The Illuminated Donkey

And now what you've all been waiting for: the possibly (okay, likely) spurious inspiration for the Looking Glass hit Brandy!

I am happy to pass along the touching story of "The Final Parking Space of Mary Ellis," courtesy of Weird NJ Magazine (but more importantly my friend Little C-Za, who first took me to Mary's lonely, oddly elevated, gravesite). Folks, this story has everything!

• A woman pining away for her love, lost at sea, for over 30 years.
• A lone island of stability in a land of rapid change.
• The since-demolished Route 1 Flea Market, immortalized as the "dirt mall" in Mallrats.
• And, of course, Rutgers University graduates and one-hit wonders Looking Glass.

I was a little embarrassed to admit that I had never seen the Mary Ellis grave, especially considering the countless hours I spent at the market buying up discounted copies of Margaret Ann Rose's classic, out-of-print "Rush: A Girl's Guide to Sorority Success," not to mention the fact that my brother is a manager at the movie theater that currently hosts the site. (My brother actually knew a lot about this, but he's kind of hard to link to.)

Jeff Goldstein of Protein Wisdom wins the backhanded permalink header of the month award for the classic: Added Because I Met Them At The Blog Bash, So Now I Feel Compelled To Link Them, Although Evidently Some of Them Don't Feel The Same Way. But That's Okay. Because I'm Magnanimous. And They'll Just Have To Live With The Shame. Jeff lists me as a "Vintage Blog," which makes me feel a little creaky.

Speaking of permalinks, Ravenwolf and Paul Frankenstein are officially part of my posse! Saddle up, kids!

Hey, Scott, you see this yet? For some reason Thurman Faulk sent me this link to Fat Guy Pillows, and I'm not sure whether to become righteously indignant or just clear out some space on my floor. The pillows come in Regular, Mega, and Sumo sizes, and all look perfect for some floor-sprawling.

And as long as we're here, The (Other) Fat-Guy presents his Big Apple Dining Guide, his well-researched guide to the best eating in the New York area. Be sure to check out his favorites, then send an e-mail to treat me to a free meal. I'm pleasant company! (Speaking of which, you think if I were to start dating that would increase my traffic? That seems to be the latest hot blog trend. Hmm...maybe I shouldn't have asked this question in the "fat guy" post.)

Looking for that next hot meme? Well, look no further than Seattle's Capitol Hill, courtesy of (who else?) Mike Whybark!

Posting will be light until next week, as I'll be out having some summertime fun. It's sure nice out. Check out one of those fine folks over there to your left, unless they're also out catching some sun.

Is my Blog HOT or NOT?

Final notes on my trip. Jeez, you'd have thunk I went to the frigging moon or sumpin', so let me wrap it up with a few choice links. WQZY has started posting pictures of the 2002 Games, including some fine mudflopping and pigs-feet-bobbing shots; unfortunately I don't seem to be in any of `em as yet (warning: these take longer to download than my actual trip). Protein Wisdom directed me to this Macon Telegraph wrapup of this year's event. And finally, an episode of Road Rules apparently took place at the 2000 Games, so it ain't like I've been breaking new ground here.

I am very nice.

Boy, when things aren't going well... Baseball simply couldn't be in a bigger slump right now. The offensive fireworks of the past few years have been obscured with suspicion of steroid abuse. The Yankees have decided to quiet all those large-market/small-market arguments by acquiring Raul Mondesi for a sack of rosin bags and later picking up Jeff Weaver. Not that his death is a good thing, but what could have been a celebration of Ted William's life has instead degenerated into an ugly squabble between his children over whether to cremate him and scatter his ashes over the Florida Keys or freeze him in order to later sell his DNA. And baseball's midseason showcase ended in bottle-throwing embarrassment when the game was called after 11 innings (by the way, in the writing business we call that foreshadowing).

Um...now we're just getting a little silly.

The Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost, and the Intimidator. During my trip it gradually dawned on me that the near-ubiquitous #3, in commemoration of Dale Earnhardt, had almost entirely replaced the cross as the pendant of choice in the South. Now, in the long tradition of Virgin Mary sightings, an Earnhardt miracle has occurred.

Goat Born With White '3' On Its Side: Dale Earnhardt Fans Flock To See Animal

DAYTONA BEACH, Fla. -- A four-month-old goat with a curious birthmark has fans of the late racing star Dale Earnhardt flocking to a north Florida farm to get an up-close look.

The brown goat has been named Lil' Dale. It was born with a distinctive white number-three on her right side. That just happens to be the number of Earnhardt's race car. Lil' Dale's owner, Jerry Pierson, said that he's seen people "take pictures and get tears in their eyes." He said that one woman told him it gave her "chills."

(Via Fark.com)

For all of you who checked out the pictures from the Summer Redneck Games and wanted to get to know those fine folks a little better, I present the WQZY Dateline, starring Heather from Milledgeville!

