockout pool. The Steelers and their injured rapist cost me twenty-five units a couple of weeks ago and the Broncos last night had me considering another thirty. Luckily it never came to that as the Chargers threw four times from the two to discover yet another way to lose a close game—try following that shit on your phone. Regardless, because "irregardless" isn't a word, had I lost I would have been unable to buy in again because the cut-off was last week. Or maybe it's this week. It's not the most clarified or transparent league—for example, I won't know until tomorrow night what teams everyone picked. Plus my wonderful and all-knowing (and coded, since it's maintained at work) Excel spreadsheet called shenanigans on a friend who mistakenly picked the Bengals for a second time last week. I had no choice but to point this out to the commissioner and hope for a transcription error. It was not and so we are one fewer, not "less." He split the pot in a cowardly act last year anyway.

I'm hoping yesterday morning's London tie between the Bengals and the Redskins eliminates some more because ties are the same as losses, for the object is to "pick a winner." Indeed, I feared a Charger touchdown and a two-point conversion would send my game to a fruitless overtime and was a heroic father reading through—and quite well!—Fox in Socks without interruption when my phone vibrated, signifying either the end of the game (with the Broncos likely winning in regulation) or pure, sweet hell (the aforementioned comeback scenario). Once my tongue and I concluded with "a tweetle beetle noodle poodle bottled paddled muddled duddled fuddled wuddled fox in socks, sir"—an enviable achievement!—it was mama's turn to take over for Oh, the Thinks You Can Think! and I could not check the alert quickly enough. "We're good," I told her. For now.

The pickings going forward will be slim. Through eight weeks, the percentage of "experts" (and arbitrary rulers such as best defense, home team, etc.) I—in part—relied upon as collated at NFL Pick Watch hadn't dipped below ninety-three until yesterday, when the Broncos were determined to be the favorite by eighty-one percent. So ninety-four, ninety-four, ninety-seven, ninety-three, ninety-six, ninety-seven (wrong!), ninety-four, eighty-one. It's a real outlier—I didn't believe when I sent my pick in Thursday night that Aqib Talib would sit—and a sign of things to come since most of the league's few (loosely) elite teams are no longer available to me: Patriots/Broncos/Packers/Steelers. The Seahawks remain and are as trustworthy as anyone outside of New England and excepting injuries (to them, the Steelers and the Broncos), underwhelming quarterback play (same three) and douche karma (Packers). But are they good? Are the Falcons for real or is another series of season-crippling losses inevitable? Is it time to move past my fear of picking for or against the Cowboys with Tony Romo out of the picture? Should the Vikings really win with ninety-three-percent certainty in Chicago tonight against a horrendous Bears team that could scrape out an ugly win in support of Jay Cutler's return (nah) or in solidarity with the Cubs (realistic)? As witnessed a few years ago when the Ravens won Super Bowl XLVII and the out-of-contention Orioles refused to concede parking privileges for the following season's celebratory kickoff game in Baltimore—forcing the Ravens to play (and lose) in Denver instead—organizational pride is never to be overlooked when it comes to who is the Hot Shit Home Team. Unless you're the Browns.

In a bewildering season of subpar football one thing is (probably) true: a classic Rex Ryan nosedive, foretold by his concession of the AFC East—one can hope November 8 is so smooth following Hillary Clinton's blowout victory—and the permanent dejection that follows every loss to the Patriots (despite his "Fuck it!" bravado over the strange challenge-flag dustup following the Bills' garbage-time, dildo-free touchdown) will undo any good that came out of his team's impressive four-game winning streak that started in New England against an injured third-string rookie quarterback. "It's just ten guys playing one thing and somebody else playing something else. And even if you're not singing out of the same hymnal, it looks bad and sounds bad." The man is no poet. Whoever hires him next year will find out if he's worth the "all-in" shitstorm.

Let's discuss the beer because I haven't much this season. Warlock stout is part of the "Blackwater Series," written by Patrick Simmons and propelling the Doobie Brothers to the top of the singles charts in 1975. The label brags that it was "brewed with pumpkins" as if no one does that every Autumn. The first ten-percent-alcohol sip was delicious but the Warlocks didn't record "Heavy Bomber" for nothing—after awhile I just wanted to be done with it and find a scary movie on Netflix to fall asleep during. I awoke with a clear head so that's something.

