The game: Dolphins at Patriots
The beer: Peak Organic Fresh Cut Pilsner
The result: Win, 38–7
The commentary: My cousin (the one on the right) got married in Maine on Saturday and, until a couple of months ago, the plan was for A. and me to make a grown-up getaway weekend out of it, complete with mature themes and all that go with them. G. called baloney on that after receiving a personal invitation from said cousin. Great? Family weekend it is!

A grounded canoe full of iced Peak Organic solves everything, even if it’s also full of Budweiser and LaCroix. And disposable cameras, distributed to all of the children in attendance (quite a few), allowed for adult conversations that weren’t constantly interrupted by requests to play bocci and cornhole (“Daddeee, come on!”). I don’t know if the things will be developed and shared but G. documented all area flowers, mushrooms and spider webs thoroughly. Later, during the self-serve-wine (and lodge-artwork-critique) portion of the evening, Aladdin started up on a corner TV and G. was occupied for another ninety minutes. Afterward we convinced her to dance with us for a bit—just not in time for “Walk on the Wild Side” “Can I Kick It?”—before hitting the road. We even saw a raccoon on the way to the hotel. The night was a success.

The Dolphins were what we thought they were (and have been) for a long time and Ryan Tannehill remains a better firecracker deliveryman than a handler of on-target shotgun snaps. Early and obvious blowout signifiers made it easy to fly through the recorded “primetime” game without remorse and I hope for more of the same tonight. I’m fucking exhausted.

Up next: Set the skip-forward duration to ten seconds because I’m asleep by midnight. Old age is a bastard. Cheers!