Howdy Yall
Well lets see I'm 15 going on 16 and I'm 5'5 120 lbs long light brown hair blue eyes I have that real southern accent and i love to HUNT!!! and FISH!!! and did i mention HUNT hehe well i'm a big ol redneck been raised that way i love Fords but i got a Chevy, I like to hang out at the river ride 4 wheelers go mudd boggin LOVE the RODEOS And NASCAR DALE JR baby !!!!! and i love the GEORGIA BULLDOGS , Falcon, and of Course the BRAVES!!!! So if yall likin whatcher readin email me and i got some pictures i got msn messanger so add me to your list well hope to hear from yall fellers oh yeah ages 16-18 or 19 Please.

And im lookin for a guy that will be nice and caring and lovin and faithful to me and i love me some countryboys with some meat on em and muscles and of course a ga bulldogs hat Thanks!

Ah, to be 12 years younger and a whole lot drunker...

Regarding Mike Whybark's latest Ken Goldstein of the Week: Good Grief!

Be a Donkey Travel Buddy! As I mentioned below, I bought a bunch of stuff at South of the Border to go along with the rest of the trinkets I picked up in Pennsylvania, Virginia, North Carolina, and Georgia. It's more than I really want or need, so anybody who e-mails me at kengoldstein@hotmail.com, with the subject "I want to be a Donkey Travel Buddy!" and their mailing address in the body of the mail, will receive their very own souvenir of The Donk's journey to the heart of America. It's our way of saying, "It's good to be back."

2175 miles to home. Of course, no trip to America would be complete without a trip to South of the Border, and I dutifully stopped by. No matter how many times I've been there it's always a thrill to see the giant sombrero appear on the horizon, much as the Statue of Liberty was to millions of Ellis Island immigrants. It was always a highlight of my family's annual trip to Florida, with the billboards marking time and space for me better than any odometer could.

As anybody who has traveled I-95 knows, billboards featuring the ubiquitous Pedro begin appearing about 100 miles before the site, and grow more and more frequent as you approach Dillon, SC. [Though the classic Pedro billboards, with their delightful broken English and bad puns, came down about five years ago after years of complaints.] By the time you reach S.O.B., it feels almost like an act of subversion not to actually stop in.

As for what awaits you when the billboards end, suffice it to say that if Louis XIV had decided to build a tourist emporium rather than the Palace of Versailles, it would be South of the Border. What I remember from my childhood as a few giftshops and weird statues has now grown into a massive complex which included an amusement park, a couple of bars, a half-dozen gift shops, motels, restaurants, and anything else weary drivers might spend a buck on. Unfortunately, I didn't get to S.O.B. until shortly after midnight, by which time all but a gift shop or two is closed. Knowing that it would be the last big moment of my trip, I lingered in the gift shop, picking up a sackful of logoed crap, and it felt damn good.

From South of the Border it was another 100 miles before a motel room, followed by a tiring day of northwest traffic jams, and finally home. And now, to sleep, this time for free.

The Blogger Went Down to Georgia. The unpleasantness of the previous night behind me, I found myself happily cruising down Georgia's I-441, the radio blasting Baptist sermons (by the way, if the message boards outside of churches are to be taken as a guide, they ain't none too pleased about that whole Pledge of Allegiance Ruling) and gospel music, sacks of peaches and boiled peanuts in the passenger seat next to me. I stopped off in Athens for a quick lunch, and made regular stops for peach ice cream and gas, but nothing was keeping me from my destiny: East Dublin's 7th Annual Redneck Games.

Don't miss the arrival of the "PROPANE TORCH" carried by Middle Georgia's best known Redneck as he lights the ceremonial BBQ Grill that will kick-off this years incredible FIREWORKS SHOW on Saturday night!

You'll also enjoy the one and only REDNECK GAMES!!! Mudpit Belly Flop, Bobbing for Pigs Feet, Hubcap Hurl, Seed Spitting Contest, Armpit Serenade, Dumpster Dive and other outrageous games! Prizes awarded for each event!

I know what you're all thinking: why the hell didn't anybody tell me about this! That sounds awesome! And you would be completely right to think that, because it COMPLETELY KICKED ASS! Words cannot describe the sheer BBQ-eating, beer-drinking, mudpit-diving, Confederate-flag-waving, skinny-ass-dancing, shit-kicking, NASCAR-loving, rising-again-real-soon-now FUN that was being had out there in that dirt patch.

Of course, my New Jersey plates got some looks as I pulled into the lot, and I avoiding talking to anybody, lest my Yankee accent be revealed (these folks are still really bitter about that whole Civil War thing, and might be up for a rematch on a moments notice, especially if they though that I represented the whole Union attacking force), but once I got over the fear of being attacked I had a ball. I ate fried crocodile and shark on sticks, homemade jerky, and drank me a beer. I heard a cover band follow a heartfelt, fist-pumping, sing-along rendition of Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the U.S.A" with a twangy version of Pink's "Get This Party Started" that rocked the house. I may have even danced a little.

