- I'm gonna get drunk like Myles Crawford. (Photo: Associated Press)
Happy St. Patrick's Day! I address this salutation not to everyone, but specifically my ruddy-faced, bashed-liver brethren, who at this moment are in no state to be reading this post, or reading anything, or even being online. Or concentrating on any single object for more than three seconds. Or standing upright. Would you like to get bolloxed, mouldy, fluthered, gee-eyed, polluted, shlossed, langered, locked, ossified, and stocious with them? You can! And you don't even need to know what the Potato Famine was. Just pretend you've read Ulysses and you'll be just fine — or you'll be made fun of, since the Irish love Joyce only until it comes time to read him. Anyway, here are some ideas.
News I probably should have lead with: Four Times journalists are feared missing in Libya. Also, the Post suspended investigative reporter Sari Horwitz for plagiarizing passages from the Arizona Republic. Horwitz blames "the pressure of tight deadlines." She should try blogging!
Life in Eckington is hard. For go-go fans. But not punk fans. Says.
I was not aware that the U Street Music Hall had opened shortly before I moved here. Now it's a year old. These are some things that happened there.
Joan Baez is 69 years older than the U Street Music Hall, and slightly more opinionated.
Have you felt uncomfortable yet today? If not, then: