Beer and football VIII — week sixteen

The game: Bills at Patriots
The beer: Two Roads Holiday Ale
The result: Win, 37–16; Ravens win, 23–16; Ben wins, 5–2–1
The commentary: Completing last week's poem:

Wine before beer…
Death, I fear!

Wednesday was not so clean, as happens to the best of us in weaker moments. Weak, like Paul and Undefeated Tim trusting the traveling Lions more than the home Pats and Ravens, respectively.

Week sixteen outcome
Dan – Panthers over Buccaneers
Katie – Chiefs over Dolphins
Oren – Patriots over Bills Panthers over Buccaneers
Paul – Patriots over Bills Lions over (home) Bengals
Robin – Chiefs over Dolphins Bears over Browns
Tim – Ravens over Colts Lions over (home) Bengals

You've got to make it to week seventeen, Paul, if you're saving the Pats for then. And Tim? And Tim! He joins the rest of us with one loss and might be in trouble this week. (As if my locked-in… Lions… and I are feeling any better.) We are down to six, single-elimination style, with all level playing fields leading to playoff tiebreakers. The "Shall we split the pot?" emails are flying and Commissioner Rico isn't having it.

Week seventeen predictions
Dan – Vikings over Bears
Katie – Redskins over (home) Giants
Oren – Patriots over Jets
Robin – Saints over (home) Buccaneers
Tim – Ravens over Bengals

As indicated, I'm not feeling great about the Lions today. Jim Caldwell's hot seat has grown cold (since he reportedly won't be sitting there any longer) and if the Chiefs weren't locked into the fourth seed and starting a rooking quarterback in Denver then I'd be on them instead. Elsewhere, Dan, Oren and Robin should advance/finish easily while Katie, Tim and I are in toss-up territory. Who knows what happens with Rams–Niners so the Redskins are the only team that "makes sense" for Katie. I considered them for a few minutes but they have nothing to play for and probably stink anyway. Had Tim taken my Ravens last week then he'd likely be sweating over the Lions today so what do I know, though he'd still be undefeated and could avoid watching the Bengals purposely injure his team all afternoon as they normally do against NFC North opponents to close a season. What was I thinking with those assholes?

A quick comment regarding Survivor: once Jeff told Chrissy with a straight face that her "advantage" allowed her to choose one person to take to the final three instead of the usual two then they might as well have handed the check right to Ben. It was the equivalent of the AFC and NFC champs being told "Congratulations, you each get to play one more game before the Super Bowl!" Oh well. I actually liked the twist because the final immunity winner always had too much power but call it something else. A "crippler" or a "snafu." At least they're bringing in all new people next season—I think they've gotten the hint that A. and I, the only people in the world who still watch this show, don't ever want to see Rupert again.

More entertainment! Today it is official:

Crowned 2017 Biffy^® champion
(Thee) Oh Sees – Orc

And next year might be sealed up as well with the promise of what looks like a double album. Shades of Emotional Mugger's January inevitability:

Projected 2018 winner
Ty Segall – Freedom's Goblin

Here's hoping the rest of 2018 plays out so smoothly, with (election) results rewarding those who remember a time before "FAKE NEWS" defended all criticism. Someone should change our president's diaper. Pathetic! (But thanks for the Twitter template.)

Up next: Should I have insisted we split the pot after all? Happy new year!

Beer and football VIII — week fifteen

The game: Patriots at Steelers
The beer: Samuel Smith Winter Welcome Ale
The result: Win, 27–24; Jaguars win, 45–7
The commentary: Survivor's Jeff Probst, wisest of the wise, laid on the tribal-council empathy last week and—moments before Devon incomprehensibly voted out his lone ally, positioning Ben as his future destroyer instead of a possible swing voter in a Devon/Ashley–Chrissy/Ryan showdown—reasoned "I cannot look at tonight's vote, I have to look at the end and start looking backwards." Other than the "look" redundancy and my personal preference for "backward" over "backwards" (likewise, "toward" over "towards," etc.) I have to start thinking the same way before I lose my marbles. How will others pick? Who do I expect to… survive… each week based on the teams available to them? Is Undefeated Tim going to ride some Not-Browns bullshit to the end?

