"No, I work for the CIA," Julie replied. Chastised, he scurried off.

Weaving through Patagonia jackets and turtlenecks, we squeezed through the 15-person-deep ring around the bar. Domestic beer is $2.25 and served in plastic cups, at least on crowded Friday nights.

Men's eyes moved vertically, and their mouths shouted "Woman!" and "How ya doin'?" Brooke's friend Dave, who said he frequents the Sports Bar to all of his old Belmont Hill buddies, explained that most of the women in the bar were not Harvard types. "Pine Manor," he said, pointing to a nearby table in the second room.

Two more men fixated on our notebooks, so we asked them about the bar scene. Both Harvard seniors, they sang the same old song.

"There's so many guys and not enough girls," one said. But they said they continue to come here every weekend. Hoping.

We considered a trip to the ladies' room, but the line out the door changed our minds. So we left.

Crossing the street on our way to the next bar, we ran into Chris and Pablo hanging out around a parking meter. We stopped to chat, uncertain whether to take a place at the end of the long line outside the Boathouse (56 JFK St.). But, upon seeing our friend Ken already in line, we cut in midway. No one grumbled.

Chris and Pablo took off, and we made new friends in line. The junior standing behind us took out his i.d. It read, "12/10/65."

Just as we reached the head of the line, Dan, John and Eric showed up. They joined us. No one grumbled.

The bouncer, a Kirkland House rugby player, checked our i.d.s and waved us down the cement staircase to the basement bar.

"R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me." As Aretha got down, so did we--to more drinking. We ordered two more beers at $2 apiece. When we asked for a receipt (hey, this was on the expense account, you know), the bartender asked why.

"We work for the CIA."

"That wouldn't be the first time they were in here," he quipped.

Eric leaned over and told us not to be flattered. "The bartender flirts with everyone," he said.

As we sipped our Millers, we eyed the tie, oxford and bomber jacket crowd. They stood in big groups--they had no choice, there were only three tables. Their heads nearly brushed the oars that hung on the low ceiling. Waiters clad in black mini--very mini--dresses fought through the mostly male crowd to take drink orders. The video game in the corner had been turned way down so its noises would not interfere with the classic hits.