Birthday Boy.

He’s not 60, he’s friggin’ 59.95.

Sorry about the photograph. Miss Carol took it with her CrackBerry Storm or Tempest or Hurricane or something and it’s beyond oceandoggy’s feeble 21st century skills to correct. Just pretend he’s napping. He’s old.

Oceandoggy has himself some old friends. Not only old as in dirt, but old as in as ingrained and inveterate as a tattoo. And, boy howdy, am I glad. This weekend Miss Carol and me went to Rick’s birthday down in Knott’s Island. It was a hoot.

Living in a small, close community with friends and people you have known for centuries and decades maybe isn’t for everyone but it is for us. Granted, you can’t bullshit them anymore, but if your truck hasn’t moved for a day or two they’ll come lookin’. It’s nice. And Rick’s birthday week was an affirmation of that.

First, the blast in Knotts Island and then later in the week a party at The Baja, our favorite bar. Always the same folks, our friends. It’s a warm, familial kind of thing.

Happy Birthday Rick.

Take a nap.