As for the crowd, let's just say it was Grade-A, 99.99% pure redneck. It was beautiful. About two-thirds of the crowd were wearing Confederate flag, Civil War, or NASCAR-themed shirts, with the other third shirtless (unless a bodycast of red mud counts as a shirt). The King of the rednecks wore overalls with no shirt, and waved his Confederate flag for about two hours straight. There were dozens of those real skinny, as-seen-on-Cops guys, the hard, angry type that you try and keep about 50 yards away from, lessen you remind them of somebody who pissed them off ten years ago. While waiting on line for my crocodile I overheard a serious conversation among three of these guys which culminated with the reflection "Well, if I gotta do the time, I'm gonna do my 30 days like a man and get on with it." And all of these guys seemed to be dating women no less than twice their size, like there was some Redneck Combined Dating Weight Law. As I said, it was a beautiful sight to see.

As much as I was enjoying myself, the road soon called again, so I trekked back up the path to my car and headed east on 16. My journey to the heart of the American South was reaching its high-water mark, and I needed to begin the trip back north. "God bless you, East Berlin, and God bless your rednecks!" I yelled while driving off, as the tears began to well up.

Logged off, to look for America. Oh, how cute and innocent I sound at the end of that last post: "I'm off to look for a hotel room." I'm in a resort town on Friday, July 5th, and I'm just gonna waltz off and find a lovely little suite at the Ritz. Hello, my name's Ken. This is my first day in this country.

But just to pick up the story where I left it: Gatlinburg and Pigeon Force are a pair of towns in the Great Smoky Mountains that pack more cheesiness into two strips of road than anyplace I've ever been (and that includes Vegas, Niagara Falls, and Kissimmee, Florida!). Pigeon Forge is famous as the home of Dolly Parton's Dollywood, and is also the home of the Lee Greenwood and Louise Mandrell theaters, not to mention Elwood Smooch's Hillbilly Hoedown! Oh, and about a billion or so tourist traps. I walked around for an uneventful hour, except for when I found myself in the opening movements of a bar brawl. For the most part I enjoyed my solo trip, but it ain't no fun playing miniature golf alone.

So off I went, in search of the aforementioned hotel room. "There might be some vacancies over in the Cherokee Reservation," I was told. "It's just on the other side of the park." Well, that park was the Smoky Mountains, and the drive involved over an hour of white-knuckled scaredy-catness as I winded my way over a mountain on dark, winding roads. I finally reached the Cherokee Reservation, which looked pretty damn cool, but there were still no rooms to be found. Nor were there in the next town. Or the next. Or the next. Et-freaking-cetera until I finally found one in northern Georgia at four in the morning. Yeesh. Definitely the low point of the trip.

The Night I Drove Down to Old Dixie. Greetings from Gatlinburg, Tennessee! It appears that I won't make it to my planned destination of Nashville, but that's simply due to the sheer action-packedness of the land between there and New Jersey. To recap briefly, so far I have: taken a quick peek at The Miniature Village of Roadside America, toured the battlefields at Gettysburg (very cool; I'll have to head back there when I have more time and when the temperature dips into the double-digits), heard Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the U.S.A." about a dozen times, watched the fireworks while driving on I-8, driven the Blue Ridge Parkway (stopping for some biscuits and gravy in Floyd), enjoyed a beer at a minor league game (the home team won 8-3), and cruised the strip of Pigeon Forge, Tennessee (which, to paraphrase Hunter S. Thompson, is what Vegas would look like if the South had won the Civil War). Whew.

I'm off to look for a hotel room, and tomorrow morning I'll begin to circle back north. Thanks to all of you who wrote to me with invites for free dinners and guest rooms, but it looks like I'll have to take a collective rain check. I love you all, though (especially you, Trixie! Kisses!).

Back, just in time to leave again. First of all, I have fully recovered from the aforementioned Sour Milk Incident with no lasting ill effects. Thanks to all who sent flowers and get-well-soon cards, as well as to the few of you who wrote suggestions on how I can avoid this problem in the future. You are to my life what the pretty angels are to the clouds in heaven.

Anyway, since my company was nice enough to close down on Friday as well as tomorrow, I have decided to use this rare extended break as an opportunity to find America. I’ve got a 2002 Rand McNally atlas in front of me, and tomorrow morning I’m gonna get in my car and head on down the road. My general direction, I think, will be towards Kentucky and Nashville, but that can all change at a moment's notice in this beautiful world. If you see a blue-greenish Ford Escort tooling down the road with a smiling man in the driver's seat singing along to the radio, why not give a little wave? What does it cost?

Before I finish packing, I wanted to leave you with this little note I got today from my friend Val. I think it sums up a lot of what's happening in this crazy old world, and gives us all a little hope for the future:

Yesterday I watched a man put a sausage and cheese calazone into a blender. He added about a cup of beef broth and made soup. His stomach is stapled (to lose weight) and he can’t eat solid food.

