Beer and football VII — week twelve

The game: Patriots at Jets
The beer: Two Roads Roadsmary's Baby Ale
The result: Win, 22–17; Seahawks/Jarrod lose, 14–5
The commentary: Fourteen to five? Five? In which our hero tests whether or not "There's nothing I can do about Russell Wilson having an off day" is a philosophy he still trusts. I am. Hard to believe I never used that "Big Road" joke when visiting the Jets.

Weep not for me! The thousand units would have come in handy, sure, but I remain several hundred in the black from my 2014 winnings. And the Giants won anyway. My exit handshake with the organizer yesterday allowed me the opportunity to suggest, subtly, that the "golden ticket" idea is going to backfire and some kind of playoff involvement (messy) or tiebreaker scenario will be necessary at or before week seventeen. As uninterested parties we threw out ideas and I liked a couple of his. The first, assuming multiple people survive the regular season, asks everyone to complete an NCAA-type bracket through to the Super Bowl victor with a point total. In the second, survivors choose two or more games in week seventeen, maybe with total-point or point-spread consideration. The former is the better idea and will probably succeed, though I offered a spin on the latter: put everyone's remaining teams in play on New Year's Day. Exciting! I like the added strategic element of people wanting to keep stronger teams (like the Seahawks, huh?) for that last week. Some games would sort of cancel each other out so let's award two points for a win and minus one for a loss or a tie—if I'd lasted, as things stand now, both sides of Baltimore at Cincinnati, Dallas at Philadelphia and others would be in play and I'd root for ties in each case to earn two points instead of one. Rooting for ties! I fucking love this idea. Enacting it and dissolving the golden ticket are my special-interest issues next season, if President Trump hasn't killed us all in the meantime.

Sunday afternoon my extended family celebrated my aunt's seventieth birthday. She suffers from Alzheimer's disease and it was the first time I'd seen her over the three years that the condition worsened—my mother has admitted to "protecting" me. The assisted living facility was a pleasant environment with a somewhat cheerful staff and it still reeked of the Springfield Retirement Home's desperation and malaise. The bathroom floor had only one smear of excrement that I noticed. Navigating the hallways was difficult and I'm guessing it was designed so. In order to leave you needed someone to unlock the door with a keycard like I have to do when I go to work. At work, a keycard lets in those of us who belong and keeps out those who don't. At my aunt's facility, if you can even find the exit, keycards similarly indicate who belongs and who does not.

There was no clamoring for the exit. It seemed to be one of those things the hovering residents recognized and understood but ignored like bad art. Instead, they wandered the halls, some in pairs, some with vigor, some beaming at your five-year-old daughter. Some wandered into the conference room where we celebrated and then they stood among us, like family, looking at what or whom everyone was looking at. Eventually someone would find them and escort them back outside. Outside the room, not outdoors. Maybe never outdoors. One of them must have found interest elsewhere. The other came back, and then again. Her hair was braided like Elsa's and she used a walker.

When it was time for cake, my aunt had to be reminded over and over to make a wish and blow out the candles, purely foreign concepts to her, and so she pointed at my cousin and said "She can wish, she looks like a good wisher." We were all pronouns because she didn't know our names or personalities or blood relation. We wished for her but insisted she blow out the candles, and though there weren't seventy she did fine. Except for the two candles she missed and forgot about, forgot why. My cousin took care of them. The heartbreak was ours but my aunt seemed happy. Leaving, I gave her a hug and said "I love you." She responded "Yes it is!"

Up next: Jeff Fischer continues to perfect the relationship between presumed extortion schemes and inevitable contract extensions. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week eleven

The game: Patriots at 49ers
The beer: Berkshire Hoosac Tunnel Amber Ale
The result: Win, 30–17; Giants win, 22–16
The commentary: The Pats played the late game and the Giants and Bears warmed me up on Fox before then, presenting a rare opportunity to watch my knockout contest. It was not a comfortable experience as the Bears made it too goddamn interesting. I have now entered the phase of my relationship with the Bears when, formally, I am pushing my luck. This week I considered the sub-five hundred Titans visiting Chicago but that smells of a desperation to keep the Seahawks in my pocket another week. Six remain with no losses last week so we're inevitably targeting New Year's Day and even beyond, however that would work. I was also on the Bills (five wins, five losses) over the Jaguars and the Ravens (same) over the Bengals but is that how I want to go out? A. and I enjoy Project Runway every week, in spite of an uninspiring current season, and the auf'd designers who show pride in what failed them instead of regret over unfinished/unrealized concepts are not as emotionally wrecked. If (when?) I lose, I hope my remorse stems from "There's nothing I can do about Russell Wilson having an off day" and not "I guess the Ravens still kinda suck."

I also liked the Lions and the Cowboys on Thanksgiving but I feared they would turn into the nail-biters they were and, stuck in rural New Hampshire with no cell signal, I didn't want to retire away from the family every five minutes to check the broadcast downstairs. I'm a better son, husband and father for it.

