How much is that doggie in the window?

I didn't go inside to inquire. I did give you the artist's phone number, in a photo of course.

Boris Said to drive the No. 21 Little Debbie car Sunday!

I'm watching NASCAR Live! on Speed, dozing because I woke up at ever-lovin' 5 a.m. and couldn't get back to sleep! I just saw Bob Dilner interviewing Bill Elliott, resplendent in his Georgia twang, and heard him say that Boris was going to drive the car tomorrow in the NASCAR Nextel race at Watkins Glen.

Elliott said something like, "I'm not in the points. The car's in the points." Then he said that's why Boris is going in the Wood Brothers' car, because Boris' road-racing skills are based in road racing. Then he said, "I like Boris." My word. Bill Elliott--a class act from way back. And evidently the two guys are similar sized, so not too much will have to done to the car/seat, according to the Little Debbie crew chief Fatback McSwain.

Excited, wanting to read any reports already online, I Googled "Boris Said" and found a 35-minute old report from Scene Daily dot com. Here's the link in case you want to read it: http://www.scenedaily.com/stories/2007/08/06/scene_daily271.html.

In a little while, Said will qualify for today's NASCAR Busch race, but he did get in some practice in the No. 21.

I guess I'm turning into a bit of a Said Head. For those of you who can't fathom that last comment, that great head of curly hair has prompted his fans to show up at races wearing curly wigs and to be known as Said Heads.


Boris Said, photo from The Garage Blog dot com

Here's a link to cartoon that puts it all in perspective--http://www.borissaid.net/06%20cartoon.jpg.

Time has passed and Busch qualifying is now running on ESPN2. Bye for now.

UPDATE No. 1 Boris qualified 9th for the Busch race. In front of him are several full-time NASCAR Nextel drivers, which is another bone I'd like to pick with NASCAR, letting the big dogs run in races that I feel ought to be for the up-and-coming drivers.

UPDATE No. 2 Boris finished 9th overall, gaining 11 spots in the Busch standings.

NASCAR Qualifying Rained Out in Watkins Glen ... drat!

Naturally, the weather's gonna be the weather. Anyone's who's lived like I I have as an adult in Mississippi, Kansas, Texas and Oregon understands that. Plus as a kid, over a period of seven and a half years, my daddy's work took us to right at half the United States. The longest we lived anywhere was three months, the shortest was one night. I know one must put up with the weather and what it causes.

But.

As a life-long racing fan, rain frustrates me. I cannot even imagine how these teams who keep getting their dreams dashed feel in the pits of their stomachs. Drivers like Boris Said . Here's what I found about Said in an article at USAToday dot com:

"But another road-course ace won't be racing. Boris Said, who placed third at the Glen in 2005, will miss a Cup race because of weather for the second time this season. His Ford was on the pole last month at Daytona International Speedway before a thunderstorm washed out qualifying.

Said believes NASCAR should have postponed qualifying until Saturday morning both times.

"All the weather tomorrow is sunshine, sunshine, sunshine," he said. "NASCAR should roll with the punches and make a change. They've done it in the past."

The rainout "puts our team out of business," he said. Said is running a part-time schedule of road courses and restrictor-plate tracks. He said the fall race at Talladega Superspeedway likely will be the last for the No. 60 Ford.

"I guess they care about the top 35 teams," Said said. "The small guys, we're trying to make it, but it's twice as hard. We're probably pretty much done now. It's a bitter pill to swallow."

Elliott Sadler, a guy who wasn't civil at all to my friend Kay when we were in the Talladega garage in April, 2006, said on "Trackside" on Speed today that NASCAR ought to at least let the teams out of the top 35 have a chance to run against each other on Saturday, for the final eight starting spots. That sounds fair, doesn't it? Instead, NASCAR went with the 43 teams with the most owner points. Six drivers were eliminated because they have fewer qualifying attempts and/or lower standing in owner points than those who made the race.

Come on, NASCAR. Get real. You began as America's sport, the everyman of competition. Take the time and be responsible. Work this out so that something no one can control won't shaft the same teams again and again. Three times this season. Three out of the last four years at Watkins Glen.

I don't like this one bit. Do you?

Second in a series, my homage to football halftime shows, thanks to Portland's Rose Festival, 2007

Performing second at the Concert in the Park, the Last Regiment of Syncopated Drummers. I first heard them last summer as they paraded up Division as part of the Clinton/Division Street Parade. I agree wholeheartedly with this quote I found online in the Oct. 11, 2005, Portland Tribune: Drummer Roger Pease described an e-mail he got from then-prospective tenor drum player Casey Scott. Scott lived in an apartment on the Starlight Parade route. She heard the band coming down the street and went to the window to see the source of the racket. Pease paraphrases her e-mail: “ ‘All of a sudden I hear way off in the distance, something like a sonic disturbance, and I knew then why all throughout history, militaries have used drums to signal their approach, because hearing that you realize that there is nothing--nothing--an enemy could do.’”



