Unless the world leaves you behind first

That's the situation I stumble into, weekend or weeknight. No one flies by the seat of their pants anymore; they make reservations early and save the scratch instead. Play it by year? Hah - at this point, only if it's 2007.

Exiting the grocery store at 10 p.m. Wednesday, warmed by the gesture of a man with the full cart giving me his spot in the checkout line, I knew I had no one to call. The late-night hangout crews were all settled in, if not already in bed.

I couldn't even bury my thoughts on a late-night walk through the urban grid; the Arctic wind pounds as long as it takes to sweep clean the streets.

I could call California, but as with so many others at that hour, dialing west doesn't always have a cure for talking to voicemail.

When had everyone grown so responsible? Am I the last one hanging to this slippery cliff? The days of bar=hopping from Happy Hour to Closing Time screeched to an close one midnight drive; I always knew they would. And this isn't about getting sloshed; it's more about the company, these days it keeps hours I have trouble competing with.

Monday I picked a bar and fired up conversation with strangers because I knew the odds against familiarity.

But sometimes the best conversation arises from the foreign.