End beer talk. Jamie Collins was traded. Drag. Go Cubs!

Up next: I will spend the entire bye weekend admiring our new fence. Happy Halloween!

Beer and football VII — week seven

The game: Patriots at Steelers
The beer: Mayflower Daily Ration Session India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 27–16; Packers win, 26–10
The commentary: "You stink. You stink. You stink!" Brandon Bolden, the special-teams ace who knocked a punted ball from the six yard line into the end zone for a touchback, did not earn my respect by dropping a key third-down pass that my five-year-old daughter could have caught with her feet. Marcus Cannon, Jonathan Freeny, Bolden… what do they have on Belichick? And can Trey Flowers and Anthony Johnson get in on it? I just want to know if they're any good.

Had the Steelers won then Bolden's drop would have been the turning point, though Julian Edelman had a bad one as well. The Pats never had a firm grip on the game and looked iffy for three hours, magnifying how spoiled we fans are in showing concern over twenty-seven points scored. I don't care what the statistics show, I'm never comfortable when Belichick is pitted against a rookie or little-seen quarterback—the game plan against Roethlisberger would have been more sophisticated so why not stick with that against an inferior quarterback? I know nothing about football.

Commuting this week, I twice sat near someone who got on the wrong train. It happens, though somehow not to me yet. Sure, I once drunkenly mistimed my destination by one stop after a Christmas party and plain "slept" through it last September but at least I got on the right trains each time. After work every night I confirm the correct track number up to six times—six!—to ensure I'm heading home and not elsewhere: on the display at the entrance to North Station, on the big board inside the station, on another display at the door leading to the platform and, assuming Sir Lord Baltimore or Thee Oh Sees aren't blocking out the world, by listening to recorded announcements inside the station and aboard the train as well as proclamations by several conductors. If I end up in Concord or Winchester then it's my own fault.

Even so, I should never make it that far before realizing my mistake. A few minutes from departure the tracks split in all directions, particularly my line along the coast. Do I see, you know, the Atlantic Ocean? Are the Mystic River locks on the left (good) or the right (bad), or are they nowhere at all (awful)? Nighttime is difficult but the new parking garage, the wind turbine, Costco? It's all lit up! We're not in Littleton gloom.

Monday night, in the middle of the (quite lovely) conservation marshes leading up to River Works in Revere, with North Station twenty minutes behind us, the first woman only then realized her error and called some poor sucker in Haverhill (her actual destination) to pick her up in Newburyport without considering an alternative. And Wednesday, here we go again with another woman bound for the elusive Haverhill, wondering with a conductor's (lack of) help what was the most default option. I'd stick to bottled water at home, ladies.

I like to think I'm a problem solver. One of four caster snaps off the rolling clothes hamper? Wrap the bolt in plumber's tape and zip-tie the shit out of it. My daughter throws up all over the front of my jacket? Soak it in vinegar for an hour to get the smell out before washing. Renaming beer-and-football posts with Roman numerals breaks a bunch of links? Set aside a half hour here and there to comb through my blog and fix everything to keep my reader (!) happy. Got on the wrong fucking train even though a blind ape could have managed OK? Well, maybe I don't have to put anyone out. Maybe doubling back to North Station is a waste of time. Maps… taxis… Uber… maybe Melrose Highlands is only eight miles from Lynn. Maybe Malden Center is four from Chelsea. Maybe you'll catch the last ten minutes of Dynasty.

Up next: Richie Incognito blames the tablets and a lack of stomped balls after his team loses by thirty. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week six

The game: Bengals at Patriots
The beer: Wachusett Horseshoe Ale
The result: Win, 35–17; Steelers lose, 30–15
The commentary: Hell is rooting for the Steelers and watching them lose. Fuckers. Enjoy four to six weeks of your team falling out of contention, Ben.

The good news is the Pats should cruise to victory Sunday afternoon. The bad news is I was knocked out of the pool and had to cough up another twenty-five units in order to run with the Packers tonight. I don't love the pick—Aaron Rodgers looks shaky, almost like he can no longer overinflate his footballs—but they're hosting the Bears and I need a cheap win to stay alive. I'd love a stress-free weekend.