Makes you think a little, doesn't it? See you in a few, folks.

Um...it seems that the tangy flavor in my cereal was not, in fact, the dried fruits, but rather milk that expired ten days ago. Posting will be rather light tonight as I sit here waiting to explode. [Great...Matt Welch and Ken Layne take extended blogging breaks to start a daily newspaper, while the only reason I can find is dairy products gone bad.]

Happy Canada Day! Damian Penny, the official Canadian of The Donk, writes about what Canada Day means to those in Newfoundland. The Happy Fun Pundits have a slightly less scholarly view of things, which is shocking.

Patchouli! My friend Jessica has a new daily comic strip running over on the Angry Naked Pat site. It's buckets of funny, and promises to provide you all with two months of daily hee-larity. Go check it out right now!

Now that I've had some time to think about The Air Conditioner Incident, I still think that the guy was a goddamned prick. Bastard.

Oh, and a big thanks a whole frigging lot to the jerkoff who watched me almost kill myself trying to carry an air conditioner into my friend's apartment building. I didn't actually expect you to offer to help me carry the incredibly heavy box up the stairs — that thought obviously wouldn't have crossed your mind in a million years — but when you walked by me staring when the box slipped and I struggled to keep it from crashing to the ground, well that's the sign of a real stand-up guy. You goddamned prick.

Traffic Hint of the Day. I'll admit that this situation doesn't come up very often, but if you're in a rush to make a brunch date, it's not a good idea to attempt to cut through Newark an hour after Brazil wins the World Cup.

The most disturbing, if not disgusting, sight I've seen lately in New York is the appearance of a few Spider-Man t-shirts among the booths of NYPD/FDNY shirts and hats, as if to say, "Sure, that police and fire logo stuff was hot a few months back, but now we have to make room for the new stuff."

In commemoration of the 16th anniversary of Wham!'s farewell concert at Wembley, I present this link to an interview with Anderw Ridgely: Andrew Ridgeley Recalls Life in the Fast Lane with Wham! and Tells Why He Wouldn't Return to the Music Business.

Keeping with the self-promotion/celebration theme: Mike Whybark has posted the latest KG of the Week. The mystery deepens.

Is my Blog HOT or NOT?

I don't know how I missed this amazing article in May's Atlantic Monthly, but Mark Bowden's "Tales of the Tyrant," about Saddam Hussein's reign, is simply one of the best magazine pieces I've read in years. If you didn't see it, go check it out.

Boy, there's nothing like sitting next to a table of senior citizens ranting incoherently about yesterday's Pledge of Allegiance ruling to make a guy completely change his mind about it.

Love me.  Love me. 
Love MEEEEEEEE!

Prettygirl responds to her critics!

Hey everybody, prettygirl here.

I've been getting a lot of complaints about the late hour at which the page gets updated each day. Most people have been saying that oftentimes the daily whatevers don't get up there in time for anyone to really observe the whatever you wanna call it in any kind of meaningful way. At first, I just let your concerns go ignored. That seemed to work pretty well so I think I'm going to keep at it.

There's a lesson for you: The Prettygirl makes her own rules!

A Demonstration of the Effects of Alcohol on the Blogger. Back in high school health class we were shown a poster which demonstrated the effects of alcohol over the course of an evening. The top of the poster featured a man's sober signature; below were his increasingly sloppy signatures after one, three, five, and seven drinks. The lesson of the poster was...well, I wasn't really paying attention, something about avoiding drunk notary publics.

Anyway, Mike Whybark has an equally effective demonstration over on his blog today. He started out this morning with "Professor Sea Gould and Professor Mitchell," an engaging and well-researched post about Joseph MItchell's writings about Joseph Gould, collected and popularized in the book and movie "Joe Gould's Secret." Mike doesn't seem to like Joseph Mitchell's work nearly as much as I do, but I appreciated his new thoughts on his sudden retirement, and he found some links I had never seen before.

Anyway, Mike is a man who enjoys a nice scotch, and it seems he celebrated his Mitchell post with a few hours of the ol' whiskey-piskey. We next hear from him about four hours later, when he drags himself to the keyboard long enough to direct us to a very funny Sweat Flavored Gummi post, after which it's all he can do to peck out this...well, I can't really describe what "What's All the Fuss About"'s about, but suffice it to say that the penultimate line is:

And let me state for the record: The Economist can blow me.

Shockingly enough, we haven't heard from Mike since. I'm organizing an intervention for next Thursday evening; let me know who wants to come along.

(Via the indispensible Fark) And now it's time for our latest episode of...The World of Justice!

Parmesan makers bid to protect name.

The makers of Parmesan cheese in Italy have asked the European Court of Justice in Luxembourg to rule on whether it is legal for competitors to use the name Parmesan for cheese not made in Parma.

