Beer and football VII — weeks sixteen and seventeen

Week sixteen
The game: Jets at Patriots
The beer: Anchor Christmas Ale
The result: Win, 41–3

Week seventeen
The game: Patriots at Dolphins
The beer: Notch Dog and Pony Show
The result: Win, 35–14

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The commentary: Why not wait until two hundred seven total posts and one hundred nineteen "beer and football" hottakez to switch things up with multi-week diaries? What can go wrong? What (captain) can (beefheart) stand (trout) in (mask) my (replica) way?

This is an attempt to combine "the commentary" into a single… narrative?… when I don't get around to finalizing game reactions before the next Sunday or Monday or Thursday Night Football on Saturday or whatever the fuck. Reader (!) feedback (!!) regarding said trial will motivate the sleeping giant that is the Lower Galactic Biffy Council to exert its will—violently so—in determining internet protocol until the death of free speech. Very unfair!

In a way it makes sense. Not that I've done much actual football writing lately—Survivor, Trump, etc.—but when I do I like to keep it in context, without the hindsight that comes with witnessing how the Patriots respond to one of fourteen wins or two losses. The self-imposed deadline of publishing ahead of the next game has led to blurred lines not seen since the Star Wars prequels (more in a minute), with backdating and inconsistent timelines and such. (The timestamps were eighty-sixed for a reason.) Clearly, if reactions to anywhere from two to an outlandish, why-bother five games were presented under a single title, then no single entry was ready to go on its own. So I'd complete them, one by one, ignoring what I might have learned about "future" games or world/reality television events. I think I did a good job. But—indeed—why bother?

Instead I'll find a common thread and relate what I already know, that a pair of wins over (swept) AFC East "rivals" the Jets and the Dolphins is the inverse of last year's double letdown. The first portion then was dominated—and well, may I say—by a callback to 2013 and a tidy bow encircling my years-long crusade against this defense. A little too tidy, for there's no way the Dolphins outcome and regular-season-ending losing streak didn't color this. The desperation! At least this still resonates: "If only there were websites dedicated to people letting you know that your favorite beer sucks." Even a Ministry joke out of nowhere. It's wonderful to make yourself laugh.

These games remain linked regardless of outcome, for they are the first of the season (and long before) of which I knew the outcome before watching the first snap. A (daytime) Christmas Eve trip to Connecticut was to get us there in time for me to park in a recliner and switch on the one o'clock kickoff but that was torpedoed when we didn't leave the house until, oh, half past twelve. We listened to Christmas music (including "All Dressed Up" a couple of times) and G. fell asleep before long, then I sheepishly asked to switch to the broadcast. By then the good guys were ahead ten zip and our soundtrack was in place for the rest of the Pike-avoiding, Spencer-touring route that saved us no time (and might have added some) but cursed us with no traffic jams. 49 South allowed for good cruising and I'll get us there another way next time.

Late arrival, sure. Fourth quarter. Oh well. I popped open Anchor's "Our Special Ale" and caught the last few minutes, letting G. know that kicking a field goal down forty-one points is for losers. Jesus Christ. Everyone else was prepping for that evening's party while, postgame, I wondered if this meant we didn't have to go to church. We didn't until Christmas morning, when the mercifully brief mass was highlighted by the following: both organists flashing each other the peace sign during the rite of peace; G. complaining of hunger and no one laughing when I likened the eucharist to a "quick snack break"; and yours truly composing a murder ballad entitled "Hang Not Your Coat on the Stations of the Cross" while trying to remember what each one signified. The road to hell is paved with sarcasm.