The lesson—maybe?—is to never pick against the Dolphins after relying on them to win (barely) once before. And a second time? Gamblor does not approve. I will keep clear of the Bills this week whether or not they're due to fall to Earth.

Oh, Bengals. I wasn't feeling good early on and wondered how I would react to both the Patriots and my knockout team losing on the same day (I watched the Pats on tape delay). Then Tom Brady realized "Oh yeah" and Gronk realized "Fuck yeah" and Vontaze Burfict realized "Fuck this" and it was over. Injured Roethlisberger, struggling Broncos… it's good to be the Patriots.

Up next: Don Caballero, affectionately called "Don Cab" or "The Don" by fans, formed in Pittsburgh in the Summer of 1991. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week five

The game: Patriots at Browns
The beer: Lagunitas Bitter Oats Ale
The result: Win, 33–13
The commentary: Ten point five percent! Who drinks so heavy a bastard during a one o'clock game? I'll admit I didn't notice until checking the bottle after my first sip—I was so caught up with the "Bitter" name that, of course, had to represent Brady's return from an unjust overreaction. You know I took the full three hours to drink it though—no sense in slurring my way through Candyland and Uno before dinner. Look for other event-themed beers in the coming weeks—what a time to be alive!

Yes, I picked the Patriots in the knockout pool this week. After five games we're down to thirteen out of twenty-eight… contestants?… and the pot has ballooned to eight hundred ten units, which is more than I won two years ago. I'm already spending the money in my head and I need to knock it off.

We're a few posts away from two hundred. Unbelievable—legitimately so once longtime readers (!) realize we'd be way beyond it without the death of quick sizzle. (It did make a bitter curtain call the following year when I referred to those behind "Biff Bang Pow," a web marketing blog, as "dirty rat cocksuckers" and critiqued their design aesthetic by wondering "Maybe I should force-justify all my post titles because that looks real sharp." That post's deletion is for the best.) I feel I need to hustle to compose and publish the Trout Mask Replica bullshit in order to salvage any remaining inter-net credibility. Like when Coltrane's Ascension was the actual one hundredth post? That was the real shit. So deserving a subject. Since said pruning it's now a basic beer-and-football affair, albeit with a contemplative four-month-old G. and some embarrassing Tim Tebow analysis. Beefheart as two hundred would be an achievement on par with a five-year-old suddenly doing the monkey bars by herself, even getting up there. She's the best. I wonder if she'll read all this one day.

Up next: The royal Bengal tiger is the national animal of both India and Bangladesh. In Indonesia it's the Komodo dragon, the largest member of the lizard family and a filthy liar. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week four

The game: Bills at Patriots
The beer: Newburyport Melt Away India Pale Ale
The result: Loss, 16–0; Bengals win, 22–7
The commentary: It's another outtake from week one, just like two years ago after the shellacking in Kansas City. No Pink Floyd talk this time though. No playlist modification either! That surely fucked us all.

"Oh, Bills." Drag. My confidence level eclipsed even Rex Ryan's in the wake of his team's win over the Cardinals, whose loss knocked six more out of my pool. After a must-win effort his feet weren't touching the ground and the odds were good he'd forget there was another game to prepare for. And then? And then! "Rex, another thing you say a lot is you refer to yourself as an above-average coach but, you know, you look at Bill Belichick's winning percentage against everybody else and against you and it's– it's higher against you. Can those two things make sense to you, that you're an above-average coach but, you know, the record doesn't really say that?" Ptooff! My man Paul Perillo, "the Sultan of Soda" according to Mr. Lif (though I always thought it was "the Salt in the Soda," which works even better), had poked the fat bear. Ryan responded with "Yeah, well, I don't know, I guess that's the way it is… you guys would know better than me" and littered the phrase "above average" throughout the rest of his interview with New England media. Would the bitterness set in?

Fast forward to Sunday. With an afternoon birthday party a half hour away I was prepared (and OK with) recording the game and watching it later on. I'm used to it anyway and actually prefer this when a media blackout is possible—skipping through Peyton Manning commercials, etc. I had the pregame on before leaving the house and witnessed the fracas between Malcolm Mitchell and every punk-ass bitch on the Bills, which equates to ninety percent of the team. Any doubt I had over the outcome was fully eliminated at that point—if Ryan emphasized chippiness over schemes then the blowout was already in effect. I couldn't wait to watch that night.