Next up for the European Court of Justice: visiting Sizzlers around the world and demanding that they throw out their trays of Swedish meatballs.

By the way, it's worth clicking on the link to see the picture of a frightening, possibly shirtless, cheesemaker with the caption, "Parmigiano is so pure you can feed it to infants." And by "worth it," I mean that it's free and you obviously have some free time.

Hey, you know what other anniversary is tomorrow? It's the 25th anniversary of Elvis Presley's final performance, in Indianapolis. It's a day of remembrance for fans of this music legend, great performer and, based on the pendant he wore in Indy, good Jew.

Ride the Cyclone! Tomorrow is the 75th anniversary of the opening of the Cyclone, the greatest roller coaster of all time. There are countless coasters which are bigger, faster, longer, or have loops or something, but none of them can compete with the Cyclone for sheer, non-stop thrills. After the first, amazing drop the ride simply doesn't let up at all until you're back out on the street, and there are a few points where you're convinced that you have about two seconds to live, and you're very comfortable with that fact.

Anyway, Coney Island is celebrating the anniversary with style, with 75-cent rides all day tomorrow and fireworks on Friday. Call Astroland at 718-265-2100 for details. Oh, and if you head down there, don't bother paying 50 cents to go into the Alien Autopsy booth; it's pretty unconvincing.

Who needs referral logs when you can just run a Google search to see which bloggers love you so much that they'll acquiesce to your every twisted demand? (Warning: this only works if you happen to be Jim Treacher.)

No Dancing Allowed is the website of a group that is attempting to loosen the Cabaret Laws that have made dancing all but illegal in New York City. Go learn more about the gradual transformation of New York into Beaumont.

I wasn't going to link to Eric Lindholm's latest Smarter Harper's Index — it had already been linked by Instapundit, I've kind of forgotten that Harper's existed — but then I learned one very important fact about Eric: he is totally down with The "D"!

Yes, I Care. I Care A Lot! I'm an Adorable Little Rodent now, which is a step up from my former Flappy Birdness. Exult appropriately.

Okay, enough surfing and posting for the day. Here's a cute picture of some kids with a miniature donkey to tide you over.

Normally I wouldn't read an article that was blurbed with the line "In defeat, the U.S. soccer team won an epic victory: It brought America into the world of sports," but for some reason I slogged into Gary Kamiya's U.S. World Cup wrapup in Salon, which basically said that it was good that the U.S. lost, since it means we're at an equal footing with the rest of the world in the world's sport, and anyway, a win would have led to mass slaughter. ["For fans in Buenos Aires and Paris and Berlin and Sao Paulo, already chafing under a Sisyphean load of Britney CDs and Rumsfeld declarations in the Pax Americana, the prospect of the Big Bully triumphing in a sport it doesn't even give a damn about would be intolerable. The untrammelled rage of 2 billion nationalistic, testosterone-spewing males, directed at Uncle Sam? Osama bin Laden is a kindly, retired Sunday school teacher by comparison."]

Well, there's a lot of crap like that, which I'll leave to others, but the part that really caught my eye, after some comments on the U.S. "finally joining the global brotherhood of athletes on equal terms," was the following:

The beauty of the World Cup is that theoretically — and, to a greater degree than in any other sport, also in practice — any country, no matter how tiny, impoverished or geopolitically insignificant, can beat any other country. China may have more people, the U.S. may have more money, Brazil may have the proudest tradition -- no matter. Little Cameroon can smoke 'em all.

Well, I'm not much of a student of soccer history, but I don't seem to recall too many Cameroon World Cup championships, so I thought I'd check the record. Basically, the idea that the World Cup is some sort of model for world equality is pretty cracked. Four countries — Argentina, Brazil, West Germany, and Italy — have won 12 of the 16 championships to date, and have sent 21 or the 32 teams that have competed in the final game. If the favorites, Brazil and Germany, win the semis this year, those figures will become 13/17 and 23/34, hardly the festival of openness Kariya makes it out to be.

Whew, I had some sugarcane juice from a street vendor and some eggs florentine at the V.I.P. Diner and I feel much better now. And while I was gone The Donk was finally visited by an 18-year-old female anime fan living in Malaysia, which was one of my main goals in starting this site. Now I'm ready to create some more shipping logistics manuals!

Correction: If you'll check the comments, you'll see that I screwed up, and that Jiun is actually a Malaysian anime fan living in Australia, which is even cooler.

Yeah, I'm a little punchy from sitting in my room for 36 straight hours working on a freelance project and listening to the Tenacious D album on repeat. So what? What have you done that's so thrilling? Screw this, I'm going out and getting some eggs.

With apologies to the Pretty Girl, my assignment for everybody today is to go to one of those apartment buildings with an intercom entry system, then start pressing buttons randomly while screaming the following:

This is [fill in your name], I want to talk to you. Hello? Don't hang up on me! I want to talk to you! You keep away from my husband, you hear me? Hello? Open the door! Answer me! I'm going to tell everybody that walks in this building that in 2R, Rossi, you're nothing but a whore! Is this the superintendent? Yes, I want you to know that you have a whore living in 2R! Rossi, Janice Rossi! ...He's my husband! Get your own goddamn man!