On New Year's Day I finally saw Rogue One and ate a huge "medium" popcorn by myself, five days after splitting one with A. during Manchester by the Sea (sans hyphens) and four after doing the same with G. during Moana. Rogue One was excellent, a straight war movie where it only made sense if everyone died. I'm glad they didn't cop out. Manchester exceeded expectations and lived up to the hype, even though Casey Affleck drove through Swampscott on his way from Quincy to Beverly and didn't insist on the regional "awnt" instead of the rest-of-American "ant" aunt. Moana was fine, stolen by Maui's tattoos and Heihei the rooster, and I can't get a straight answer from G. how she liked it. I don't blame her—it was no Tangled—after we showed up fifteen minutes late, learning only when we got to the head of the line that we wanted the cinema next door. Drag. Fortune and demigods smiled upon us, though, when we were paying for popcorn and a woman came out of theater four to complain that the movie should have started fifteen minutes ago. Innocently, I asked "Is that Moana, by any chance?" Yes! G. and I practically high-fived in her face. Hopefully Inner Workings is the last time either one of us watches a cartoon man take a leak. (Excluding Homer Simpson, of course.)

See, I'm still working on the structure here. I brought up movies because Rogue One's return to unpolished 1977 preempted the Dolphins game and I was OK with it. Recording and watching in primetime is my move anyway. After, though, as my friend and I trawled Beverly (not via Swampscott) for an open restaurant, any open restaurant, at which to meet our wives and daughters, the score presented itself during one of our we-just-closed-the-kitchen pitstops: third quarter, up thirteen. Fine. We found a place closer to home and Shea McClellin scooped up the fumble right as my Dog and Pony Show arrived. "If I was a preacher, I tell you what, I'd save a million souls. Even you." South Boston tweakers and Shellac of North America beam with pride.

Long story short, hundreds of words too late, I did still watch the games in full because I'm a fan. Things are looking up compared to this time last year when first place moved to Denver and the weaknesses—offensive line and defensive backfield, mainly—were exposed in time for real football. Today, now, the Patriots are the team to beat and even haters look forward to trolling Pats–Cowboys. I welcome and expect it, believing the defense can hold on a little longer and restrict the Steelers to fewer than four touchdowns in the AFC Championship. And the Cowboys? Their story is awfully feel-good for them to lose to the Packers and not reach a Texas-sized Super Bowl. Interesting times, these next few weeks. Unless you're Rex Ryan. Again.

Up next: I'll be rooting for Aaron Rodgers against Eli Manning tomorrow night because I'm one of Paul Perillo's "cunts" who wants no part of the Giants in February. Happy new year!

Beer and football VII — week fifteen

The game: Patriots at Broncos
The beer: Lefty's Barrel-Aged Scotch Ale
The result: Win, 16–3; Adam, 10–0–0; Erin, 4–0–0–0
The commentary: I don't know about the barrel-aged beers anymore. A little rich for me. The Northampton Brewery didn't have Maggie's Wee Heavy on tap last weekend so this "Scotch ale" from Provisions was a no-brainer. Intense! (Are "Scotch ales" and "Scottish ales" two different things?) This is why I chose a tequila shot instead of whiskey at that shitty bar following the company's InterContinental VaGina Christmas party last week. I still made my nine o'clock train and didn't sleep through my stop. For the win.

I personally flexed Sunday's game to a late primetime start, for some reason not getting around to watching until after ten. Oh, the hubris that comes with avoiding updates inside a Trader Joe's full of people wearing Gronk jerseys. As such I ignored all context in an effort to avoid falling asleep on the couch and skipped through from play to play—the opposite of fandom. It was one of those tension-filled games anyway, my desire to know right away if a recovered fumble would be upheld after replay, etc., overpowering competitive interest but falling short of Google. "Just tell me what happened! Almost!" Only toward the end when Devin McCourty made his first above-average play of the season and TJ Ward lost his mind by flexing a post-suplex exclamation point was I confident. Unlike Terrell Suggs & Friends, I want no part of facing the Broncos in the postseason, even away from Denver, and…

"I'm feeling pretty good."
Leno LaBianca
August 9, 1969

Just take out the Giants, somebody. Please. (It's not looking good. Shades of peaking at the right time and the resulting unpleasantness, parts 1 and 2.)