Alas, we arrive at the party and the game is on the big screen. Oh well. But… what?? Bills up thirteen over the scoreless Patriots? This must be one of those onscreen typos. After all, the Patriots Football Weekly television show has been labeled Weeekly since last season. But no! The godforsaken Bills came to play. And the Pats' defense is even worse than I feared. At least the hosts demonstrated good taste in offering a couple of Newburyport Brewing selections. The pale ale was already covered awhile ago alongside a public television tongue-lashing, so the Melt Away became the official beer of the week. Session beer is an adult attendee's best friend at any underage party.

Jacoby Brissett seemed to do OK, excepting the baaad fumble that, along with special-teamer-running-offensive-routes-for-some-reason Brandon Bolden's horrible drop, really sealed the game. Tyrod Taylor, LeSean McCoy and Robert Woods were impressive even though they only scored sixteen points—a good team would have scored more on this day. That's why I think the Bills remain destined to win eight games, make no major changes during the offseason and then win six games next year. But hey, at least they shut out an injured third-string rookie quarterback. Around the NFL's Dan Hanzus, who knows a thing or two as a suffering Jets fan, put it best this week: "After two amazing wins [against the Cardinals and the Patriots], the Bills are gonna show up flat and get beat by a Rams team that isn't even that good." He lacks the poetry of Marc Sessler but his scorned wisdom is evident.

Here's a funny story. Walking to work the other morning, among the pushers and the urinators under Haymarket garage, I heard "Calvin's on a Bummer," a fine collaboration by the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion and Calvin Johnson's Dub Narcotic Sound System. Up ahead, a typical undesirable—sweatpants, large Dunkins, pronounced limp, general filth—was wearing a number eighty-one Lions jersey for some reason. "Who is eighty-one?" I wondered before answering my own question and confirming it when the man turned around: JOHNSON. Retired NFL superstar Calvin Johnson! The difference between Megatron and the Olympia Croaker is simple: one smothered all comers with jaw-dropping statistics, admirable durability and oppressive skill; the other scored a shitload of touchdowns.

Up next: Tom Brady, Michigan. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week three

The game: Texans at Patriots
The beer: Ommegang Three Philosophers Quadrupel Ale
The result: Win, 27–0; Dolphins win, 30–24
The commentary: Bronchitis sidelined A. so she drove G. and me to a sketchy old gymnastics academy in the middle of a Verizon dead zone for another child's birthday—such is the nature of kindergarten and new friendships. Naturally we drove right by the place the first time because the old brick building set back from the road in a clearing in the woods did not match the, I don't know, gigantic fitness facility we were expecting. Minimal signage was barely noticed even as we doubled back with our eyes wide open and Google Maps assuring me it was indeed down this driveway somewhere. Twists and turns, answering "This can't be right" to several of G's demands to know if we were there yet. Flashing back to Half-Life 2's Nova Prospekt and the lifeless grounds of the estate at the end of 28 Days Later. Would Dennis Hopper emerge from the trees? "It's alright! It's alll-right!" And would I believe him?

Two loops later we were at the brick building again. There were a few cars parked outside so it was this or nothing. I bravely ventured inside by myself to rule out a mutant ambush and was immediately hit with the locker-room odor that told me we'd arrived. A little late but that's OK, maybe host the thing in civilized country next time.

G. turned shy and that was OK with me because it meant I got to hang out with her instead of watching from afar. The foam pit wasn't as nice as that other one where we lost her headband a couple of years ago but she still couldn't get enough, particularly when I kept "ordering" her to come out before tossing her back in. Lo, the germs. That evening's bath added another month to the drought.

She did break away to occasionally join the party fun and that meant I could look up the Dolphins–Browns score. Refreshing… refreshing… FAILED TO LOAD. CLICK TO RETRY. Drag. To think I once vowed to never own a cellphone—mine turned me into a slave for three straight Sundays and it's not pleasant. But the pot's over seven hundred units, baby!