Now that organizer Leon (not his real name) is eliminated he's OK with emailing everyone's picks before Sundays because that's not shady at all. And this will be the week that was: as much as I nicknamed the Giants' Landon Collins "My Man" because he was so much a defensive star to make me hope he played on special teams as well, I will be rooting heavily against him this week. For three people chose the Giants (in New York) against the winless Browns. And not just any three people, no, but the three who possess the godforsaken "golden ticket" that I will rail against next year. Should the Giants lose, which all four Around the NFL heroes predicted—with the understanding that it's difficult to lose sixteen games and the scraping-by Giants are one of two winnable games left for the Browns—then everything changes. Such an achievement would be wonderful karmic retribution against said advantage (shit, I'd be undefeated too if the Dolphins hadn't given Roethlisberger's knee the what-for in week six) and put all of us on a level, single-elimination playing field. They'd be crazy not to buy back on five-to-one odds (Jim Morrison weeps) and the extra seventy-five units would top us off around a thousand. Nice. However, if the Giants do win, it's difficult to see myself outlasting all three at this point. Drag. (The other two picks? Aforementioned Bills and Titans. If the Seahawks win in Tampa I'll surely be thankful.)

The Hoosac Tunnel ale was a welcome break from themed this and imperial that. Last month, in the midst of a period of prolific literacy not seen since I chose a series of Stephen King novels over homework throughout high school, I worked my way down the stacks to a couple of hokey "local hauntings" collections entitled Ghost Stories of New England and Cape Encounters: Contemporary Cape Cod Ghost Stories. Here is a representative conclusion of every… anecdote?… in each: "Bob and Sandra surmised that the spirit was that of Hannah Thomas, although they had no way of confirming their suspicions." Thanks for disavowing everything for which you stand over several hundred pages. The former volume devotes five pages to the Berkshires' own Hoosac Railroad Tunnel, a.k.a. "the Bloody Pit" that claimed almost two hundred lives during its construction. "The victims died in fires, explosions, tunnel collapses and, in one case, at the hand of another worker." Compelling! Well, maybe it was murder. Can a suspected vengeful ghost be so charged? Other Hoosac tales relate a "battered and incoherent" hunter who "told of hearing voices that instructed him to enter" the tunnel. "Upon entering, he was confronted by several ghostly apparitions." The end. See what I'm talking about?

Up next: Thomas Edison, Grover Cleveland, John Fenwick, Joyce Kilmer, Clara Barton, Vince Lombardi… Walt Whitman. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week ten

The game: Seahawks at Patriots
The beer: Heavy Seas Greater Pumpkin Imperial Ale
The result: Loss, 31–24; Cardinals win, 23–20
The commentary: More pictures of my girl, please! I didn't go black last week because the Pats lost. They didn't even play. No, I mourned another loss or, more accurately, a non-win. Maybe the minority (har! har!) of voters didn't elect Trump because they are racists and/or sexists but rather because they have no problem with casual racism and/or sexism. There's a word for that. It's called the 1950s.

Enough. We're still alive! I speak of the knockout pool, obviously, for what else is there? The Cardinals made it interesting but a three-point win is as good as anything. In other positive news the fucking Dolphins took out the Chargers in San Diego by forcing four fourth-quarter interceptions. Maybe they're for real after all. Maybe that Sunday in the Stop & Shop parking lot was a mirage. (By god, it sure wasn't.) With Philip Rivers went two other competitors and, including me, we're down to six. Three still have the godforsaken, successful-through-week-eight "golden ticket" that allows them to buy back after a loss even though we're beyond the period when the rest of us can. Drag. It's a bullshit rule when you have thirty competitors and I will campaign my ass off against it next year—I didn't need that shit when I went undefeated two years ago. Regardless, I'm watching and (shudder) rooting for the Giants against the Bears as I write this. If the Bears win I'll be out and will have been knocked out by their victory for the third (1, 2) time in four tries. "Three out of four! Yes, it's a dynasty." What's the opposite of a dynasty? Wait one presidential term and see.

"Ohhhh, Sunday niiight. Ooohhhhhhhh Sunday niiiight!" Thanks Carrie, you hack. And you NBC producers. Zero percent of viewers watch Sunday Night Football for your nonsense. Objective fans would call this a great game and they'd be right. Me? I'd call it a great game aside from Julian Edelman's killer fumble—you are not Gronk and the extra foot or so you might pick up is not worth the risk—and Belichick's defense being fully exposed for what they are: a skillful menace who deserves a long-term extension and can single-handedly affect a game's outcome (Dont'a Hightower); a legitimate talent who is not as good as his hype suggests (Malcolm Butler); a bewilderingly expensive, middle-of-the-road safety in need of more instructional videos (Devin McCourty); a living example of Pro Football Focus's lack of relevance (Logan "Fucking" Ryan); a player whose pass-rush potential is inversely proportional to the effectiveness of Jabaal Sheard, Rob Ninkovich and a fourth-generation Multiplicity copy of Chris Long (Trey Flowers); and a bunch of dudes not named Jamie Collins. Maybe he wouldn't have made a difference in this one but I still wish he were on my team. We'll see how they respond in San Francisco following a week of media scrutiny. (I've been critical for years but Patriots VP of Media Relations Stacey James has blocked the Biff! Bang! and Pow!—in all its Roman numerally busted-link glory—at Gillette. Greater good and all.)

Bears making it too goddamn interesting with two minutes remaining. I know nothing about football.

Up next: I wonder if any visiting Patriots went to Alcatraz twice in one day like I did. Happy Thanksgiving!

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!