Reality television update! For obvious reasons, The Celebrity Apprentice is officially deleted from our DVR series settings. Two others not (still!) produced by our future Crony-in-Chief have just wrapped up their thirty-third and fifteenth seasons, respectively: Survivor and Project Runway. I'm a goddamn dinosaur.

The Survivor finale was anticlimactic as it became obvious the season-long saga of Adam and his ill mother would have a… happy?… ending. During the final tribal council it was clear that Ken was getting no respect (winning multiple individual immunity challenges does not carry the weight it once did) but frisky Hannah was talking herself up quite a bit, even convincingly so if viewers hadn't witnessed her cunning indecisiveness and bravado panic attack during a challenge she watched from a shady bench. The dream final three of Jay, David and Adam would have been one for the ages and the missed opportunity drags the whole affair down for me. At least Michaela will be back for Game Changers in a few months, even though I hate when they bring back former players. Oh good, it will be a season full of returning players. Goddammit.

On to Project Runway. From last week's warm-up to Friday's showdown I was pulling for Rik because he's a nice guy and I liked his looks the best. Somehow he was the only one to use primarily leather (Laurence plain lost her way) and even though the denim swirlies weren't my favorite—more "She Bangs the Drums" than "A Day in the Life"—his runway show was my favorite the first time through. Upon re-watching, though (because A. had fallen asleep), I preferred Roberi's from beginning to end. He was the artist of the season, riding the creative highs and lows without pretense—enviable in itself. His dresses were cool and versatile and looked well made and styled. Rik was a close second while Laurence's plain-bagel assembly line took the bronze. (She's lucky her medal isn't turd-brown like that one jumpsuit.) And then Erin. More on her in a minute.

From the post-runway critique—we determined the show can't take place earlier than eight in the morning, which makes Michael Kors's shades-wearing appearances extra silly in past seasons—I thought Roberi had it in the bag because everyone loved his collection aside from the closing dress, which I thought was fine (the eighties-wash jeans look was my exception). Similarly, Rik was received with only enthusiasm until, in private, Nina went all "I don't know who he is as a designer" and called him a "chameleon." Unconventional challenges, prom dresses, day/evening wear… Nina, the whole show requires designers to be chameleons! It drives me nuts when the judges forget their own rules. Rik was eliminated even before Laurence, whose looks Heidi and friends universally disliked. Mixed messages all around.

Brief production aside: Runway episodes normally run ninety minutes and that is just right, with ample time allowed for the creative process, the runway, the critique and the bitchy one-on-ones with Cornelius, the biggest waste of a Tim Gunn Save in the show's history. This finale episode was drawn out for two hours and it felt like it, even when fast-forwarding through the nine-minute commercial breaks. I don't care if these interruptions were peppered—or rather, cap-unscrewed, pepper-dumped—with segments introducing us to those participating in the second season of Project Runway Junior, something better served as its own half-hour preview episode in the past. Almost as dreadful a presentation as last week's quasi-blowout Monday Night Football. (Sean McDonough was excellent as the play-by-play guy for the Sox a hundred years ago—before he was run out of town on a low-budget, VORP-stained rail—but even he can't account for bad camerawork, enormous score bugs and fucking Jon Gruden.)

Back to it. Roberi, Rik, Laurence and Erin, in that order. Glorified, inevitable Erin, whose contrived kookiness won the judges over from day one even as her failures were barely worse than her multiple winning looks. (Sure, I'm biased, I recognize and appreciate that the looks she created for episodes eleven and twelve were downright awesome.) During her critique, when it became clear that Zac and Nina were not impressed (even as they admired her whimsy, which might matter in alternate-universe programming Project Potential), I said aloud "Wow, she's not going to win" and forgot the key difference between reality and reality television, here being the influence of Heidi and the producers. (Zendaya? She might as well have said "My new album, Zendacious, is available Friday" every time they asked her opinion. I made up that title but I'll put money on it.) I took back what I said when Heidi admitted she wouldn't wear the banana dress and it still got more camera time than anything else. The fix was in—she could have frozen her own urine for earrings and been lauded—and the only suspense centered around a fake-cry-off between Erin and Zac at the conclusion. Weird.

