I covered the South Tacoma Business District Association's 12th Annual Classic Car Show Saturday, but I didn't get these pictures in time for the print edition.

I walked into this annual street fair right about the time the judges were starting to hand out awards. It was cool to see a Tacoma couple, Rick and Penny Olson, win two trophies, both the Ladies' Choice award and the Show Favorite award. Take a look at these shots, taken by judge Taanya Tucker, to see why they won.

There were about 300 cars at the show, all of them worthy of trophies. But this '37 Ford custom convertible caught the judges' attention – and mine:

Please excuse the camera-phone pic, but I had to share the cool new sign hanging at Satellite Coffee. Gotta dig the curlicue font and tattoo-like style.

It's by Chris Sharp, of course. You've seen his work at the Rosewood Cafe and Corina Bakery and other places I'm forgetting. This June, he won Tacoma's first "Foundation of Art" award. Our arts writer Rosemary talks about that here.

I'm no art critic, but the thing I like about his work is that you can see it's made my human hands. There's a warmth and a timeless quality to hand-painted signs. Like they've been there forever. That warmth is a simple thing, but one that's woefully lacking in so many things.

Now, I can't paint, but I can make pizza dough. And to paraphrase my favorite (and only) Zen baking teacher, Hands are happiest when being hands.

I've got a bag of flour calling my name. So tell me, what have you guys been working on?

I think it's fair to measure a town's vibrancy by the number of fliers hanging around on telephone poles and bulletin boards. And lately, I see amazing street art popping up everywhere.

I've spied some concert posters that look like the precise pen-and-ink handiwork of Sean Alexander from the Helm.

And even an illustrated yard sale poster at Satellite Coffee that I would've hung on my wall. (Alas, I didn't make it to the sale.)

Today at Blackwater, I picked up a couple of fliers that got cosmically intertwined in my head.

The first is for a zine-making event at King's Books this Friday night from 4 to 6 p.m. It's free. Donations accepted.

Which makes me think of my favorite zine artist, Nicole J. Georges of Portland, a rad gal who shares my love of secretary eyeglasses and animals. (That's her work down below.) You can find her collections – I recommend "Invincible Summer" – and some other artwork on buyolympia.com. She's also queer. Read her witty blog here.

Which brings me to the other flier, advertising what could be Tacoma's first weekly get-together for queer 20-somethings. It's this Thursday at 7. Read more about it here.

Art! Acceptance! Rosy, indeed.

Every once in a while, I like to do something really wild and crazy like forget to pay a parking ticket. Did I say forget? I probably meant willfully ignore.

Well, gentle reader, no more. I have been suitably chastened. The sight of a city meter maid/man-maid in orange vest and sensible walking shorts is enough to make me circle the block until I find a legit spot. No more toying with fate and 15-minute zones.

That's because I spent two-and-a-half hours on my day off getting my vehicle tabs renewed, all due to an old parking ticket. Allow me to share. Did I say share? I probably meant whine uncontrollably.

10 a.m. Wake up. Eat huge triple berry muffin from Corina Bakery. Feel like the world is on my side. Listen to Sera Cahoone. Hum all the way to Fife.

10:20. Emissions testing! How quaint! I pay 15 dollars for a woman to put a sensor somewhere in my vehicle for approximately 30 seconds. I am still eating the muffin, so it's all fine.

10:40. Creep down Tacoma Avenue trying to decipher the signage outside the County-City Building. There appear to be many courts in one building. But will anyone inside take my money for my parking ticket? Circle the block three times to find a safe spot. Walk. Sweat.

11:02. Ask security guard/metal detector attendant if I can pay my ticket inside. Smile. Place purse in X-ray machine. Set off detector with my metal-buckled boots. Apologize. Smile.

=> Read more!

So a B-2 stealth bomber just flew over my house. No doubt part of the air show at McChord this weekend.

Unless, of course, it's working for Google maps.

This sign made me inexplicably happy today. Or maybe the sun has finally gotten to my brain. Try a nachos.