At some point the Earth tilted a certain angle and allowed Verizon to give me a break for a second with an update: Dolphins up by four in the third quarter. OK! Maybe I'd skate by, relying again on a team that didn't impress much. Post-party, fleeing the scene of past and future madness, G's exhaustion overtook the cake-and-ice-cream sugar injection and she passed out inside of ten minutes. It was easy to take the long way home because we got lost—of course we did—and once she was asleep we decided to hit the Stop & Shop and prolong her needed rest. Phone updates informed me during the interim that both teams were sucking it hard and a regulation-closing Browns drive stalled at the Dolphins' thirty-eight yard line. "Why didn't they kick a field goal?" I wondered before switching over to NFL Radio on Sirius and learning that they attempted and failed. Jesus Christ. A. ran into the store while an unconscious G. and I listened to both teams try to lose. And then? And then! A borderline-effective Jay Ajayi runs it in from the eleven and I silently pump my fist in victory, something I've perfected during five years of G. sleeping through football games.

Why must it be so interesting? I've mocked other knockout participants in the past for picking too many lousy teams early on and then being eliminated with the Patriots, Seahawks, Broncos, et al still available. It's like Survivor when hubris intervenes and someone with an unplayed immunity idol in his or her pocket is voted off. Still, it's hard to ignore the fact that the last time the Patriots won the Super Bowl I also won the knockout pool and, with a smaller sample size, vice versa. Bill Belichick and friends are looking pretty good so far and that means I should hold up my end of the deal by choosing only sure-fire winners from here on out. It's a deal… even though the Bengals were tempting Thursday night. Be forewarned.

Up next: Rex Ryan solidifies a game plan to mercilessly blitz presumptive Patriots quarterback Tarbash the Egyptian Magician. Oh, Bills. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week two

The game: Dolphins at Patriots
The beer: Castle Island Keeper India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 31–24; Panthers win, 46–27
The commentary: My discovery of another hometown triumph may soon be chronicled on Google Street View. As the three of us crossed the old-timey bridge on our way to the newish culinary shop—now able to sell beer and wine!—an odd vehicle drove by with a protrusion out of its roof. Were Martian tripods to follow? If so they spared us and I'm left to check Google Maps every day until I see my girl, faced blurred out, pointing at the pretty red flowers.

The destination lived up to the hype as we spent about fifty bucks on cold-brew coffee packs, teddy-bear-shaped pasta, a themed Southern Tier bomber for later this season, a four-pack of Castle Island tallboys (recommended over several little-known IPAs) and a loose, luxury, fawned-over single to crack open tomorrow. I chatted up the owner and learned about plans for frequent beer and wine tastings, cooking events, etc., filling the void of the old provisions shop near the train station in our former town that went out of business because, I don't know, the woman was kind of a jerk. We might as well have hired a real estate agent after that. (Maybe we did. It took awhile to sell.) The packie that took over her space, which I can see from my passing train, has neon signs in the window promoting the lottery and Miller Lite. We're glad to have moved on, with a new place downtown to boot.

Careful viewing allows one to pinpoint the moment when Jimmy Garoppolo realized his big payday was in jeopardy. The pain is evident, the frustration, but for a split second you see the despondency. Garoppolo, without exaggeration, looked like Tom Brady before he was injured, resurrecting the "system quarterback" criticism of Brady that was halted by an apeshit 2007. It sucks, but it would suck more if Brady himself weren't coming back in three games.

Jacoby Brissett didn't make any mistakes and that's all you could hope for under the circumstances (Miami's comeback is entirely because of a defense that earned their degrees from the Devin McCourty School of Exposure). The timing is lousy with a short week of preparation and I suspect the offense will go vanilla, with lots of LeGarrette Blount (G. after seeing replays of Blount hurdling Byron Maxwell: "That was super awesome!") and James White and maybe a couple of long incompletions to Matthew Slater for some reason. I wonder if Belichick's "Garoppolo will play!" ruse will force Bill O'Brien to under-prepare for Brissett (as much as you can under-prepare for a third-string rookie) and forfeit a few points in a close one.

I may know nothing about football (especially as I consider trusting the Cowboys this weekend) but I do know there isn't a scenario that puts Julian Edelman under center. Maybe a trick play or two, in the infuriate-John-Harbaugh fashion, but does he really want to risk his perfect passer rating? And do Belichick and McDaniels want their best, you know, wide receiver to be pummeled over and over by JJ Watt, Jadeveon Clowney, Whitney Mercilus and John Simon for three hours? I don't.

At least I know more than this one dude in our knockout pool who lost two in a row to start the season. Jesus Christ. He and four others lost in the first week and all bought back in, upping their totals from twenty to forty-five units each. On Sunday, he and eight others relied on such luminaries as the Lions, the Jaguars and the fucking Bears for the opportunity to cough up another twenty-five units (or thirty in Ryan's case). Most of them won't and that's fine. I'm feeling pretty good.

Up next: Project Runway is preempted in favor of O'Brien's return to Foxborough. Maybe he'll dress his players in carpeted letterman jackets like Dexter Simmons. Cheers!

Beer and football VII: With a renewed vigor and enthusiasm not seen by many

Week one
The game: Patriots at Cardinals
The beer: Harpoon Sticke Altbier
The result: Win, 23–21; Texans win, 23–14
The commentary: Whoops! Well that wasn't supposed to happen. Dry those tears, thirty-one other teams. Meet the new boss, etc.

Such hubris! It's a win and one that may not even matter much in the long run (away against a non-conference opponent) but did usher in some confidence in favor of uncertainty. Garoppolo can play. Parting with Chandler Jones was the right move as he once again failed to make a leap ("which he would have by now if it were going to happen") against notable blackmailer Marcus Cannon. No major injuries except for Hightower, who still managed to finish the game (though probably won't today). This is already an exciting season. Not that fifteen other teams can't say the same.

The Texans pulled one out after giving me fits during brunch. Brock Osweiler may or may not be the real deal but I won't give a shit after week three in Foxborough. This afternoon, I dream of the Panthers bouncing back on extra rest, hosting the cross-country-flight, short-turnaround 49ers. To once again quote Napoléon Bonaparte on his way to Moscow: "I'm feeling pretty good."

In other news, G. is a week into kindergarten and it's a welcome change for her to not come home covered in mud every day like with Summer camp. Her baths the past three months might have single-handedly triggered and maintained the drought. It's great not having to mow my lawn more than once a month (thanks, mandatory water ban!) but not at the expense of the river, seemingly at an all-time low. We walked along it yesterday afternoon to look at the turtles and ducks and the water level was higher than I've seen since the Spring. Unfortunately, a month or so ago I noticed a young turtle must have gotten stranded on a log sticking into the air and never made it back down. Its pitiable, roasted little corpse was still there yesterday and broke my heart some more. This season is dedicated to him or her, much as my May playlist was to the "doomed" Kathleen Hanna, weeks before she and her total recovery dropped a new the Julie Ruin album and commenced an enviable world tour. Happy to hear it, of course, but that's what I get for relying on yet-to-be-updated Wikipedia pages. Similar good fortune, little turtle.

Six years of beer and football and nary a Harpoon in the bunch. For such an omnipresent brewer, local or otherwise, their stuff is generally poor. The IPA is literally everywhere in New England—I defy bearded hipsters to find a dive bar, exclusive seaside resort or Cheesecake Factory without it on tap. (Speaking of bearded hipsters, excellent local brewer Notch is hosting a release party for a new IPA called "Raw Power." They have found my weakness but I'll wait a few days and avoid the invitation for people to bring their own proto-punk vinyl to spin. Vinyl is stupid and you are all assholes. Enjoy dropping thirty bucks on the next sham Replacements reissue.) Sam Adams is also impossible to miss but at least it's a good beer and probably an excellent one.

The one Harpoon I used to like (and this was back when Bass Ale was one of my favorites, so tread lightly) was an "Alt" called just that. It was the only of theirs I could tolerate once the near-decent Winter Warmer was designated for extreme clove and nutmeg enthusiasts only. Good lord. The alt expanded my beer palate without informing me of what "alt" meant (history tells us to never dive too deeply into a German's way of doing things) and then disappeared sometime between early college and adulthood. I tried two more altbiers a few beer-and-football seasons ago, taking one step forward and one back: the Haverhill exploded all over my kitchen but was nonetheless excellent while the Cody was unfavorable all around. So at Stop & Shop last week, browsing the bombers for a truly-meaningful-first-regular-season-game, the Sticke and its generous shelf space presented a conundrum. Would this be similar to the alt of my youth? To the mixed bag of 2011? Did I even like the Harpoon in the first place or was it their least offensive product? Is it admitted failure to release limited-edition beers? Regardless, I did enjoy it. It won't be the best of the season but it didn't inspire regret either—that's the best you can hope for after grocery shopping on Route 1, a few miles from two strip clubs and a few more from Hooters. I'll bet you can find Harpoon IPA at all three.