The right four made it to fashion week but it was all for show once Erin's fate was decided weeks earlier (as with politically correct Ashley last time) by someone High Up. Drag. I mean, those shorts she wears. The eye make-up. Prospective "Cambridge type" status. "Dope." Enough.

Up next: "Fuck this game" becomes a rallying cry and the Jets keep it closer than everyone expects, just not close enough. Merry Christmas!

Beer and football VII — week fourteen

The game: Ravens at Patriots
The beer: Northampton Conundrum Black Lager
The result: Win, 30–23
The commentary: It's always satisfying to beat up on the Ravens. This was a blowout all the way—those fluky fumbles had me emailing my dad the next day with an understated "It would have been a tough one to get over if the Ravens came back to win"—and Terrell Suggs's "You better hope you [don't? di'n't? ain't?] see us again!" warmed my heart. They learn nutrition at the NFL level and post-loss brattishness from John Harbaugh.

This past weekend was an early Christmas all over. On Saturday we drove—and drove—to Springfield for the "Bright Nights" spectacle we missed out on two years ago, with the rage and the disappointment. A late start reversed the agenda and Springfield was stop number one, in order to avoid the traffic that crippled us last time. It still took awhile and probably wasn't worth it but it was satisfying—as in realized—nonetheless. Never again, likely, but anything is better than having to tell G. "No." Dinner at the Northampton Brewery followed and then the girls went to Thorne's Marketplace while I split to sell more CDs at Turn It Up and buy a few bombers from Provisions, discovered during a summertime 2013 visit. It's a great town and I miss it—déjà vu and so on. (Little did I know that Shea McClellin would leap over the center to block a field goal on Sunday like Jamie Collins did two years ago. On the same weekend!) Again with the familiar looking-for-a-parking-space loops and the clean air and the old coots, this time at Turn It Up where one couldn't stop raving about the Stones' new Blue and Lonesome. Man, I was born just in time for them to suck forever.

On Sunday afternoon we finally got a Christmas tree and it's my first real one in forty-two years. Oh, the days of inserting color-coordinated "branches" into matching slots. It's still a little too tall and I remain surprised by the amount of sap it produces but it looks and smells great. Perhaps I'm converted. I'll just need to remember to ask the guy to take a few more inches off the stump next year.

Since real trees don't come pre-lit like, you know, something from a box, we had to shop for lights. At Target I found a nice Frozen-esque light blue, which was labeled "cool white" on the box for some reason even though the sample display so clearly shone blue. Well, they are actually cool white. Oh well, they're a huge improvement over the omnipresent pale yellow that passes for "warm white." Speaking of warm white, A. picked up some of those warm white LED window candles a few weeks ago. She cleaned Target out of their last six, leaving us with two undecorated windows on the side of the house that looked neglected. Cue Lalo Schifrin because finding numbers seven and eight was Mission: Fucking What the Fuck! After checking all the local Targets and learning that their website's location-specific "limited availability" translates to "jack shit" I resigned myself to ordering online.

Days later I receive this cursed email: "Something from your order has been canceled." Indeed, even the cloud or wherever Target.com stores their wares had limited availability. Drag. So we received one instead of two and that's almost worse than zero. The house and its symmetry was compromised and it bugged the living shit out of me until obsessive compulsiveness and a phone call rewarded me. I asked A. "Is it crazy if I go to New Hampshire tonight to get a candle?" and justified the forty-minute drive by reasoning that it takes twenty to get to "our" Target and, hey, twice as long is only twice as long. (Plus: cheap alcohol.) Accompanied on 95 by those Around the NFL bastards who propped up my hopes a few weeks ago I was relieved to finally obtain the elusive fucker—I bought other stuff we needed too, give me a break—but didn't let myself exhale until I got home, loaded it with (three double-A!) batteries and switched it on. I won this round and hopefully will have forgotten the entire affair this time next year when we bring the Christmas shit up from the basement and the candles are busted. Goddamn Philips.

