Did You Know Washington DC Has a Professional Soccer Team?

And tonight is the migestlmigeutnmige.

I need three, wait.... four primal screams of joy, dammit.

(Becks/Bass beer vendor, 300 level directly behind north goal, halftime, come say hi. I'll be the guy in the black United t-shirt.

Hell, come find us in 232:

Look for the top of Landru's head.)

• A bit of clarification: I don't think our overlords have any intention (yet) of letting a tea-partier (Sarah Palin, e.g.) anywhere near the steering wheel.
• And while I would never discount the effect of the economy, many tea-partiers would still dress up like Williamsburg re-enactors and call Obama a Muslim even if Obama personally handed them each a $100 bill every day.
• UPDATE! Towards a populism of the working class.
• Glenn Beck is not the white Malcolm X.
• UPDATE! Siren call.
• A different perspective on the occupation.
• Weak speech, weak president. (I didn't watch it, btw.)
• Speech defect.
• Dipshit.
• Pastor Sanctimonious calls Obama a pussy.
• Is Obama a pussy if he was just following orders? (Krugman's obamapostasy is going to be awesome.)
• No one could have predicted.
• Coming soon to a civil disobedience near you.
• Asshole's priorities: "The irony (is) that the veterans who saved this country are now, in a way, not helping us to save the country in this fiscal mess," said Simpson, an Army veteran who was once chairman of the Senate Veterans' Affairs Committee.
• The blogosphere during the Middle Ages.
• Your MOCO voters guide. I'll vote for whomever two MCPS teachers who are special to me tell me how to vote, but other than that, thwrppppp.
• Metro!
• Execute this motherfucker.
• UPDATE! CONCACAF changing WC qualifying.
• Ugliest uniforms ever (stluueutnuue):

• Wear black at home all the time or never at all.
• Nominate a Not the Booker!
• How to stop worrying and love Frank O'Hara.
• How not to write a poem.
• An obligatory Franzen post.
• Another review of new Richard Thompson.
• Dog Day Listenings.
• To bring you my love.
• UPDATE! Summer babe.
• Goodbye.
• UPDATE! Blind my mind. Found Flunk CDs looking for something else last night. It's love again.

(ETYMOLOGICALLY) "WORK WORK"

Albert Goldbarth

        5. Fred: One

That summer (I was seventeen), the powers of Midwest
    Mercantile
(Roosevelt Road at Jefferson), seeing my reedy body was
    no use
shlepping delivery crates, assigned me to Accounting, where
my reedy mind was more disastrous yet: I doubt if
four consecutive numbers fit true. One day in the wake
of a contretemps (with tire jacks and a boot-knife)
at the loading dock, Koenig was canned. Would I
pitch in? - meant tussling one unbudgeable sumo
of a crate in the unbearable sun and stares out there,
and just as I was believing that death was preferable,
Fred Nelson (The Black Bull everyone called him) moped
on by, in one hand lifted my butt by my belt and
in the other the crate, then carried us both the length
    of the store
and set us like eggs on the top shelf in Wholesale Drapes.

Nick Drake was great for crashing too (and fuck ATT):