Playoffs, week one (bye)
The beer: Old Planters Crop Rotation India Pale Ale

Playoffs, week two
The game: Texans at Patriots
The beer: Mystic Hum Low-Frequency Porter
The result: Win, 34–16

The commentary: Low frequency my ass! Six straight conference championships for “those assholes”? Indeed, Mister Tomlin!

The Steelers, though, are no slouches. In re-tempting fate by bringing up past unpleasantness, a mere season removed from the doomed redux of a simple Pink Floyd excursion, the two teams’ dominance remains in place in the AFC. No matter what happens Sunday, the Patriots or the Steelers will appear in ten—ten!—of the last sixteen Super Bowls. (Including the Broncos makes it twelve of sixteen. And the Colts, fourteen of sixteen. And the Ravens, sixteen of seventeen. Pity the one-trick Raiders and curse the rest, for the NFC will have put forth a more parity-friendly eleven teams over the same seventeen seasons if the Packers advance and twelve if the Falcons do—rewind a little further, though, and the parity myth asserts itself throughout the league.)

Either way it will be nice to have a real playoff game. Last week’s generally regarded “double bye” wasn’t quite that when a handful of boneheaded plays by the good guys kept the Texans involved into the third quarter before Will Fuller V (this trend of Roman numerals on nameplates is troubling—lo, the broken links!) dropped Brock Osweiler’s best pass as a pro. This is why they play the games.

I was so unconcerned I didn’t think twice about relaxing with some wine, Thai food and Project Runway during the game after G. and I picked A. up at the airport earlier Saturday evening. The Patriots were going to win handily (right?) and I have a history of avoiding spoilers—how hard is it to turn your phone off for a few hours? Excepting Antonio Brown. (Har! Har!) Sunday morning, media blackout intact, panic made a few appearances without antidote—the porter awaited Packers–Cowboys since I didn’t want to serve G. her breakfast under the influence—and following Eric Rowe’s idiocy and Dion Lewis’s (first) fumble I wondered what kind of world existed outside my door had I peacefully slept through the unthinkable and its wake. Hysteria? Savagery? I dared not peek! Fuller’s drop—can it be so classified if he barely touched the ball?—settled my stomach through to the conclusion that was closer than indicated. Survive and advance, etc.

The AFC Championship will be different. NFC too, for that matter, since I plan to watch both live, with a likely break at halftime during Patriots–Steelers in order to remember I’m a father and help get G. ready for bed, with her “pretend I haven’t changed into my pajamas” this and her “pretend I didn’t brush my teeth” that. Pure joy and enthusiasm. I wonder what my state of mind will be as we read Tinka or maybe the liner notes to Back From the Grave, Vol. 2. “Willie figgered hisself to be a ’65 version of Brando, ’cept he had long purple hair and hung out with tough S&M biker chicks.” On the topic of rough sex, how will Roethlisberger have performed by then? Is he leading the team to touchdowns instead of field goals this time? Are Malcolm Butler, Devin McCourty and Logan Ryan (coming off a career game that he cannot match against not-Osweiler) on their way to holding Brown under a hundred yards? What about Alan Branch, Dont’a Hightower and the flu, have they done their part to “neutralize” Le’Veon Bell? And Patrick Chung against whoever their white tight end is this year? Will Tomlin go for two after every touchdown and then rip out his own beating heart in a demonstration of manhood?

On offense, will Brady regain his aversion to turnovers and pick apart the Steelers’ secondary once more? Will Malcolm Mitchell emerge as a legitimate weapon beyond a few impressive regular-season games? Who’s it going to be: LeGarrette Blount, Dion Lewis or James White? All of the above? None? Will Nate Solder and friends prevent the UPS guy from locating James Harrison’s hotel room? Can Julian Edelman just shut the fuck up already? Is Martellus Bennett capable of moving beyond this tired Undertaker act (thanks, PFW in Progress) and stand up immediately after suffering anything less than splinching, for crying out loud? Will twenty-seven points be achievable? Will twenty-seven points be enough?

Or…

Pestilence? Fallout? Is all this for naught as future generations refer to yesterday as “Before” and mark last year’s as the final Sobrabüülle of the once great (already) American Empire? I hope to find out Sunday, set to another concise and adept Phil Simms soundtrack. (Locusts?)

I’ll close with the wonderful Heather from Baltimore even if she agrees with Ray Lewis that “It’s Called Football Brady” (title case, no comma) and that murder charges and plea deals are no big thing. During the segment of Sound Opinions where people call in to yell at Jim and Greg after the Saints likely receive no residuals for the use of their “(I’m) Stranded,” Heather rang to offer up Gary Puckett & the Union Gap’s “Young Girl” as a “song that gives you the creeps” for a Halloween-themed episode (I’m a bit behind). Excellent choice. She can take it from here: “When I was growing up in the eighties, the song always came on oldies radio when my mom was driving and I would beg her to turn it off. I was little, I was probably seven, when I first noticed how creepy it was but it grossed me out well into my teenage years. I have heard it in the grocery store a few times and been very upset because I don’t want it near my food.” Bravo. Say hi to Terrell Suggs when you see him at the two o’clock showing of Why Him? tomorrow.

Up next: Drink up, folks, for we have a new president! Cheers?