Buffalo. Football. Hockey. Rock. Jokes. Booze. Rust.
I had a conversation recently about what my gateway beer was, something I hadn’t thought about before. Looking back, though, it’s almost certainly Magic Hat #9, which was sweet enough to handle but complex enough to interest a college kid. I never would have touched the stuff, being broke all the time, if I wasn’t getting them free from the bar below the dish pit I worked in.
Ironically, I now can’t stand the stuff, mostly because all I can taste is what I’m pretty sure is just an industrial version of the extract they sell at the local home brew shop.
So a rare Slow States call for engagement: what was your gateway beer?
(via slowstates)Sam Adams Boston Lager.
(via slowstates)
Buddy Ryan, you magnificent bastard, I read your (play)book!
(H/T: Smart Football)
Oh my, this is arousing.
Tony LaRussa’s response: A quintuple switch and a two and a half hour inning.
Photo via @bubbaprog
Livejournal of an Overly Emotional Penn State Fan: The Alabama Entry
Note: This is a first attempt at a new post idea for BSD. Please let me know if you think something like this would be good as a weekly reaction piece. @runthedive or runthedive at gmail. Thank you, friends.
Date: 5:53 pm, September 12, 2011
Mood: Distraught
Music: Bloc Party - “Like Eating Glass”
It happened again.
You know the feeling you get when you tie all your hopes and dreams to the outcome of an event completely out of your control, just to see said hopes and dreams get smashed to bits? It happened again.
I probably should have known better considering this happens every time. Penn State’s latest public de-pantsing has presented me with an interesting question: Just how many times can I reconstruct my smashed football psyche? Is it like an old lamp, where you can only glue pieces back together so many times? Or is it more like nature’s most resilient object, the jigsaw puzzle - capable of a nearly infinite amount of recoveries? I wish the offensive coaches had subbed in a backup for my now-brittle mind instead of Rob Bolden. WOE!
Time out, though.
I’m a 26 year old adult. Actually, you know what? That’s a lie. I’m a 10 year old masquerading around in the body of a 26 year old. That can be the only explanation as to why a lost football game can rattle my self-confidence so. Is it time for me to grow up? Is it time for me to give up childish things like overwrought college football fandom in favor of adult past times, like a jam of the month club or sensible house loafers?
Time out. Again.
Perhaps holding fast to games is what keeps us young. If JVP can find the reason to continue coaching college football at a mere 84 years young, then I can find the steel to hold my heart out on my sleeve for his team. Yes! I will not fold! My enthusiasm will not go three and out! My mighty Lions showed a more than adequate level of gumption this Saturday, but were bested by a team boasting both superior talent and coaching. There is no shame in that, and such a situation is unlikely to occur for the rest of the season. GOD DAMN IT I’M BACK!
But wait. Time out, the third.
Is this a good idea? Is this redoubling of my emotional resolve akin to a hopeless draw on 3rd and 14? I don’t know. I just don’t know. But I do know this: I can always try Gorilla Glue next time.
EVERY TEARDROP IS A WATERFALL
WHY’D YOU DO IT, ROBERT GRIFFIN? WHY?
(via bendawson)
Tonight’s the Home Run Derby, which means it’s time for Chris Berman to say the word “BACK” threeve thousand times in two hours. It’s tired. It’s beyond tired, in fact. A lot of people have either stopped watching or watch it with the TV on mute in order to avoid walking right into a straight up ear rape.
I will not be one of those people, not because I will derive any pleasure out of it, but because someone has to be around to record just how stupid this shit gets. Lord knows why I have to do it, but remember me fondly when I’m swinging from a noose of my own creation at about 9:05 EDT tonight.