Here's a bit I found at www.lastregiment.com: The Last Regiment of Syncopated Drummers was founded in 1998 in Portland Oregon by acclaimed Long Beach drummer Greg Odell. From traditional syncopation to funky street beats, marching rhythms to military cadences, the Last Regiment moves feet and stops hearts at parades, races, awareness walks, sports venues and backyard barbeques.


If you've developed a hankering to hear syncopated drumming, go to www.lastregiment.com and partake of their mp3. If it doesn't get you at the very least bobbing and rocking in your chair, have someone take your pulse right away!

In camera. Not.

Yesterday after work I rode the #18 to the Central Library, to return a load of mysteries and check out some more. Then I walked up 10th to the corner of Morrison, turned left which is west, and headed for a bus stop several blocks away.

About half way up the block, I saw this No Loitering sign. My brain, the kind that could easily be described as subject to richochet, noticed the distinctiveness of the golden capital letters on the dark red background, the brighter red border. I wondered if the font was Arial. I decided to loiter and take a photo.


In fact I had been loitering since I'd turned the corner headed for the bus stop. I first looked at the vintage clothing and accessory store's windows on the corner, slowing to check out the black and white checked sunglasses on the styrofoam head, then I walked a couple of steps and looked to the south side of the street at the variety of restaurants in the block, then I took two more steps and noticed the No Loitering sign. According to Merriam-Webster online that particular loitering fit the word's first definition, to delay an activity with idle stops and pauses. If I hadn't decided to get out my camera and take this photo, I would have sequed right straight into loiter's second definition, to remain in an area for no obvious reason.

The sign hangs near this door, on a wall set back at an angle from the surrounding walls. Where the key hole should be, it appears plugged. Is this merely an exit? Or a door that is only opens from the inside upon prior notification of a person's or a delivery's arrival? I looked up. I looked down. I had a Marvin Gaye moment: What's goin' on?




The juxtaposition of the sign and the door barely fit in my camera! And I still don't know what they were thinking. Do you?

If you didn't watch "The Closer" tonight, I'm feelin' mighty sorry for you!

Oh, my. I was either cryin' or hollerin' tonight! My Mama looked over at me and said, "You're just like Grandma Malone! She lived every minute of every TV show she ever watched. She didn't believe they were acting. She'd ask, 'Why'd he do that?'" Then Mama laughed. Thank goodness she waited until a commercial to share these insights into my lineage. She was speaking of her maternal grandmother, a little lady I never knew had seen a minute of television. It just never entered my mind.

I don't want to be a spoiler, just in case you decide to watch it when it's broadcast again on Tuesday evening. Check your local Comcast or whatever for the time. It's on TNT, just in case you want to search on the Guide on your own TV screen. Here in Portland, that's Comcast Ch. 54 at 10 p.m. tomorrow night.

If you've never seen a single episode of "The Closer," you might want to see if you can check out the DVD of Season 1 and/or Season 2 at your local library, or rent one or both from some video store, or buy them for yourself which is what I'm thinking I ought to do.

If this entire post reads like an advertisement, think of it more like a heart-felt recommendation from a Southern woman who just happens to have a purse sortta like Brenda Leigh's.

First in a series, my homage to football halftime shows, thanks to Portland's Rose Festival, 2007

Always, ever since I was a wide-eyed 10th grader in the mid-'60s, enthralled by my Provine Rams' marching band and their perennial award-winning halftime shows, always, marching bands--musicians, instruments, uniforms, movement, precision, and performance--take me to a better place.

That feeling flooded right in again when I became a high school teacher at Forest Hill High School in the early '90s. When I left that school for a middle school in the early '00s, I missed those halftime shows so much that each year I tried to get to at least one football game a season, to see my teacher buds, to watch the team, and to soak up the halftime show's rhythms. Now that I'm completely out of the field of education, my love of marching bands ended up in a little box in the back of my head except for watching "Drumline" now and then.

Until June, 2007, not exactly football season. Not that I wasn't expecting Portland's Rose Festival to offer up marching bands. I knew some would be in the parades--a parade without marching bands would be some sort of living, breathing oxymoron, right?

