It's about time.

I have been a good sport for the past few months, politely watching other sports with my friends. Don't get me wrong, it's great to see the Hawks again. But the massive letdown of the Mariners this year and my decision to forget that Washington State plays football has lead to a boring few months sports wise for me.

Until now.

I am one of the silent minority of die-hard hockey fans. No, I'm not Canadian. And I don't have an accent straight out of Fargo. I just am knowledgeable enough to understand that hockey is the best sport. And it deserves much more attention.

As I settle into my permanent home of Tacoma, ready to don my Calgary Flames sweater and watch hockey, I ask those special few out there: Where is the best place to watch hockey? Is there a restaurant or watering hole out there with people who know the difference between slashing and spearing?

Or am I alone? Am I the only one who watches Versus for something other than hunting and second-rate college football?

In summer, I'm prone to nostalgia. I've written about it before.

Lately, I'm all about Frisbees in the park and the flying of kites. That City Up North is blessed with a stupendous kite hill, and that's where I spent Saturday, working on my sunburn and breaking for a scoop of balsamic strawberry ice cream for sustenance.

Bliss, no?

So that's where you guys come in. Help me recreate this experience closer to home. Tell me the hills with the best visibility, the best wind velocity, the ones with a precise combination of warm breeze and clover to send me back to my childhood. If you're extra nice, I'll let you hold the kite string during my ice cream break.

KUPS is, lately.

This afternoon I heard some Dylan, some anti-war punk rock song, some hot French number that may or may not have been Pink Martini, and a bunch of other tunes I wish I knew the names of.

It's a good thing, because I've been in a real music rut. If I hadn't stumbled on the magic that is the new Okay album (singer-songwriter Marty Anderson played T-town last year), I'd be screwed.

But I still need your help. What are you listening to in the car in the summer with the windows rolled down?

Like the best of drug dealers, Satellite Coffee gave me my first shot for free.

It seems like just yesterday.

(cue music)

::::::::

It was Super Bowl Sunday. I was headed to work and in a sullen mood. I stopped by Satellite and co-owner Pat "Rock Hands" Brown* offered me a free blueberry scone because business was slow. As I mentioned, some dudes were playing in some football game. Anyway.

That scone changed my life. It was craggy and lightly frosted, studded with blueberries (fresh, it seemed!) and flaky tender on the inside. No doubt the work of butter and real cream.

Only, the Upper Crust baker who supplied those scones threw in his or her apron and called it quits.

Consider this my personal plea. Don't let the scone recipe die.

I get whiny when I'm hungry.

*Not actually his nickname, but that's what I call him in my head.

Kelly and Laura and I are e-mailing each other, and we keep saying the same thing: We want to post something, but we don't have anything to write about. Maybe we're just lazy. Maybe we need Niki to come back from Olympia.

So it got me thinking, Has everything already been written about Tacoma?

UPDATE: We've been cordially invited to leave our cubicles and eat lunch at Frost Park at noon Friday.

If one were to cast an eye over my library of blog postings, one might deduce that I, lover of cupcakes, unicorns, kittens, puppies and ice cream, am a pacifist.

One would be correct.

But that doesn't mean pacifists don't lust after shooting computerized deer with a toy gun.

I'm talking Big Buck Hunter.

Pro.

The thought almost makes you want a cheeseburger, don't it?

Last time I played it was at some terrible Hollywood-themed minicasino in Shoreline. And Shoreline is scary.

I refuse to believe that I have to drive north of the T-dome to find Buck Hunter. Plus, my friends who love the thing more than me are on my case to find them one locally.

That's where you come in.

Where art the Buck?

A headline like "Can they beat a dying bridge, bare derriere?" comes along but once a lifetime.

The first 10 times I read the headline, from Dan Voepel's column, I tried to imagine how one would remove a bridge's pants and subsequently beat it ... it being the bridge, of course ... which was both terrifying for its Photoshopping potential and ... just terrifying.

But this morning I conquered my fears and read the column. Turns out, the city once had a plan to market itself to San Francisco with billboards comparing us and them. That's where the bridge thing came in. As for the buns:

...the fourth billboard – the coup d’grace – pictured Dale Chihuly withdrawing one of his signature pieces from a fiery furnace. Next to it, a close-up of a tattoo artist’s hand applying an “I (Heart) SF” design to a derriere. The headline: Tacoma: Glass Artist, SF: “A word that rhymes with glass” Artist.