Call it the game within the game within the actual game(s). After four eliminations last week—Bengals–Bears took out Andy and Mike, who apparently can't read, and revived some bitter quick sizzle for breaking my streak; previously undefeated Dan similarly busted on the Pats, who struck Whining Peter outright; and the Titans took out Thomas because they're playing well enough to trust wholeheartedly with the Saints, Vikings, Seahawks and Ravens in his pocket (all of whom lost… oh well)—we're down to seven and, unless Paul's Falcons lose tonight, there will again be no movement after last week's relief. Drag.

Still, it doesn't hurt as bad if I see it coming. Four of the six picked the team I would have were I in their positions: Katie and Tim had the Vikings, Asterisk Oren the Saints and Paul the Falcons, even though I couldn't possibly wait until Monday Night Football. Dan decided he didn't want to save the Ravens for the Colts next week—like I did—and Robin preferred the Wentz-less Eagles and another nail-biter against the Geeee Mennnn instead of Saints–Jets. Survive, advance and do anything to keep it interesting.

Week sixteen predictions
Dan – Panthers over Buccaneers
Katie – Chiefs over Dolphins
Oren – Patriots over Bills
Paul – Patriots over Bills
Robin – Chiefs over Dolphins
Tim – Ravens over Colts

Shit, since we're here…

Heroes vs. Healers vs. Hustlers finale forecast
First elimination – Devon (four against one, he votes for Ben)
Second elimination – Chrissy (three against one, she also votes for Ben)
Third-place bystander who receives no winning votes – Ryan
Runner-up drag-along who never stood a chance – Mike (with Lauren's vote)
One! Survivor! – Ben (with the rest, including the producers')

This is fun! A Bucs upset tonight could affect Dan—and certainly Paul—while a Panthers blowout maybe sways Robin to their side. Oren and Paul will be tempted to do the same and push the Pats into a potentially meaningless week seventeen (Jets). Too risky. What do I know.

(That's right, I'm back to talking almost exclusively about the knockout pool. You stopped reading ages ago anyway.)

Pats–Steelers was unspoiled primetime action, with a professional (despite the photo) and surreal (aren't they all?) performance of The Nutcracker in Beverly (same theater) taking precedence that afternoon. Clara might as well have joined us in the audience for the second act. The evening's main event featured a less-itchy trigger finger in order to appreciate how these teams match up—it was an important game and I didn't want to miss anything… except for replays of several huge Steeler gains. For this reason I pouted and blew past the catch/not-a-catch drama, skipping ahead to the inevitable point-after kick. And skipping. What was taking so long? Arriving at Tony Corrente's reversal I was slightly euphoric and, upon watching one replay and determining "No catch!" without wondering how I'd feel were Gronk the tight end, braced myself for a third down that would likely clinch the win. (Later, re-watching the entire sequence, it was obvious that the television angles did not show enough to overturn the touchdown call—was Jesse James's right hand under the ball when it moved?—and that Jim Nantz and Tony Romo didn't even consider an incompletion to be in the cards. Three minutes later Roethlisberger and the offense were equally perplexed and, somehow, seemed unprepared to run another play. Exhibit A if you're wondering why Belichick and Brady have won five in a row and eleven—eleven!—of thirteen overall against these guys.

The acronym holiday party takes place on company grounds tomorrow before we likely regroup at some bar or other afterward. Consensus proclaimed Monday's InterContinental VaGina affair a Pats-usurping, shrimp-less letdown that produced no drama—cutting myself off after four more-or-less chugged Sam Winters was proper etiquette. A respectable train ride home reading Agatha Christie and marveling over my strong core (i.e., bladder) meant I could blast through that steaming pile of Dolphins game in an hour and keep Tuesday equally respectable. Will Wednesday be so clean? What completes the "Wine before beer" couplet?

Up next: The whole hood want Gronk? Fine. Merry Christmas!

Beer and football VIII — week fourteen

The game: Patriots at Dolphins
The beer: Samuel Adams Winter Lager
The result: Loss, 27–20; Bengals lose, 33–7
The commentary: You get what you ask for and this defense still blows. Phooey.

Up next: Mike Tomlin oozes masculinity out of his pores. Cheers!

Beer and football VIII — week thirteen

The game: Patriots at Bills
The beer: Long Trail Ale
The result: Win, 23–3; Chargers win, 19–10
The commentary: Nothing more about the knockout pool until people start getting knocked out again. Three straight weeks at eleven with the playoffs likely coming into play? Gimme a break. In the spirit of "nothing," I'm a bad father who took no pictures of his daughter last weekend, so here's one Facebook reminded me about from six years ago. Those cheeks! That skepticism!

