My, my...where does the time go? It is already Winter Party; basically I like this because it signifies the imminent end of "Season", something I have to come to detest. "Season" means a non-ending party, where Northerners descend upon the beach, pass on all their colds to our, now, delicate constitutions to party all night. Bob has graciously rented a cabana at the Surfcomber again; it is considerably larger than the one pictured here, as it is set up for fifteen lushes--I mean ladies of stature, but is close enough to give the idea. I have been undecided whether I would attend this year; I mean you are talking about thousands of gay men in a drunken orgy, scantily clad--if at all. I mean, it's ghastly. But on second thought, perhaps I will give it one more try. Just one.