I had this black leather briefcase kind of thing which was filled to bursting. There were books of arcane lore, pads of graph paper, character sheets worth at least a GP, a few lead miniatures and, my pride and joy, a multi-compartmented box filled with dice of various shapes.
Upon arrival I would carefully unpack my bag, setting everything out in its place for easy access. Appropriate record albums (yes, the big black disc things) would be ready to set the mood, and the requisite snacks and sodas were stocked and awaiting consumption.
The guys would begin to come in and take their places, bragging on past exploits and full of anticipation for the adventures that awaited. For awhile there was even a girl in the group, she played an Elven Ranger of course. Come to think of it, she might have just been a product of our wishful thinking.
Oh it was a joyous time. Life as an underweight, pimply faced, teenager didn't hold a lot of opportunity, but in the game anything was possible. Dragons were slain, fair maidens were rescued, treasures of unthinkable value were discovered and entire kingdoms rose and fell beneath the skill of our swords and the might of our magic.
But now the master of the dungeons has fallen and no scroll or incantation can bring him back. We owe him a lot and I hope he isn't forgotten. So this is my farewell: may your sword never rust, may your boots never wear out, and may the king welcome you to drink at his table.
Now go here for a word from a true master.