So Saturday night, June 2, Mama and I sat comfortably in our 4th-floor living room for hours, glued to the Starlight Parade on Ch. 8, the NBC affiliate. One band in particular totally captivated me. Row after row of adults, wearing bright yellow T shirts and white pants. Obviously having the time of their lives. The One More Time Around Again Marching Band. I had to see them in person. That I knew for sure. That I didn't want to wait until the 2008 Rose Festival I also knew for sure. Thank goodness for the Internet. I easily found that the OMTAAMB played a part in the Rose Festival's Concert at the Park Friday night, June 8, at PGE Park. Yippee! I could get off the bus on the way home and then walk the half dozen or so blocks home after the concert. Hooray!

What I'm now going to do with the photos I took that night is try to give you a tidbit of the exciting time the entire audience and performing groups lived that cool evening in a swell venue, situated below street level just as the slope steepens on its way up into the West Hills.

First off--the Northwest Navy's Leapfrog Parachuters. Wind check--speed and direction, no doubt.

One of several Nay Seals.

These two guys are touching each other on purpose.

They separated and landed effortlessly.

A single man brought in the POW-MIA flag, to rousing applause.

Naturally, they save the American flag for last. We in the crowd hooped and hollered with pride.



A well-trained team indeed, the Leapfrog Parachuters.

Coming soon--more musicians, instruments, uniforms, movement, precision, and performance--to take you to another, hopefully better place, if only for a little while.

Finally ... my July 4th pix.

Along with Chris and Leslie and their puppy Brixx, Mama and I joined Lamont, Lindsay, Brody and various of their friends for a fun Fourth of July evening.









Besides the puppy party hats, Chris and Leslie brought teensy water guns. Sorry--no water photos. Fun to be had overshadowed photos to be shot. I managed to squirt Leslie, Chris, Lamont, Lindsay and some of those friends. Of course, I got squirted, too. As did Mama who even got some from the water hose at the front of the house! She didn't have a gun of her own but didn't seem to mind not getting any licks in.

This section of the kids' garden thrives in the fantabulous Portland weather.













Lamont grilled onions, tomatoes, mushrooms, tuna. He cooked chicken in the oven. And made salsas from scratch. All made for some great and out-of-the-traditional food for America's birthday, tacos. Delicioso!












As the evening wound down, the kids played glow-in-the-dark-lit-up Frisbee. Some of them kindly posed for a small group picture. Don't even ask me what's up with my elder son Lamont although I do have an opinion. I think he's just having fun. What do you think?


















Here's Lindsay and Mama and Duncan, just before we hugged Lindsay good-bye and took a seat on the bench to wait for the homeward bound #4 bus.

A swell holiday was had by all.

Everything I need to know about Tombow I learned from Elle Woods!

First, the back story.

Y'all know I'll be 60 in December and that over my years of employment I've worked in an office or two, as well as a school or two. Opportunities abounded and still abound for me to make errors and/or mistakes on the typed or printed page.

Gone are the days of starting over, like I had to do in Mrs. Anthony's lunch period sophomore typing class at Provine High School in Jackson, Miss. One assignment, to type an invitation to our parents for Back-to-School-Night--my first effort began "Dear Mama and Faffy." I still remember vividly choking back laughter, and it happened in the fall of 1963! Mrs. Anthony was not amused. But she is the same woman who told us on the first day of school that she'd better not see any of us taking a bite out of our roll at lunch without having first broken it into two pieces. Self-assured teen that I was, I thought I'd heard it all.

From the days of round typewriter erasers equipped with a brush to whisk off tell-tale bits of rubber, to those little white rectangles of chalky-coated paper you placed between the ball on the IBM Selectric and the typing paper to cover up the offending letter, to the little white bottle labeled Liquid Paper with the brush that swelled up and dried once air hit it as you dabbed the paper, to the Presto Jumbo Correction Pen which is bright blue with a clear cap to protect the tip that either releases a stingy amount of correction fluid or a veritable flood compared to the mistake that needs correcting, I've used them all. Conscientious worker that I am, I thought I'd seen them all.

That is, until last summer when I met Tombow.

Sounds sort of like a Southern, good ol' boy, name. Tom Beau Somebody. You're thinking it might be Tom Bow, as in take a bow? I don't think so. When you consider how handy a good ol' boy can be, Tom Beau is your only choice.

Not that it was love at first sight. In fact, it was more like, "Huh? You gotta be kidding! You hold this how? And do what to get it lifted up off the paper?" A gracious and patient co-worker talked me through my initial efforts, then left me on my own.

A few days and/or mistakes later, as I carefully drew the tip of the applicator across the page, wondering if I'd cover up way more than I meant to as I tried to come to the end of the error, I heard her voice: " ... then you just snap it up."

Snap? Oh-h-h-h, snap. Visions of Elle Woods and friends, performing the "Bend and Snap" filled into my head. Roll-l-l. Snap! Roll-l-l. Snap! Practice makes perfect! Well, I don't suppose the UPS man saw it that way when Paulette Bonafonté decked him. I promise, I don't use my Tombow any where near any delivery persons.