Leaving work last week the friendly security guard pointed at my copy of Player Piano (not as good as I remembered, though the second half triumphs) and asked how many books I read a year. "Do you keep track of them?" "Um, no. I should!" I met E. Christopher Clark at a local author fair recently and liked the sound of his Those Little Bastards story collection. One sample download later and the opening "Revelation" was strong enough to earn my three bucks on Kindle—he had me thinking of Vonnegut, for crying out loud. A dozen pages later he lost me with the hateful and tasteless "Hacker." Two more sexual-awakening romps reminded that a bag of Doritos also costs three bucks. "Deux ex Machina" returned, with less success, to the enjoyable "Revelation" storyline but the juvenile, erectile, bad-fantasy stink lingered like a broken-in Body of Evidence cassette. Several stories remain, some with promising titles "Death by Cursor" and "Two Weirdos, a Shovel and Lots of Open Land," but Clark has a lot to overcome—keep it to adult themes instead of adult situations, alright? Bokononism weeps.

And hey, sixty-nine (har! har!) cents more and I've got Edgar Allan Poe's Complete Essays, Literary Studies, Criticism, Cryptography and Autography, Translations, Letters and Other Nonfiction Works in response to lingering "complete works" despondency. Now I can read three essays about street-paving techniques of the mid nineteenth century: "Why has not the mineralizing process been adopted in the preparation of the wooden blocks with which we have so frequently experimented in the pavement of our streets?" Compelling!

Speaking of marginalia, is it Christmas yet? Let's start naming these playlists: I'm Weary All the Time the Time.

1. Billie Holiday – Stormy Weather
"Billie Holiday received numerous awards and accolades while still alive and posthumously. These include being inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame, the Ertegun Jazz Hall of Fame, the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, the ASCAP Jazz Wall of Fame and the Biff! Bang! Pow! Hall of Early December 2017 Excellence in Holiday Sequencing."

2. Fuzz – Sleigh Ride
Newly anointed "Christmas music" copied over from my regular library this year, alongside Fuzz's "Sleigh Ride": Guided by Voices's "Snowman," Nazz's "Under the Ice," the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion's "High Gear," the Groundhogs' "Snowstorm," Unwound's "December," Captain Beefheart's "Steal Softly Thru Snow," the Mothers of Invention's "Uncle Bernie's Farm," DR Hooker's "Winter," Six Finger Satellite's "Deep Freeze," the Misfits' "TV Casualty" ("Christmas cards to which I never reply!") and Metallica's "Trapped Under Ice." Ridiculous.

3. Ginger Baker's Air Force – We Free Kings
That Blind Faith redesign is my crowning achievement.

4. Second Hand – Death May Be Your Santa Claus
Merry proggy Christmas! These are the seasonal problems I create for myself: ten minutes deciding between the standard "Death May Be Your Santa Claus" and its extendo-jam "Reprise" for inclusion in a blog post no one will read.

5. Bobby Timmons – Deck the Halls
Timmons' great Prestige Records release Holiday Soul from 1966—not to be confused with Don Patterson's good Prestige Records release Holiday Soul from 1964—is a welcome addition this year since A. is embracing more of jazz's depth. Meanwhile, G. just wants to hear "Christmas Wrapping" over and over. How much better would new wave bands have been without bad eighties saxophones?

Up next: Sure, go ahead and schedule that InterContinental VaGina holiday party during the Pats on Monday Night Football. Cheers!

Beer and football VIII — week twelve

The game: Dolphins at Patriots
The beer: Little Wolf Pale Ale
The result: Win, 35–17
The commentary: Discouragement looms over a new installment of "Beer and knockout-pool drama." Six projected outcomes resulted in eleven wins: Katie, the third and final Mike, Robin and I went with the Pats; Andy and Dan with the Falcons; Asterisk Oren and Paul with the Ravens; Peter with the Eagles; Thomas with the Panthers; and Tim with the Bengals. Regret, too, looms as a last-minute decision to forgo the Redskins on Thanksgiving night—karma, etc.—means the Pats are no longer an option. Drag. I'm formally sketching out the remainder of the season with teams I don't fully trust or even understand. Chiefs? Lions? Bengals? Who are you people?