In case you needed help visualizing that one. Photo courtesy of Dan Voepel, who didn't elaborate on why he had posession of this photo.

Again, I misread and thought the tattoo artist would be working on Chihuly's buns, which seemed both odd and ... again, terrifying.

The short and dirty of the column is this: Tacoma may soon have a Seattle group doing our marketing.

The strategy outlined in a draft scope of work calls for a strong, cohesive message about Tacoma. Those messages will fold into a media relations outreach campaign to increase “coverage of Tacoma as an investment opportunity for a myriad of corporations and other economic development drivers.”

Hmmm... well, I know a few writers they should call first.

This conversation about the little matchbook cover (and all the previous stuff about the safe found downtown) got me thinking: We love old buildings, photos of those old buildings, talking about stuff that happened way back when ... the list goes on.

And its no wonder: We went through a rough patch there (see the 1970s through the 1990s), and thinking about our cute, snappily dressed predecessors (see: roaring 20s) and their little matchbook covers and bustling downtown reminds us that we can do it. Or something.

But what about us? Someday we'll be someone's snappily dressed predecessors. People will be scouring whatever iteration the future holds of eBay and Sanford & Son for pictures of Tacoma's downtown in '07 or signed Tacomics. Believe it.

So, I think we should make a time capsule to represent Tacoma as it is right now.

Off the top of my head, I can think of the following:
1. Loyalty 253 T-shirt
2. Tacomic
3. "Gritty Tacoman" dog shirt or onesie
4. Pictures of downtown, the Java Jive, Opera/Antique Alleys...
5. A mix CD with music from local bands
6. Bound, hard cover compilation of every TacomaArts listserv message detailing exactly how to unsubscribe from the listserv, along with the preceeding 15 e-mails from people who couldn't quite figure it out. (Uhm, kidding!)

Your turn! Contributions (in the form of suggestions) welcome ...

The bull riders have arrived in Tacoma, so to help celebrate our festival of San Patricio on Saturday I propose a running of the bulls through downtown.

The course could follow the light-rail line and finish in the Tacoma Dome. Not only would it be a good warmup for the Tacoma Marathon, but it would help clear the streets of any drug dealers or other undesirables.

And if for some reason people think this event sounds "too dangerous," an alternative would be to strap bull horns onto the LINK and let it chase us.

A third option would be to strap the horns directly on the undesirables.

OK, so it's 60 and sunny. That doesn't mean we can't talk sweaters. I wrote a coupla weeks back about a Seattle newspaper columnist comparing our gritty city to an itchy sweater.

Emily of Varsity Grill had these fine holiday examples to share. "We are proud to party in our sweaters in Tacoma!" she writes.

You send 'em. I'll post 'em. Cardigans accepted too.

The Nose relates this item today about a Seattle Times columnist pontificating on Tacoma.

Forget Grit City and City of Destiny. Tacoma has a new nickname, compliments of Seattle Times columnist Nicky Brodeur.

Welcome to Itchysweaterton.

Here’s what she wrote after an extensive daylong tour earlier this month:

“Tacoma feels like a sweater that you just can’t wear. It looks nice, with the water views and mountains. You got it far cheaper than you would pay in Seattle. But every time you put it on, you itch so much you can’t wait to take if off.”

I for one am always ready to don the hairshirt of a derogatory term and turn it into cashmere. Plus, who can deny that "sweater weather" ushers forth such cozy feelings as hot chocolate and crunchy-leaf walks in the park?

If you're with me, send in your pics of you and yours in your best sweaters. Vive la Révolution!

(If you think this is dumb, I'll take pictures of hoodies too.)

I was asked for a report on how the match-making with Mister for the You & Me page went.

You'll have to wait until Sunday to find out, but let's say some of you will be pleasantly surprised! (I think we made 11 matches out of 30-some entries.)

Some of you, however, might be disappointed. I know two available, employed 20-something men are without a date. And there are several women (catches, absolute catches!) for whom we failed to find a suitable match.

I feel bad for this.

We'll find you a date yet. In the meantime, here's some words of consollation from my dad. This was several years ago, after a breakup: "Nik, you're a catch ... (insert 45 minutes of heart-warming conversation here) ... Sooner or later, you'll find someone who appreciates you as much as you deserve. And, you know, hopefully it's a guy."*

*He was not, as some have wondered, doing anything other than being socially awkward. So now you see where I get it.