Lots of driving and decorating means lots of Christmas music! Feliz Navidad, baby!

1. Bert – All Dressed Up
We must have listened to this ten times over the weekend. The version you can buy—or stream, or whatever you leasing youngsters prefer—strips out the dialogue for some reason and, therefore, a lot of the context. Between that last "galosh on my head" ("galosh," I love that) and "gloves on my ears," the Sesame Street Orchestra stretches out for ten seconds before everyone returns with "all the clothes on the right places." What happened during those ten seconds? If you watch the clip you'll know that Bert goes all "Fuck this shit!" and sets everyone straight, otherwise it's a beginning and an end without a middle. Luckily I know how to rip from YouTube.

2. Hep Stars – Christmas on My Mind
Collected on the improbably named Santa's Got Soul, as if Sam Cooke and the Impressions were also contributing. I guess Percy Sledge counts but Jeffrey Speight does not, particularly considering the subtitle "A Groovy Collection of Rare Soul and Psychedelic Rock Christmas Songs." Right. Sweden's own released Jul Med Hep Stars ("Christmas With the Hep Stars") in 1967 and most of it is lousy, but "Christmas on My Mind" is sped-up Farfisa joy.

3. Leslie West – Silent Night
The unrealized solution to a fragile, selfish, Cream-disintegrating Eric Clapton plugs in exactly halfway through his instrumental "Silent Night" and reminds of my midlife crisis collecting dust. I should sign up for guitar lessons already.

4. He 5 – Jingle Bells/In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida
Korean rock from the 1969 album Merry Christmas Psychedelic Sound. A minute forty of "Jingle Bells" followed by a sort of "My Girl" bridge, nine minutes of the jam and drum solo from "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" and a couple of premature (and ignored) "One, two, three, four!" count-ins before closing with a "My Girl"/"Jingle Bells" reprise. The greatest gift of the young holiday season.

5. Pilgrim Travelers – I'll Be Home for Christmas
Four volumes of Blues, Blues Christmas are waiting for you so go to your local library, sign up for a Freegal account, log in and download five songs a week for free. It will only take you eight months to get all one hundred seventy-six songs! Make the wonderful "I'll Be Home for Christmas" one of the early ones, for nothing captures the holiday season better. (Just don't check out The Dark Half. I wish it were The Dark Half As Long. Har! Har!)

Up next: The Patriots travel to Denver because the Patriots always travel to Denver. Cheers!

Beer and football VII — week thirteen

The game: Rams at Patriots
The beer: Ipswich Riverbend Pilsner
The result: Win, 26–10
The commentary: Last week, before the sad talk, I really got into it with potential tiebreaker scenarios for my ex-knockout pool. The raving led to a "Rooting for ties!" ecstasy that betrayed its improvised roots earlier in the same sentence. You see, I defined "a loss or a tie" as one point deducted, not added (opposing two added for a win), and this fact went out the memory hole twenty-five words later. Old age is a bastard.

The realization hit when introducing my "perfect" plan to A. later in the week during a conversation that, since it would decide nothing in our favor, interested her not at all. She twice told me "I don't get it"—she had a point—and misinterpreted everything as "So you assign different points to each game?" And there it is: genius! Indeed, should I be approached for ideas that do not crumble under minimal review, I will volunteer a confidence-pool solution, which I love even more than I did my heralded (by me) attempt before its unraveling.

Let's revise: "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, I'd assign the fewest points to those—as things stand now, if I'd lasted, both sides of week seventeen games Baltimore at Cincinnati [another fuck-up: I played Cincinnati in week four] New Orleans at Atlanta, Dallas at Philadelphia and others other low-tier affairs would be in play and I'd root for ties in each case to earn two points instead of one assign the fewest points to these. Rooting for against 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."

Much better. That is, unless Trump does his Trump thing.

Up next: Tonight! Patriots! Ravens! Deer antler spray! Deeecepppshunnn! Cheers!

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!