We were right on the beach.

No shit. Just a little boardwalk separated the Nixons from the sand and surf. And man, that boardwalk was full of some colorful folks: Barnacle Bills with those big ol’ whisky-pickled noses, sun goddess rollerbladers, “Whoa, dude, like, whoa” guys with long flowing hair peddling beach cruisers, geezers, and the occasional novelty act either completely outta their mind or looking for some well-earned change.

Nixon rented a Pacific Beach, SoCal (P.B., yo.) hacienda for a couple days for a big ol’ “meeting of the minds.” Much progress was made. Check yer local skateshop for updates. Buy a watch. Live in it. Tell time, tell a friend off, whatevs.

The plane ride down was smooth, as was the plane ride back north. “Draplin, it’s a game of statistics.” Is what Goo has to say when I get a little scared and feeble concerning air travel. It’s good for us to be with the Nixons from time to time, to get back on the same page. Those miles are hard to travel, but worth it. I find strength in things like a hug from Niki or a heart-to-heart update from Matt Capozzi, and believe it or not, a wink across a room from Chad Dinenna really keeps me going in the face of all that California. No shit. I could be starin’ down a whole company’s worth of squares, but quite frankly, that’s not the case here. These guys are good people.

Guys like Peter McBride. Tall and swift, coy and hyperlinked, he’s just plain good stock.

Tom “Faux” Kosha. (…as in focaccia bread.) One smiling nod from that guy is enough to give me another hour of gusto in the midst of some gnarly line review.

Chad Hilton. How many times to I have to remind the readers of this gazette: Blood is fuckin’ thicker than water. All American. A brother.

There is something to be said about “Enjoying those you are rolling the sleeves up with.” Like it or not, that’s how we feel about these Nixon folks.