The game: Patriots at Bengals
The beer: Martha’s Exchange Olde London Stout
The result: Loss, 13–6
The commentary: Bob Socci must be stopped. The new radio voice of the Patriots lied to me four times in an hour during a rainy second-half drive to Nashua: an interception (not an interception), two receptions (two drops) and Julian Edelman’s amazing “touchdown catch.” The world’s smallest violin.

Why the hell was I wasting time in the car during a playoff-implication game against a tough Bengals team? Because my old friend Ivan and I ventured north on Route 3 to witness the Misfits declare war on Nashua, New Hampshire. The last time we saw them was one of the greatest nights ever, so who was I to refuse? (No pantsings this time, but they did play “TV Casualty.”)

The evening (afternoon, actually) started at Martha’s Exchange in downtown Nausea. I was frantically flipping between the FM band and the Bluetooth receiver to hear the driving directions and drove right by the place, of course, just as the Pats’ chances were dwindling. I parked and Ivan pulled up right next to me. He had gone ahead to the concert venue (improbably called Bernie’s) to get tickets and asked me to guess how many opening bands there were. “Six,” I responded in jest. “How did you know??” Uh-oh, I wasn’t going to home before nine liked I’d hoped, and the “No nap” text I got from A. halfway through my first beer didn’t make me feel any better. We got inside Martha’s (which was attached to a gourmet chocolate shop because why not, so of course I grabbed an enormous peanut butter cup for A. before leaving—she had earned it) as the hurricane hit the fifty yard line and there was just a feeling of malaise about the game. Bob Socci and a mediocre stout will do that to a man. The inevitable loss couldn’t get us too down though—we had a long night ahead.

Next stop was Boston Billiards across town. That’s the thing about New England, you can stick “Boston” in front of anything unless you’re in Vermont. I think it used to be a bowling alley and it was enormous—there weren’t many people there and it felt like even fewer. The waitress was practically waiting for us at our pool table, and when I picked up the modest beer menu to ask “Is this what’s on tap?” she answered “These are our craft beers.” I stared blankly at her for several seconds, wondering what kind of world she lived in where craft beer cannot be found on tap, and she stared back at me with equal puzzlement, wondering if I could sneak her into Bernie’s. I broke the silence by settling on a “Sam Adams, please,” settling because their selection of “craft beers” didn’t move me. Nice safety beer though.

Ivan and I are pretty evenly matched so we traded wins and losses, much as the Broncos and Cowboys did touchdowns on the eight thousands TVs about the place. Did you see that game? Far out. Speaking of far out, we’d better motor if we’re going to catch the last three opening bands.

We arrive at Bernie’s and it’s exactly what I expected, in that it was Good Times North. Bad highway weed was everywhere. And the Misfits fans? The Misfits fans! And the Sunday Night Football! The… Sunday Night Football? I was thankful for the Niners and the Texans as some local shitstorm belted out its nonsense onstage.

The place was the place. We got a couple of beers (slumming with Captain Budweiser & His Magic Trots) and went upstairs, which provided the best view of the game and the din. Mohawks, cleavage… you could smell the damage. Bring on the Misfits already.

Our timing was perfect because Local Shitstorm closed amateur hour (amateur two-and-a-half hours). We made the educated guess and returned to the lower level, got some refills and moved to within fifteen feet of Jerry Only’s eventual microphone. Not three minutes later he entered from the parking lot via the general admission entrance (somewhere Glenn Danzig chuckled as he searched his couch cushions for autopsy photographs). Jerry and Dez and not-Robo were full-on and they opened with “We Are 138,” if I remember right, and I probably don’t. And look! Jerry’s wearing a MISFITS shirt. Just like everyone else in here!

Vest-less! What do you call a combination receding-hairline devil-lock? That poster makes him look a little fuller on top, don’t you think? We ended up in a perfect little spot, right between the pit and a wall. Maybe not everyone’s idea of perfect? It was like old times except I’m pushing forty. I impressed myself by not overreacting to some knucklehead spilling my own beer on me. It should have been water anyway. Finding that Dunkins on the way home was a bit of a life-saver.

Text message, 12:02 AM: “Wow, just leaving Nashua now. Mistake, but still fun. XO.” I survived a shirtless Jerry Only (not documented here), I survived that skank in the wheelchair, I survived nine-ball, I survived Geno Atkins and, thanks to G. crashing hard to sleep at some point in the evening, I survived the wrath of an exhausted wife and mother. Part two in a series of great nights with the Misfits.

Up next: Did you hear Dr. John’s comeback album last year? It’s pretty good. Cheers!