Then go to a bar and shoot some stuttering prick in the goddamn foot.

First person who I've never met who e-mails me gets a dollar.

As you may have heard, St. Louis Cardinals pitcher Darryl Kile was found dead in his hotel room this morning, and while no cause is yet known, the police are saying that he died in his sleep and are assuming natural causes (though I'm not sure what natural causes would be in the death of a 33-year-old athlete). I first heard the news during the FOX broadcast of today's Yankees/Padres game, and it's obviously a shocking, terrible story, especially since he's married with three young children. It's unfortunate that this is getting lumped together with Jack Buck's passing in the "another Cardinal tragedy" category, since there's a huge difference between this situatIon and the passing of a 77-year-old man who had been hospitalized for six months, beloved as that man may be.

Anyway, not too long after the announcement, one of the Padres got his first major-league hit, which prompted a discussion among the broadcasters about their first hits. And out of the thousands of pichers in baseball history, who was Steve Lyons' first hit was off of? "Donnie Moore!" he answered excitedly. About ten seconds of uncomfortable silence followed the mention of the former Angels closer who shot and killed himself less than three years after his blown save in the deciding game of the 1986 AL Championship Series.

This site is frigging cool! No, not The Donk, frankly it's been kind of lame lately. I mean the World's Tallest Buildings Diagram site, featuring side-by-side diagrams of the world's tallest buildings and structures, sorted by city, type of structure, and tons more. Check out the world's biggest rides, monuments, the tallest buildings in Las Vegas, Paris, and...um...Jersey City. (via Boing Boing)

Yeah, I'm home on a nice Saturday. I have work to do, so what's it to you? Mind your own effin' business, okay?

Final Results of the Special Father's Day Poll:
Who Is the Father of the Year?

Bull "The Great Santini" Meechum 34%
Ozzy Osbourne 30%
Frank Lindh 15%
Bernie Mac 11%
Father Paul Shanley 7%

God, I love you people. If you were here I'd call you all "sports fans" while bouncing a basketball off of the back of your heads.

Sore Loser of the Week Award:

Italian club team fires Korean hero

South Korea hero Ahn Jung-Hwan, who scored the golden goal to knock out Italy from the World Cup, has essentially been fired by his Italian club Perugia.

''I am not extending his contract,'' Perugia president Luciano Gaucci said. "He does not merit it. When he arrived, he was like a little lost goat who didn't even have the money to buy a sandwich. He became rich without doing anything exceptional for our club. And then, at the World Cup, he destroyed Italian football.

"I would have to pay [$1.53 million] to extend his contract. But I won't. He should have shown his talent while he was with us. He'll just have to go back to Korea and earn [$48] a month.''

Yep, there's nothing more pathetic than a goat who can't afford a sandwich.

Chubby Checker: Unrecognized World Visionary!

Before "Alexander Graham Bell"...no telephone.
Before "Thomas Edison"...no Electric Light.
Before "Dr. George Washington Carver"...no Oil from seed or cloning of plants.
Before "Henry Ford" no V8 engine
Before "Walt Disney"...no animated cartoons
Before "Chubby Checker"...no "Dancing Apart to the Beat!"

What is "Dancing Apart to the Beat"? Dancing Apart to the beat is the dance we do when we dance apart to anybody's music with a beat and before "Chubby Checker" it could not be found!

And be sure to check out his fine collection of jerky!

Via Esquire Magazine, a link to New York City's Parking Violations Delinquency By Country (Owed By Missions, Consulates, and Associated Staff), featuring the 25 most delinquent countries over the past five years. The leader? Egypt, with over 18,000 violations totalling almost $2 million in unpaid fines.

I'd blame Jim Treacher, but sometimes that's just the way the Jell-O judicates.

All the President’s Ken. Mike Whybark's shocking revelation that I was Deep Throat has not been met with the media feeding frenzy I had envisioned. I can't say I'm shocked that the herd of sheep which we call the American Press has continued to pursue the same old dead-end leads like Buchanan, but I have to admit I'm disappointed for Mike that this hasn't turned out to be the career-making scoop he hoped it would be.

Mike's been working his ass off at the West Seattle Pennysaver for months now, and he thought this story would help him get the promotion to Assistant Classifieds Editor he's been bucking for. [Not that I had planned to let Mike in on my little secret. You know how it is. You’re out with the guys, having a few Johnny Walker Blacks, shooting the breeze, and the next thing you know you can’t leave your house without a dozen cameramen jumping out from behind the bushes.] So just to help Mike out, I'd like to offer a little elaboration to the original report.

