Today is the birthday of the Sasquatch.
He is 97 years young.
Quick - before the whole house goes up! Make a wish!
Okay, that was a fib. Well, more like an outright lie. And that’s the last untrue thing in this entry. The rest I will swear to, gladly. Stack o’ bibles, mother’s soul, the whole nine yards.
I can’t say enough about this kind, gentle, wonderful man. I’ve known him for almost twenty years now, and, even when we lived thousands and thousands of miles apart, he’s always had a place in my heart. He is my defender, confidante, advisor, enthusiastic fan, shoulder to cry on, giver of fierce hugs, co-conspirator, and a very good and decent man, to boot. And, may I say, I am profoundly grateful to his beautiful girlfriend for not begrudging me the continued pleasure of his most agreeable companionship. (She is a gem.)
There are so many things I could say about this man, but I think the best and truest thing I can say is simply this: he is my friend.
Khef, ka, and ka-tet, bubba.
Happy birthday to my friend.