OBFT XXXIII is in the books (for me at least) as I left at 4 AM this morning, and now I'm packing my bags . . . to go to the beach—Bradley Beach at the Jerzee Shore . . . first-world problems; anyway, the usual highlights:
--delicious food and fun at Tortuga's—despite the surly bartender . . .
--I told Bruce a joke, which wasn't even that filthy, so I can repeat it here: my friend was dating this girl, and she dumped him, and he was so angry that he stole her wheelchair . . . guess who came crawling back?
-- Whitney did a lot of fantastic DJing-- his wheelhouse-- and he put an ORF Rock sticker on the door at Tortuga's
--Billy's post-collegiate daughter (who did a spot-on Jersey accent when talking to Paci) and a couple of her tall, athletic friends stopped by and hung out for an inordinately long time, considering we are boring old men; Rodell and I beat them all at cornhole, but they gave us a run for our money and then they tried to learn how to play our favorite drinking game, the convoluted, fast-paced, and Byzantine word-based contest known as Z . . . and Hanna actually progressed to the big leagues;
-- the water was brisk but refreshing;
--Rodell and I took all comers and ended up undefeated at cornhole;
-- there was much shooting the shit, shooting the breeze, and shooting the bull . . . the people who took our photo at Tortuga's were impressed that we've been able to tolerate each other for this long—it's a blessing—so thanks, Whit and all who made it, hope to see everyone and more next summer.
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