Wine Drunk by 9:00

I met a good friend at Ipanema to catch up after several months of not seeing each other, except the random run-in at a show. And don't tell my mother, but I had blueberry pie a la mode for dinner instead of a proper meal (but it was damn fine blueberry pie with a brown sugar crumble on top), although we did share some cornmeal-crusted fried oyster and button mushrooms beforehand.

It didn't take long for him to remind me yet again that I am a Luddite for not having a cell phone or PDA (despite him freely admiting being addicted to his crackberry). As my friend said upon returning from the men's room, "See, if you had a phone you could have been checking your Twitter feed while I was gone." Instead, while he was off taking care of business, one of the two guys at the end of the bar had invited me to come share their feast; they'd ordered six dishes for the two of them, so I'm not sure how much was wanting my sparkling company and how much just seeking eating assistance.

Having both recently done the Robinson Street ramble after avoiding it for years , we compared notes on which of its bar crowds provide the most amusement for our viewing pleasure. He nominated Racine for best happy hour given its end time of 9:00 (even so, it's still impossible to beat a $2 glass of wine at Ipanema). He wanted me to help him understand the decor at Commercial Taphouse; clearly he doesn't remember the Early Rec Room period of the 70s or he wouldn't have to ask such a silly question.

Best lament of the night from said friend: "Wine drunk by 9:00 and ready for bed. God, I'm turning into my mother."

Coming home a few minutes ago, I heard my phone ringing and rushed up the stairs to grab it (no land line lectures, please). Whoever it was must have just wanted to hear my voice (a comment I've heard twice this week already), because they didn't say anything despite obviously being on the line.

Glancing at the clock as I put down the phone, it occurred to me that it's after 1, I'm just now getting in and someone has just called me. And then there's that matter of pie for dinner. God, I'm not turning into anything like my mother, that's for sure.

Let Me Put It This Way

You have to be careful when you blog about an evening in which you run into two other bloggers at the start and then finish the night with them. You don't want your version to differ too much from theirs and you don't want to over-share the good stuff. Here's the allowable version:

A friend and I walked into Bacchus and saw a practically full bar when I heard my name called. It was a couple of blogger girls, one of whom I'd met previously, and they played musical chairs to accommodate us. Our server told us that it would be a while before we could order food because the kitchen was so busy (actually, I think it was her that was in the weeds). When allowed, my friend and I had dinner (for me, a salad of Belgian endive, Granny Smith apples and Gorgonzola plus a bowl of smoked chicken chowder). The food arrived amazingly quickly considering her dire predictions. And speaking of dire, who would have expected to hear Cameo's "Word Up" at Bacchus of all places?

A friend joined them, an intuitive newcomer, who then proceeded to "read" us. She provided all kinds of accurate revelations about my friend along with suggestions for better ways to handle her issues. When it was my turn, she just stated the obvious about me and told me I'm always going to do well. Well, yeah, how long have I been hearing that?

Fan House was suggested next and that involved an extremely diverse crowd age-wise, as well as listening to high-volume club music from ten years ago. We observed a first, a "lime birdy" also known as a PBR with a lime. Now, I don't drink beer, so what do I know, but the beer-drinkers in our little group were as surprised as I was. Is it wrong, unnecessary or just stupid?

On the way to the bathroom, I ran into owner Sonny, who somehow remembered me from my first visit. He was just back from filming on a battlefield all day (his primary job, after all, is film making). He told me about the menu changes coming next week (all I'm saying is venison, fillet and 500 degrees). At the bar, too, so that's something to look forward to.

I'd gone to the bathroom to escape a very drunk guy who'd been doing his best to hit on me in his most unintelligible slur. Obviously he'd seen I was drinking Albarino, and when I got back from the loo, he had two glasses of white wine sitting cozily together, perhaps in anticipation of us doing the same. I grabbed my coat and the girls and I left en masse.

Racine involved multiple discussions of age and age-appropriate dating. One blogger had an equation for that: divide your age in half and add seven and voila! That's as low as you can go and probably lower than I would, but a formula makes it seem acceptable, no? And for beer-drinkers who had just ridiculed lime birdies, they surprised me by both having one. Nearing the end of it, one said, "Well, I never need to do that again!" and the other responded, "Really? Cause I definitely will!"

We used the age equation as an excuse to ask lots of guys their ages, including our server, the guy in the booth behind us, and a DJ from WRIR and then did our own math. The music was all over the place, although I can't remember the last time I heard Interpol's "Untitled" in a bar; I was so impressed I had to mention it to the bartender who agreed wholeheartedly, "Yea, I know, right?" he said. "I love that song. My band does a version of it."

When Faces' "Stay with Me" came on, a nearby guy started dancing and singing to it, telling us it was his all-time favorite song, to which I challenged, "And you were what, about four when it came out?"

He paused mid-move, started laughing and admitted, "Five." Then he sat down quietly.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.