The silver lining is a fair playing field: when Paul related to me Tuesday that he emailed his Pats pick to Commissioner Rico a few minutes after one o'clock on Sunday—am I the only one who cares about this thing?—he was told "Too late, no dice." The lack of mercy is appreciated. The pathetic Texans against his fallback Ravens were not.

Rooting for lousy teams to overcome odds, outside of Chiefs–Giants, has been a degrading experience. Sunday should avoid this miasma, assuming everyone falls in line behind me and the Chargers over the Browns. (Jaguars—who the hell are they, anyway?—over Colts is off the table for all but me.) The Chargers are the pick—everyone can and everyone should. Those who don't are either scared off by last season's affair—I don't know if the Browns' first and last win affected the pool because I was out by then—or… whatever. Garoppolo in Chicago? (Tempting.) Geno time in Oakland? (Not so much.) Gronkowski in Buffalo? (Save it for the home rematch.) "LAC" will likely fill the Excel row despite Rico's Not-Browns disdain and, should that be the case, I'll again root for a lousy team to overcome odds, eliminate eight players and leave Dan, Tim and me with one strike apiece. "No mask? No mask!" Beautiful.

Then next week I can take the Chiefs, the Lions or the Bengals. Goddammit.

Up next: Remember when the Bills were good? Me neither. Cheers!

Beer and football VIII — week eleven

The game: Patriots vs. Raiders
The beer: Boulevard Tough Kitty Milk Stout
The result: Win, 33–8; Steelers win, 40–17; Brandon Kentaro wins, 4–0–0–0
The commentary: The Geeee Mennnn! Hal, Asterisk Jeff, Stephanie, the third and final Tom and the Kansas City Chiefs were no match for the Giants, G. and me at A&B Burger in Beverly following Pooka in the Woods. "Here kid, color on your own so I can observe my encroaching degeneracy and engross myself in the closing minutes of high-stakes football game"—I am the perfect horrible parent and she's doomed to a casino lifestyle. We're down to eleven, folks, and the bad juju/bad karma elements are gathering as I consider the Redskins over the celebrated Geeee Mennnn tomorrow night. Pats over Dolphins instead to simplify the weekend's rooting interests? Too soon? Is mine a winner's mentality?

I forgot to talk about Kentaro winning Part Two of the Season Finale of Project Runway last week. This is clearly a separate series from the proper Project Runway and if I didn't enjoy the design process so much I'd skip right to Fashion Week. Why bother to watch: Brandon win three times, place or show five more and never once land on the bottom; Kentaro sleepwalk through the season, win one challenge, perform well in three others and nearly collapse down the stretch while ignoring all criticism throughout; Ayana coast before peaking at the right time with a top–win–top sequence in the final three non-finale challenges; and Margarita in general because of her entitlement and atrocious taste. Even Claire and Shawn fizzled out in a blatant attempt to get their own show—stunt casting at its finest. Maybe Kentaro did have the best finale collection but to act as if anything Brandon—or Ayana—did in the previous thirteen episodes was immaterial in deciding the season winner then why am I wasting my time instead of starting Stranger Things upon its release?

I rooted for Brandon all along and was emotionally prepared for Ayana to come through in his place. His collection was a little samey but still good enough to not undo all that came before—I'm not sure the judges had one negative thing to say about his creativity, vision, construction, methods, fabric choices, versatility or styling—and, therefore, he was robbed. Not like Mondo but right up there with Kelly last season. Tim Gunn, I wish I knew how to quit you.

Speaking of inappropriate usage of the N word, the Old Lady Book Club and I discussed Ben Winters's Underground Airlines last night. A's uncle once criticized the motivation behind Mad Men as an excuse to write for prejudiced and chauvinistic characters who smoke all the time and I could apply that thinking here: it's "acceptable" in the Airlines world for black characters to be derided and mistreated so, by Winters's own rules, it's OK for him to profit, financially and critically ("Astonishing!" "Extraordinary!"), from his contrived racism set piece. Good for him, though he should learn how to write. The Pride and Prejudice and Zombies fad is no classroom and Cthulhu weeps.