Back in my day, before the whole Watergate mess ruined this great nation, there used to be a little thing I like to call trust. That's right, kids, there used to be a time when you could do a simple thing like breaking a 30-year silence about your role in bringing down the leader of the free world without people getting all nosy, asking a lot of stupid questions which are frankly none of their goddamned business. But Ken, they ask, why have you waited until now to reveal these facts? How did you have access to information only available to the inner circle of Nixon's staff? Why don't you look or sound anything like Hal Holbrooke?

While I'm not yet prepared to reveal the entire story (I'm saving the juicy details for my upcoming e-book, available exclusively through Salon’s Deep Throat imprint), I can present a few previously unknown bits of information for the doubters, which will hopefully shed a little light on one of the greatest mysteries of our time.

1. It is totally the kind of thing I would do. Find anybody who knows me, and ask them if this is the kind of thing I would do, and they'll definitely say, "Yes, that is so like Ken to do that."

2. I was the Associate Chief of Staff under Nixon from 1970-1972, before I was fired for stealing office supplies. In my official exit interview/review, now available through the Freedom of Information Act, it is revealed that not only was I cited for “looking kinda shifty-eyed” and “holding a mean grudge,” but that I signed the nondisclosure form “Joe Friday,” completely absolving me from any penalties resulting from my actions.

3. I like hanging around parking garages.

Satisfied, you rotten vultures?

With regards to the renewed debate over the identity of Deep Throat, I have only one thing to say: Okay! Enough already! It was me, I admit it, ME! GOD, it feels good to get that off my chest!

Mike Whybark has the full story, with an incriminatingly doctored photo.

I really, really wanted to be Lust, but for some reason I got this one.

For Griffey, these are days of pain. Good.

The Mariners have lost a number of all-time greats over the past few years. I was in favor of the Randy Johnson trade, thinking that there was no way you offer him a multi-year contract, given his injury history (I was obviously wrong about that one, but the trade turned out pretty well for Seattle anyway). I've heard a lot of grumbling regarding "Pay-Rod"'s huge contract, but I can't really blame him for leaving Seattle (to quote Krusty, "They backed a dumptruck full of money up to my house! Oh god, I'm not made of stone!"

But Junior? Junior did everything he could to screw the Mariners, first demanding a trade to a team closer to his Orlando home then, after the Mariners had received offers from the Mets and Atlanta, revising that demand to be traded only to the Cincinnati Reds (a move that obviously limited the M's bargaining power). Once again the Mariners got lucky, this time in getting Mike Cameron, but it was as awful and selfish a performance by a player that I've seen.

Griffey collected his 2,000th hit tonight, fittingly against the Mariners (who won 8-1), but it was a lone bright spot in what is shaping up to be another lost season, filled with injuries, grumblings from the fans, and reports of his negative influence in the clubhouse. The Reds are having a good season, but it's certainly not because of the .233-hitting Griffey. This year, the Mariners have continued their run as one of the top teams in the game. It's enough to make a man believe that there's a little justice in this world.

Hey, remember a few months back when there was a big push to "adopt" your favorite blog, paying $12 to have the advertising removed from the top of your favorite Blogger-hosted site? Somebody did it for The Donk, and it was one of the cooler experiences we've had. Thanks to some help from the top, within a week hundreds of blogs were made ad-free, with Blogger picking up some much-needed cash in the process.

Well, the blogs just keep coming and coming, and I'm noticing more and more of my favorite new sites with banner ads clogging up the bandwidth. That's why I'd like to propose another wave of adoption. The next time you're visiting a fine blog that's still bannered, consider following the above link and donating the measly 12 bucks. It's a way to honor one blog and support thousands.

Still not reading Girls Are Pretty? Then you're an idiot.

I know you well and I know there's a little Village Medicine Man inside you that's just waiting to come out. You'd look dope with a femur pierced through your nose and you'll get more ass than a place called "Assy Asstowne" whose slogan is "If It's Ass And We Don't Have It, We'll Order It!" once the neighborhood finds out that you got rid of the Town Bad Tipper when you spiked his Mochachino with a droplet full of judgement day that made him bleed something out his eyes that looked like a slurpee. Dress sharp.

Go! Now! And then go again tomorrow! Did I start speaking French all of a sudden? Sheesh.

N.Z. Bear of The Truth Laid Bear has classified my place in The Blogsphere Ecosystem, and I am a...Flappy Bird, just a few links away from becoming an Adorable Little Rodent! Of course, I need about 20 more links to me to assume The Donk's rightful place in the Large Mammals section.

The intensive search for the believed-to-be-extinct ivory-billed woodpecker, covered at length in the New Yorker last March, hit a snag today when recorded sounds "reminiscent of the ivory-billed's distinctive rapping on dead wood" turned out to be distant gunfire. The recordings were made over a three-month period in south Louisiana's Pearl River Wildlife Management Area, and were the most promising lead so far in the extensive search. The ivory-bills were last seen in America 60 years ago.

