Saturday, 7:30 p.m. -- The invitation said *dress for dinner* and, much to my surprise, no one showed up dressed as a chicken, an alien, or, on the other hand, naked. Staff at the Royal York Hotel hardly bat an eye at the seventeen of us, though one thoroughly confused young man made a pass at #63 when he'd actually meant to hit on #1,704, who might have been slightly more receptive. Oh well, The Original (who couldn't make it) always says everyone should have a broken jaw at least once in their life, and he should know.
#72,006 was disappointed to discover that the *Maple Leaf Ballroom* wasn't, as he had hoped, "filled with those balls you can jump around in, like the ballroom at Mc Donalds" (Memo to self: some of my brothers need to get out a little more. Speak to Manda)
#65,732 and CMD hoist the ball-and-chain flag while #21,108, in his sunglasses and begging everyone to *quit breathing so damned loud!*, contemplates the greater mysteries, specifically, why anyone would put a bar in an arcade, and the wonder that is Tylenol.