This book sucked and I wasn't the only one at the library—the very same "library" from "Library Book Club"—who thought so. Still, there was much talk of action, intrigue and twists that must have been edited out of my copy. Winters starts with a strong concept (if speculation is your thing), tweaks a few political milestones between Lincoln's time and ours and leaves most of the rest of history untouched by noted quantum physicist Ashton Kutcher's butterfly effect. For every shrewd rewrite shifting economic dominance from the North to the South there remain FDR and LBJ presidencies (at least). The humanitarian outside world shuns the US and imposes trade sanctions… and Michael Jackson is a cultural phenomenon. James Brown abandons the US in favor of European stardom… but he still has the opportunity in the first place. Texas secedes, the Carolinas unify… and the Toyota Altima exists as a practical vehicle. Oh, and the real Underground Railroad has been replaced not with an Underground Airlines—a term the protagonist discredits almost immediately, damning the author's turn of phrase as a throwaway line—but rather with an actual underground railroad: a subway! I'll take my metaphor with a large pile of rocks, please.

Most decisions by Winters and Victor/Brother/Whozits alike are half-baked, as if they started at the solution and worked backward before tiring. Slavery remains legal in the South until some states abolish it as no longer… suiting their needs? It's never explained. "Carolina" exists because "the Hard Four" (decided upon arbitrarily—how does Georgia deviate from Carolina?) sounds better than "the Hard Five." And super-detective Whozits? The runaway is in the drainage tunnel! The driver had the package all along! Martha can single-handedly carry this entire espionage sequence! How did he reach these conclusions? Who cares.

The Martha bit required the biggest leap. She's introduced as a helpless teenager-type who gets busted crashing a cheap continental breakfast and suddenly we're to take her for a dynamic business opportunist with sexual powers? Whose cherished, vulnerable son is written out of the story as "staying with her sister"? I wasn't buying it either. What is Winters trying to accomplish here aside from should-a-white-guy-write-this controversy? (I admit to feeling uncomfortable reading it on the train due to the subject matter but not with The Cold Six Thousand, a more racially brutal book that doesn't hide behind science fiction.) To inform us that slavery is an American embarrassment and racism exists everywhere and always? Thanks for the news brief. The book club's head Lady, raised in Virginia, shared a remark last night from a former psychology professor: "In the South, white people hate the black race and love the black individual. In the North, they love the race and hate the individual." This provokes more thought than any sub-Dan Brown adventure.

Unfortunately I'm missing next month's meeting because of an office party. No, not at the InterContinental VaGina, that's earlier in December. But an open bar rules all, especially when the book is Same Kind of Different As Me and most Amazon reviewers agree it is "heartwarming," "touching" and "inspirational." Pass. The one-star reviews tell me all I need to know: "How many evangelical clichés can you fit in one book?" "By the time the author had the wife on her deathbed motioning as if climbing Jacob's Ladder I was just sickened." "Do you have it in DVD? Because that's what I thought I bought." I'll see you all in January with The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry. ("A gorgeously poignant novel of hope and transformation." Good grief.)

Up next: It's the annual guilt trip over skunky, expired Sam Adams versus whichever beer I bring to Connecticut. Happy Thanksgiving!

Beer and football VIII — weeks nine and ten

Week nine (bye)
The beer: Down the Road Patchwork Kilt Scottish-Style Ale
The result: Saints win, 30–10

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Week ten
The game: Patriots at Broncos
The beer: Lagunitas NightTime Ale
The result: Win, 41–16; Seahawks win, 22–16

---

The commentary: Root for either the Saints or the Seahawks. Almost: root for both the Saints and the Seahawks in that order. That was the key, and since Saints–Bucs was a one o'clock contest two weeks ago I didn't want to be in a position to kick myself had they won without my taking them. Looking ahead—which I can afford to do with one game still to give (for now)—I assumed the Seahawks would beat the Redskins in Seattle and carry that momentum to Arizona, so why not keep them in my pocket another week? And it worked out, sure, but following that wild finish on a phone—while your wife reads your daughter a bedtime story—is not recommended. A win is a win but a six-point, closing-moments win is not as comfortable as multiple-touchdown differentials since week four. And that safety? That fucking safety. As if I could handle another five-point affair. I'm glad they're no longer an option.

Thursday wins are the best, leaving the weekend clean to anticipate everyone else's picks and root hard against, for example, the Lions. The Browns looked good (on my phone, anyway) for awhile before they went all Browns and dashed a sketched-out "Detroit Music" motif you're reading in an alternate universe. Drag. No losers except for Alex and the Jets for some reason. I admire that to a point—I wish I had the guts to take them over the Bills in week nine—but he went out leaving the Pats, Eagles, Steelers and Vikings on the table in favor of two AFC East also-rans (Dolphins in week three). So long, chump. Fifteen people remain, all but two non-Jarrods—Dan and Tim, whose potential scenarios now play out in a separate spreadsheet—playing a single-elimination game. We need movement—it's almost Thanksgiving!