There Are Other Teams. Here in the New York area we're still dealing with the aftermath of Saturday's Great Rematch, when the Mets finally had their chance for retaliation against Yankees pitcher Roger Clemens for his repeated victimization of Mike Piazza during the 2000 season. (Just to give some idea of how long ago, in baseball time, this was, only 3 of the 13 Mets who took part in the July 8, 2000 game that started it all are still with the team.)

The lunchtime hour on WFAN was filled with Mets fans calling in to say that they were satisfied with the outcome, they weren't satisfied, it was over now, it wouldn't be over until they hit Clemens, etc. Calls from Yankees fans, or from Mets fans seemingly concerned with the outcome of the games (the Mets won The Great Rematch, and took two out of three over the weekend) were few and far between.

Back in May I covered the brouhaha over the rights of Mariners fans to wear "Yankees Suck" shirts to games at Safeco. Of course, by the time Safeco management gave in on the issue, the Yankees had already left town, not to return until August. Not that it mattered to fans, who proudly wore their "Yankees Suck" shirts to the Mariners/Blue Jays series. "Mariners Suck" shirts were seen at Yankee Stadium, but only while the Mariners were actually there.

When it comes to an overriding obsession with the Yankees, however, nobody comes close to the Red Sox. From the sale of Babe Ruth through Bucky Dent's playoff-winning homer, much of Sox history is the story of falling short to the Yanks. It's considered one of the greatest rivalries in sports, but except for some individual awards, the Sox have pretty much never beaten the Yanks. This fact is etched on every Sox fan's conscious, with the result being that the "Yankees Suck" chant can be heard at Fenway no matter who the opponent is. I've been to Yankee Stadium about 20 times, and the crowd usually manages to focus its energy on the actual opponent.

So what am I saying? As a Mariners fan who has spent far too much energy these past few years alternately hating and fearing the Yankees, the time has come to take off the blinders and remember that the object is to win games and ultimately a championship, not just do better than one particular team. It's getting to the point where it sometimes feels like a successful season would be one where we beat the Yankess in the playoffs, forget what happens after that. Well, Goddammit, that ain't gonna wash no more! I'm tired of acting as though I were a fan of one of the 29 branches of the Washington Generals trying to dethrone the one true Globetrotters. My name is Ken: former Yankee-hater.

More from NJ.com. Hey, reporters! Pissed off that some stupid meeting is keeping you from your favorite show? Don't seethe quietly about it. Work it into your lede!

OKs for Two 35-Story Towers for Downtown, 70 Townhouses by Philip Sean Curran

A marathon meeting of the Jersey City Planning Board, lasting almost to the time that the "Tonight Show" airs, saw two skyscrapers and several hundred homes receive approval recently.

Philip Sean Curran: journalist, local government expert, big-time Leno fan.

And what do you do for a living? From a review of a Vanilla Ice concert that took place a few miles from where I work:

"I came to see his transition," said Bryan Shannon, alias Judas Young, a pro wrestler and water treatment supply salesman from Iselin.

Central New Jersey: leading the nation in pro wrestlers / water treatment supply salesmen for over 50 years.

Doctor Weevil has posted his collection of Blogapalooza pictures here, to go along with Ravenwolf's and Unruled Leonard's. My conclusion: starting tomorrow, I'm working out every single frigging day.

Now it's time for the latest episode of Desperate Golf Commentators Trying to Keep Viewers from Changing Channels Late in Another Tiger Woods Blowout!

"You never know, Tiger could play the next four holes at four over par...you just never know." — Johnny Miller, NBC Analyst, during a rain delay.

Thank you, this has been another exciting episode of Desperate Golf Commentators Trying to Keep Viewers from Changing Channels Late in Another Tiger Woods Blowout!

The Brooklyn Bridge. We had some time to kill between the "Reading It" event mentioned below and a show we were attending later that night, so Christine asked me, "What have you always wanted to do?" It's an excellent question, one that I recommend that everybody out there either ask themselves or somebody close to them sometime soon.

Well, the first thing that came to mind was a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. I had driven across the venerable structure a couple of times — a Cyclone-like experience with the same out-of-control and "there's-no-way-I'm not-gonna-crash-into-that sensation — but had never walked across the unusually pedestrian-friendly span. With no good reason not to, we set out on the long walk towards City Hall to the bridge.

The Brooklyn Bridge is a gorgeous, complicated work, managing to accomplish its difficult task (spanning the tumultuous East River without disrupting the incredibly busy traffic) with style and grace. We walked across the bridge, admiring its construction, the passing cars and the East River perilously close. It's a great place to sit for a while and talk, watching the passers-by, the noise slowly fading away into the background, Manhattan and Brooklyn spread out for the taking. It made me happy.

Both the NYCRoads site and this contemporary Harper's Monthly article offer the fascinating history. Gary Feuerstein presents the facts and figures, and Denton Taylor has some terrific photos of the bridge.