I know. Now you've heard it all.

Today after work, I crossed paths with a blade, a bubbler, a babe, some balloons, and a bullhorn.

I first heard something about getting to see a block-long wind turbine blade up close on the radio, I think. Curiosity perked up my ears. Leland and I had seen regular row after row of those turbines last June on our way to Oregon from Mississippi. Surely this would be my one and only chance to see such a sight, up close and personal. I had to Google to get the details of the blade's visit. I could see it this weekend on 1st, not too far from the Willamette. Nice.

Then I read a bit of breaking news about the blade's trek to downtown Portland. The trailer broke on I-84 eastbound close to NE 122nd Ave. Some lanes and a ramp were to be closed for repairs to the trailer, which had stopped on the shoulder. I wondered if the repairs could be done in the hours set aside, from 10 p.m. last night until 1 a.m. Friday morning. The trucking firm was supposed to bring in equipment to lift the blade and its trailer so the repairs could be done. Heavy.

After work, as I boarded the #14 to cross the Hawthorne Bridge, I serendipitously took a seat facing north. Several seconds before coming to my stop, I caught a glimpse of what could only be the blade--I hadn't heard of any rocket-shaped metal objects coming to rest parallel with the pavement in Portland.

I hopped off the bus, strolled around the corner to a bench, grabbed my camera from my black rolling bag and strung it around my neck, the better to have my kind of fun with!

You can easily see why the wind turbine blade could be mistaken, at a glance, for an oddly shaped rocket on a flat-bed trailer.

The distinctive sound of a helicopter overhead distracted me for a moment. Where're the rest of its blades?

Click on this close shot of the PGE van to see sort of what Leland and I saw; I think it was in Wyoming, but I cannot swear to that. It's been a year, more time for my brain to dry out a bit more as I close in on the big six-oh! I digress.

That's an old tire protecting the blade's tip. What a hoot. When I saw that tire, all I could see was old tires nailed to wooden piers in order to protect boats pulling alongside, back home in Mississippi. People fishing from the pier maybe.


The Oregonian reported the length of the blade to be 140 feet while PGE puts it at 155 feet. That's a big difference. You'd think PGE would have it correct, since the blade is on the way to their Bigelow Canyon Wind Farm in Sherman County. Wonder if they'll offer tours there? Over the weekend, if you sign up with PGE for Renewable Power, you get to sign the blade. They point out in a news release on their Web site: "When the blade is installed, it will reach 396 feet in the air, making it much harder to sign." Gee whiz.

Those who thoroughly understand huge trucks could readily explain that wheel up in the air at the back of the cab, right?

Just imagine a crowd of people close around this superb sight tomorrow and/or Sunday and you'll have an inkling at how tickled I was to find it this afternoon, with only a security guard alongside who kindly walked on out of view as I got my last shot.

Around the corner from the blade, walking west beside the MAX tracks, I came across this water fountain. Having seen others, four fountains in one, I wondered at its single self. According to the city of Portland Web site, in 1912 lumber baron Simon Benson put up the first 20 four-bowl water fountains so that his workers would have an alternative to beer during the day. Beer sales dipped with the advent of the free flowing fountains. Also on the Web site I discovered that of the city's 128 fountains, 76 are the single-bowl bubblers.



If you look back at this post, http://mamamepdx.blogspot.com/2007/03/corner-sw-3rd-avenue-and-sw-washington.html, you'll see my homage to the windows at Orijennel at 3rd and Washington. Sadly, the store has gone out of business. As I waited for my second bus today, thank goodness I got the chance to snap a few shots of the last babe in the building, this mannequin who's turned her back on those of us who walked by without stopping to shop. Pensive, yet lovely.


Funny Bone never fails to catch my eye, whether I'm walking on the sidewalk or riding by in the bus. Here's my advice if you're feeling a bit down. Click on the photo to enlarge it. Let the string of green balloons lift your spirits, then scroll down and follow Funny Bone's sidewalk sandwich board's advice: Laugh till it hurts!

As I leaned up against the building at my bus stop at Washington and Broadway, I heard what I suspected was a voice on a bullhorn. "Support our troops! Bring them home!" Naturally, I looked to see where the sound originated and soon saw a small band of war protestors walking north on Broadway, turning east across from where I stood. Exhilarated to witness citizens exercising their right to freedom of speech, I snapped this shot to share with you. By the time they turned the corner, the protest had taken on the aspect of a call and response message that I firmly believe this country should heed. The man with the bullhorn spoke, "Support our troops!" and the people following him called, "Bring them home!" From diagonally across the intersection, a young man loudly voiced his support as they trooped out of sight.