How 'bout them Patriots? And Brock? That poor guy on the sideline missed becoming the Halloween costume of the year by twelve days—it wouldn't be difficult to affix a football to your forehead and rig a Broncos hat to float three feet behind your head. Lost opportunities aside, I agree with everyone calling this a "classic" Patriots win. The offense capitalizing on an opponent's mistakes, strong special-teams play, adequate defense… this result is and always will be forty points scored and a halftime so free of stress that you fall asleep for the second time this season. It's good to have Tom Brady backstage, waiting for the right moment to be ensnared in my RICO conspiracy. Those others, though: Kirk Cousins, Alex Smith, Cam Newton, Matthew Stafford, Blake Bortles? Movement.

I'm learning that my copy of The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe is not called The Complete Tales, Poems and Essays for a reason, though it could be The Complete Tales (More or Less), Poems and a Handful of Essays, in which case I would criticize its use of "handful" because that's what I've become. The "more or less" qualification comes from my volume's exclusion of the (likely) unfinished "The Light-House" (though its conclusion succeeds without detailing what took the place of "solid masonry"), a cobbled-together draft of his play Politian and the incomplete serial novel The Journal of Julius Rodman, the last of which I've yet to read but is (like "The Light-House") included in a different "complete" collection I've since downloaded to my iPad. So, yeah, just when I thought all that remained was The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket, Wikipedia calls bullshit on that with a list of "other works." I'll still save Pym for last but the question remains: will I cop out and read the Kindle version or remain loyal to the thick book I've owned for twenty-plus years and, recently, been content to lug around as a carrying case for my Sip Café punchcard? It's odd to have read every word (minus the poetry—that mode of expression isn't for me) and then leave off the closing epic. But the convenience? These are the problems I create for myself.

Meanwhile, I finished this month's "Library Book Club" selection Underground Airlines. It sucked. More on that and the Ladies next time.

Up next: The Steelers won for me on Thursday so I'll pour all of my non-Patriots-in-Mexico energy into a Browns upset, figuring everyone else will run with the Jaguars. "I Love Living in Jacksonville, Florida" motif? Cheers!

Beer and football VIII — week eight

The game: Chargers at Patriots
The beer: Murphy's Stout
The result: Win, 21–13; Vikings win, 33–16
The commentary: "Come on you motherfuckers! I'm supposed to win this goddamn thing!" Competition brings out the worst, particularly when your heavy favorite is settling for field goals and your wife and daughter are out of the house. Entitlement is ugly.

Another week correcting earlier damage done by the Dolphins, Steelers (twice) and Falcons (twice more) leaves us with an in-the-black twenty through eight weeks, thanks (presumably) to a forgotten Hotmail password two weekends ago—welcome to the late nineties, Craig. But wait: "in-the-black"? I've plotted out the projected failure rate required for me to win this goddamn thing—the "remaining," "undefeated" (four) and "magic number" (twenty-two) figures are promising against the benchmark (twenty-eight, twenty-eight and fifty-six, respectively) but if the "remaining" line stays flat for three more weeks then I'll be in the red and concerned. Maybe Sunday will be better. Maybe I should relax.

It was a week to drink. Wednesday saw an evening with Commissioner Rico himself! He is knocked out and done with this shit, since CBS's strict anti-gambling policy zero-tolerance racketeering scheme piles on the manual work. "Are you gonna win?" I hope so, man, because it sounds like you aren't doing this next year. My spreadsheet and I remain the logical successor(s) but I won't do the crime since I can't do the time. Put the next round of Lawson's IPAs on Ice Cube's tab.

On Friday I met Hector, Ivan and Oleg at the Trillium Beer Garden because eight-dollar beers are better enjoyed outdoors in the dark. Ivan and Oleg were pregaming a Mighty Mighty Bosstones concert (shudder) while Hector wonderfully took his time relating an HR nightmare involving sex, race-bating and videotape. As if management isn't for suckers. Dinner at Mr. Dooley's invited an appreciation for Murphy's stout, "vegetarian" platters consisting of beef stew and shepherd's pie and a typecast Irishman (pictured) playing the music of Pink Floyd—shudder—and other seventies mainstays. Our waitress was made to constantly repeat herself but it wasn't due to the noise. "Excuse me?" Typecast.