Since it's summer, that means it's time for road trips and mental vacations (if you haven't noticed by our lack of posts this month).

But even when I'm away, I always keep an eye out for all things Tacoma. It's a horrible side effect of blogging.

On one recent trip I was eating breakfast in Wanda's Cafe along Highway 101 near Manzanita, Ore., when I noticed our table was covered with retro luggage labels.

Among them: Hotel Winthrop, Tacoma, Washington. (Its slogan at the time: On the shores of Puget Sound, in the heart of the Evergreen Playground.)

So here's my assignment for you this summer: Keep an eye out for the word Tacoma. Let us know where you see it. Then maybe we'll write about it, if we get around to it.

It's hard to remember when we had sunshine. But this week's GO cover story – you can read it Friday – on waterfront dining makes me think of my first blissful summer sunset dinner in Tacoma.

It's been almost four years now, if you can believe that.

It was August. It was 80 degrees. A heat wave, the front desk attendant at the Silver Cloud Inn assured me, the skeptical Midwesterner. Eighty degrees is a cold front in Illinois, I said.

But here I was, in the great Northwest, being seated on the deck at CI Shenanigans and ordering salmon – salmon, the novelty! I don't think I've had it since. There were sailboats skimming the bay and pink light over Browns Point. I could squint and imagine myself in the south of France, looking at those neat cottages on the hillside with the lighthouse turning on its spit of land. I had just been offered a job. All was well.

We will have that bliss on the bay again, I swear.

Even if it takes two more months.

Quick, name that city:

The draw of a neighborhood bracketed by an Interstate and a Superfund-listed river is obscure.… Then in the late 1990s, displaced artists and artisans drawn by cheap rents started moving to (redacted) to open tile works, Vespa repair shops and glass blowing studios.

You would be forgiven for guessing Tacoma. We've got our own little Beltway, the 705; the Asarco site; glass blowers; artists on scooters; and yes, cheap rent.

But this New York Times article is about Georgetown, the Seattle neighborhood, and how it's apparently the last bastion of art and culture in all of the Evergreen City.

Hm, that sucks.

“Georgetown is really the last outpost of any blue-collar, bohemian arts culture in Seattle,” said Larry Reid, curator at Fantagraphics Bookstore and Gallery.

The only conclusion I can draw is: Seattle is the new Tacoma. Go forth and gloat.

Predicted low tides at Commencement Bay this week:

Today: Minus-3.9 feet at 11:05 a.m.

Wednesday: Minus-4.3 feet at 11:52 a.m.

Thursday: Minus-4.2 feet at 12:40 p.m.

Friday: Minus-3.6 feet at 1:29 p.m.

I always think it's cool to walk around the tip of Point Defiance during an extremely low tide.

But if you need some ideas on where to go, this story recommends: Fox Island bridge, Kopachuck State Park, Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge, Penrose Point State Park, Quartermaster Harbor, Saltar’s Point Beach and Sunnyside Beach Park.

I've been a fan of FOUND magazine and its Web site for years. I used to think I would go around finding weird, funny stuff to send in to them, but I never did. I always keep an eye out though, and indeed, my compulsion with picking up things I find on the ground generally worries my loved ones.

The best thing I've found in Tacoma have been a tiny plastic zebra, which now lives in my truck air vent, and a stenciled blue unicorn on the sidewalk outside Blackwater Cafe.

Today I stumbled on a new site, passiveaggressivenotes.com.

I couldn't help but notice that two of the notes on the first page are from people in Seattle and Tacoma. I'd print them, but they're naughty. You'll have to go read for yourself.

I am stealing this Post-It from FOUND, though. For illustrative purposes.

Last night at the Tacoma Dome was a Sesame Street extravaganza called When Elmo Grows Up, "a musical show-and-tell of the possibilities of all kinds of careers."

I didn't go, but I can guess what happens: Elmo gets older, his voice gets deeper and he starts to get fur in odd places.

Then the show probably tackles the difficult issue of grown-up Elmo trying to find a career when his only talent is vibrating after he's tickled.

I imagine it all ends somewhat like this ...