The game: Buccaneers at Patriots
The beer: True North Coco-Nilla-Zilla Stout
The result: Loss, 19–17
The method: Live via Peacock
The headline: “There’s something here that doesn’t last too long.” – Nazz, “Hello It’s Me”

The commentary: Adele, eh? I see her and raise (the) Nazz, admitting “Hello It’s Me” isn’t a great song despite a strong chorus that the Zombies should have nicked. Even the band relegated it to B-side status and stuck it on their first album only after some AM-radio eggheads preferred it to the fucking great “Open My Eyes” A-side. And then? And then! Liv Tyler-siring Todd Rundgren—change my mind—re-recorded it for another hit in 1972, perfecting that American singer/songwriter sound that instantly aged everything of its kind. The uninformed layman would probably place the Nazz version in ’68 or ’69, maybe ’70… or ’79… ’82… ’94… five years ago (Tame Impala, anyone?)—it’s straightforward and pretty without gimmicks that tie it to American garage bands of the psychedelic era. Solo Rundgren’s, though, is a firmly ’72/’73/’74 production from the opening seconds and leaves no doubt whatsoever, so pleased with itself and dead on arrival at the same time. How contemporary artists like Bill Withers and (to a point) Lou Reed, not to mention Europeans Can and Hawkwind, avoided that shit-gloss is a goddamn miracle.

Last week’s post didn’t age well but that’s alright. No one read it. “Confident loss?” Well, sure, they did lose, and might have even if Folk’s kick doinked right. Brady with a minute left? How many times have we seen that?

(Speaking of confidence: “Avoid [the Saints] in your variety of legal and legitimate knockout pools, folks.” Nailed it! And then ignored it! You know there’s only one football team in the state of New York, right?)

This week I bring the Cam-Newton-versus-Seahawks sunshine. It was a heartbreaking loss, similar to the delayed Dolphins game from three weeks before when the good guys had a chance and failed. But… I feel better today than I did the Tuesday after the Jets win. Mac Jones is the future, worse than Brady, better than Newton and (so far) better than Andy Dalton. If Jones came through—and, despite how much I now enjoy yelling “Toy Store!” at the TV whenever Kendrick Bourne makes a play, this game was all Joker—he would have earned the win instead of stolen it under different Dolphins and Saints results. But if Jones completed the comeback head-to-head against Brady, it wouldn’t belong in the “gotten away with one” category—matter of fact, I’d be preparing that semi-colon key for the inevitable mid-January “weeks sixteen and seventeen; playoffs, week one” post. Not quite “Who needs Brady?” and not at all “I knew it was Belichick done it!” but closer, maybe, to Sexual Dussault’s “exciting” football. Because eight straight AFC Championship appearances and three out of five Super Bowl titles—during the second half of the dynasty—were tedium on par with Rundgren’s Initiation.

I dropped five bucks for four hours of live “Peacock Premium” and wasn’t granted a prorated refund upon reverting to the free version. Drag. It was fun to wait for commercials to use the bathroom again, though, and to lose the ability to skip forward and back, in which case I might have missed Cris Collinsworth calling borderline-serviceable Deatrich Wise (Jr.) the team’s “best overall defensive player.” Good times. See you in February for the Winter Olympics, Peacock Premium. That Locast judge can suck it.

Up next: Excuse me, Tina, but can we go straight to the basement? Never mind, the Alamo is in San Antonio. Instead: John McClain is a national goddamn treasure. Welcome to the party, pal! Cheers!