Somehow we never hit the Caddyshack bar—"T'anks fer nuttin!" At least Hector didn't get a parking ticket and I caught the nine ten with ease, spitting out two hundred half-assed words while waiting to board. I learned at dinner that Hector and Oleg are semi-regular readers (!) and, therefore, potential members of the "Biff! Bang! Now!" Facebook group I'll one day create in a drunken fever dream. "Yeah, I mostly skip over the football stuff." Good luck.

Up next: Root for either the Saints or the Seahawks. You've come this far, baby. Cheers!

Beer and football VIII — week seven

The game: Falcons at Patriots
The beer: Anderson Valley Fall Hornin' Pumpkin Ale
The result: Win, 23–7; Cowboys win, 40–10
The commentary: I thought the death blow was coming for us all. Given the reasons I listed last week, none more so than "watch your ass," I suspected an overabundance of Steelers, Panthers, Titans and, yes, Cowboys enthusiasts (since no one took the Chiefs) would be dragged into mediocre depths. Instead the weekend played out as an overdue correction—no losses, no eliminations… even though Craig didn't register a pick. We're down to twenty if he's out. I'll have a word with Commissioner Rico about that.

A fifteen-minute timer designed to wake me after a Super Bowl LI-II halftime power-nap? These are the innovations I create for myself. Falling back asleep minutes into the third quarter? Not so much. I missed nothing except for the possible end of the Falcons' short run of success. And the Pats? Their first signature had-em-all-the-way win of the season. "Maybe, just maybe, there's the one you need." DVR is wonderful.

A different year, a different scarecrow and a different attempt to use distance and scale to keep G. young and small. It won't work forever. Drag.

Up next: Remember, "Frankenstein" refers to the scientist and not the creature. Happy Halloween!

Beer and football VIII — week six

The game: Patriots at Jets
The beer: Ballast Point Dead Ringer Oktoberfest Lager
The result: Win, 24–17; Texans win, 33–17
The commentary: "Recency bias is one of the trickier forms of bias that may interfere with an effective performance review. When managers RICO perps are affected by this they tend to over- or undervalue short-term events to the detriment of the employee's long-term performance one's undocumented winnings. Failing to take into account the entire time period can lead to ineffective and false results." Man, I had to clean up a lot of grammar and redundancy there. Maybe "learn that" before teaching anything else.

I blame recency bias for thirty-six outright eliminations through six weeks so far, a ridiculous total befitting the season. Last week saw Atlanta and Denver wound three players and murder ten more and I was lucky to avoid both: Atlanta because I'd already picked them in a white-knuckle opening week and Denver because, plainly, I hadn't the patience to wait for Sunday Night Football. "Ohhh, Sunday night." Enjoy your artificial career and dipshit fanbase, Carrie Underwood.

Inner turmoil over recency bias—and its backlash—consisted of the following points and counterpoints last weekend:
1. The Falcons are too good to lose two in a row.
2. The Falcons are too good to lose at home to the Dolphins.
3. The Dolphins are awful.
4. Both Jay Cutler and the Dolphins have fucked me before.
5. Thee Falcons? Indeed…

6. The Broncos never lose at home.
(6½. The Broncos never play away from home.)
7. The Giants are awful.
8. As a Patriots fan, the Giants can never be counted out.
9. The Giants are due.
10. "Ohhh, Sunday night…"

11. Deshaun Watson and the offense are good enough to overcome the losses of JJ Watt and Whitney Mercilus on defense.
12. The Browns are awful.
13. The Browns, maybe, are historically awful.
14. The Browns will win a game this season.
15. Watch your ass.

This was the progression and, in the end, I felt pretty good that the Texans would whoop the Browns in a league where such confidence is often punished. I was certain the Dolphins had no chance in Atlanta and would absolutely have taken them birds were I able. Thank goodness for small, twenty-two-hundred-unit favors because the Falcons by themselves are responsible for sixteen strikes, second only to the Steelers and their twenty-five. In related news, I'm considering said Steelers over the Bengals on Sunday.