Up next: Ndamukong Suh's capability to injure scares me more than Ryan Tannehill's to throw touchdowns. Cheers!

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

The beer: Jack's Abby Copper Legend Octoberfest Lager/Founders All-Day India Pale Ale
The commentary: Good lord, is it time already? To post every week? These are the problems I create for myself. Instead of keeping the old bloggo muscles in shape—writing about, I don't know, Captain Fucking Beefheart—I'm thrown into the white-hot cauldron of wordsmithing with no sign of a thesaurus-shaped bucket of ice. (See what I'm talking about?)

Instead I enjoyed my Summer, so swiftly it flew! Newport, Ogunquit, North Attleborough. A horrid factory of bouncy structures and germs called Monkey Joe's, where you must buy overpriced children's socks if you forget to bring your own. L7 at the Paradise, reliving my first club show experience in the same venue with the same band. An evening at the Crane Estate with pizza, mosquitos and a Beatles cover band that shunned much of the post-Help! material. A daddy–daughter date to Canobie Lake Park. A party celebrating five years of my beautiful girl. And training camp, of course. With a new dress!

We went later this year, forgoing late-July heat for mid-August heat and a joint practice with the Bears (more on them in a bit). Yes, it's the one where Gronk pulled his hamstring. And now he's out tomorrow. Drag. G. wasn't much into having her picture taken that afternoon so I'm left with several of the back of her head. But the curls! The curls.

Aside from Gronk's injury, this session was notable for a brawl between the teams, stemming from some extracurricular activity between local hero Malcolm Butler and talented-exception-that-proves-the-rule Alshon Jeffery. My dad couldn't get enough. G. just wanted more pretzels.

What is the team's outlook? Can Jimmy Garoppolo keep us afloat? Will Brady seek further hairstyling tips from Zachery Ty Bryan?

Should I tempt fate by picking the Texans for week one of my knockout pool, seeking again the glory of my championship season? And also by picking against the Bears, which ended my runs in week one of 2013 and week four last year? What is it with me and the Bears, anyway? The Fridge's touchdown didn't bother me too much. I was eleven.

Why did the shot of her scratching her butt turn out the best? Admittedly I did not watch much of the all-important third preseason game. Instead I coughed up twenty bucks to subscribe to Patriots Football Daily on my iPad, hoping to be informed enough (between it and Mike Reiss's coverage) going into the regular season. Those guys really liked Rufus Johnson. Huh. (I have an iPad. Huh.)

Two weeks ago I took a day off to bring G. to Canobie Lake Park in southern New Hampshire. It was the "big" amusement park of my youth (larger and farther away than the former Whalom Park, gone the way of the thirty-years-defunct Whalom Drive-In that should be the setting of the next horror franchise—eerie!) and will play a role in that Trout Mask Replica albatross one day. Shudder.

You bet we rode the carousel first! And second and third. G. was more interested in looking at the outside of the haunted "Mine of Lost Souls" ride than anything else, asking over and over if and how it was really scary. I spoke of animatronics, jump scares and strobe lights but needn't have said so much—I had her at animatronics after a dancing Santa Claus scared the bejesus out of her a few Christmases ago. Still she was fascinated, and after awhile I suggested we move on, noting we could come back for the 3:30 magic show next door if she wanted. We retreated to the carousel for a couple more rides (four and five) and then I suggested the Ferris wheel, which was a big hit. She'll be ready for those lost souls in no time.

Lunch was next, followed by a train ride around the park that took way too long. I begged her to hop off halfway through but she wasn't having it. Eventually (mercifully) it ended in time to grab popcorn before catching the magic show in which I participated (and will reveal no secrets) to G's delight. Though it might have been the popcorn. Another few loops on another purple Ferris wheel car and then three more rides on the carousel, on her own (!) on a stationary lion once because she really wanted to sit on that lion. Ups and downs are overrated sometimes.

Oh yeah, we got a blue Italian ice in there somewhere. Happy birthday, monkey!

Up next: God help the NFL if Garoppolo can win two games, even if this isn't one of them. Cheers!