"I'm feeling pretty good."
Hillary Clinton
October 27, 2016

Here is this week's attempt (so far) to buck recency bias and pick a team that won't keep me awake all weekend, phase one of which lasted until kickoff last night and was rewarded immediately upon waking this morning:
1. The Chiefs are too good to lose two in a row.
2. Charcandrick West is out but Tyreek Hill is in.
3. Derek Carr's fractured spine can't hold up over two games in five days.
4. It would be nice to get a win out of the way before the weekend.
5. Are the Raiders bad enough to doom their season so early?
6. Carr's stats against the Chargers weren't bad for someone with a fractured spine.
7. I'd feel better if the game were being played in Kansas City.
8. The Raiders are honoring Al Davis and the 1967 AFL championship team.
9. It's bad juju to pick against a team after picking them—successfully—to win earlier in the season…

10. The Panthers are due to bounce back.
11. Mitch Trubisky is potentially lousy.
12. The Bears stink.
13. Thee Bears…

14. Domestic violence is preferable to… air-pressure gamesmanship?… so Ezekiel Elliott is playing.
15. The 49ers stink.
16. The 49ers have kept things interesting since week two.
17. The 49ers kept things too interesting in week three.
18. The Cowboys are a total wild card and I have never picked for or against them through four-plus seasons of knockout-pool entertainment…

19. The Steelers are probably kind of pretty decent.
20. Ninety-one percent of NFL "experts" can't be wrong again.
21. Those twenty-five strikes noted above have resulted in ten eliminations.
22. The Bengals have only scored eighty-four points so far but have given up eighty-three.
23. The Misfits are not walking through that door…

24. The Titans eventually looked dominant against a shitty Colts team on Monday.
(24½. I'm still rooting for Jacoby Brissett.)
25. Marcus Mariota can borrow someone else's hamstring for a few hours.
26. The Browns, maybe, are historically awful.
27. In a season lacking sure things, the Titans are not a sure thing.
28. I'd feel better if the game were being played in Nashville.
29. I'd feel better if the Titans were called the Nashville Kings.
30. Watch your ass.

I still don't know whom to pick—or whom to pick against—and I'm overthinking things even worse than I did leading up to 2015's Raiders–Bears unpleasantness. I even resorted to superstition in noting to A. this morning that the Chiefs' loss, after a last-minute recusal, is "maybe a good omen." I'm holding onto this extra life like it's Rush'n Attack and I need to get on with it.

As for the Patriots, I considered them last weekend as well but decided to save them for a later game when their intentions will hopefully be clearer. One can dream. It should never have come down to an overturned touchdown but that's the way it is with this defense. A win is a win (PFW's Paul Perillo admitted to feeling guilty over the touchback and I agree that it is an odd rule) (just like the tuck rule!) but I'm dying for a comfortable blowout sometime soon. It probably won't come Sunday night—"Ohhhhh, Sunday night"—against an equally flawed Falcons team in a game that has generated more talk about whether or not it can be called a "Super Bowl rematch" (since the stakes are different) than about how the teams are sloppy, unreliable shadows of their 2016 selves. Both offenses and both defenses have something to prove and, if I were to gamble outside CBS's lawless haven, I would take the over.

And if I were (shudder) a Jets fan? I'd prefer that a team of overachievers win as many games as possible and compete well in losing efforts. Drew Bledsoe was the consolation prize in 1993, not the goal, and some other dude was a sixth-round afterthought.

Nothing out of the ordinary from the Old Lady Book Club meeting the other night. I timed things perfectly and finished Romantic Outlaws on the train ride home that evening, though only two others were so fortunate—I couldn't read six hundred pages in a month either were it not for my commute. Clearly, bizarrely, I was the most enthusiastic about the double biography and its alternating-chapter format, suggesting that it was the only way to present both Marys in detail while demonstrating the parallels in their lives (so much so that we all admitted to occasionally checking the chapter headers to see whom we were actually reading about). One Lady said the book bored her with constant reminders of female oppression in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries since it was "nothing new," to which I responded that this eye-opening account might be the reason I enjoyed it so much. My input was welcome, I appreciated the discourse—avoiding the instant closure of "finishing one book and starting another five minutes later" like I'm about to do with Ian McGuire's The North Water—and I'm glad I joined. Up next for the Ladies and me is Ben Winters's Underground Airlines, another among a strange batch of "thought-provoking" speculative fiction where the bad guys prevail. "What if the Civil War never happened?" "What if Germany won World War II?" "What if the moon landed on us?" Enough. At three hundred something pages, though, more readers should finish this time.

Up next: Julio Goddamn Jones. Cheers!