Two nights ago, I experienced another one of the reasons why this site is named what it is.

The evening began with one of my brother's and my famous sushi marathons (it's possible, but hard, to beat $15 all-you-can-stuff-into-your-mouth), where we caught up, laughed and talked about life and the ways to make it a worthwhile experience--one of the reasons why I dig hanging out with Diego.

Later that evening, I decided to avoid sitting in my apartment watching bad television, so I headed towards the Eagle in an attempt to do something, anything, that involved other people. I like spending time with myself and do so very frequently, but it's no fun to do so when I want to be gregarious. Not that I am very gregarious at bars--the upstart effort it takes to approach someone and say hello at a bar, when all one wants is conversation, is sometimes hard to muster. Add to that the androphilic/misanthropic kick I've been on recently and you might realize why it perhaps wasn't a good idea to head out to a bar. But well...

In any event, the evening turned out to be a good deal of fun and full of writing fodder. I took a perch on the outer patio and started doing my usual eavesdropping. The only people really talking and seeming to have a good time were this gang of bears with assorted tattoos and piercings standing next to me. Between the persistent fun they poked at each other, the general amicability of their interaction, and the fact that a number of them were particularly yummy, I ended up somehow drawn into the conversation. So, by the time the bar was threatening to close, I had met five new people (whose names I do remember) and had discussed South American botany, the difficulties of inflection in Welsh, global nomadism, the theory of fisting and herbal medicine--one of the reasons why I'm beginning to dig hanging out at the Eagle.

As we were being ushered out of the bar, Bear With The Red Goatee suggested that we end the evening with an early breakfast at Bob and Edith's, a greasy spoon diner on Columbia Pike in Arlington. I'm always game for an injection of canola, so I agreed to join. Eventually, though, the distance of B&E caused a switch of plans, so we went to a place that seems favorite with fags in the District, Annie's.

I had never been to that place in my two-and-change years here in the DC area. Yeah, it's open all night on weekends--the reason why we ended up there. Many Pink Americans in the area seems to have eaten there at some point and suggested that "I just had to go there sometime." As is true with most things that I've been told I "have to do" by assorted gaggles of PA's, this one should also have been avoided

I arrived there, and figuring It's 3AM, I ate a truckload of sushi, and it's breakfast time, I decided I'd just order a grilled cheese sandwich. I noticed it wasn't on the menu, and commented, but we all pretty much agreed that yeah, they should be able to conjure up a grilled cheese sandwich without much difficulty. They had toast on the menu, and cheese omelettes...

The waiter's reaction to my request: "It's not in the menu."
I wasn't prepared for that response.
"How about a cheeseburger without the burger?" I asked, half in jest, half seriously.
"You want the cheeseburger without the bun?" he asked.
"No, I want the cheeseburger without the burger," I replied.
"We don't take special requests after hours," he queened back at me.

Apparently, in the dimension of Favorite Gay Eating Spots that serve omelettes and french toast in the wee hours of the morning, toast and cheese change their fundamental chemical properties after midnight, making it impossible to put one in between two of the other and place it on a plate for a paying customer.

I have never, in my many experiences of late-night eating in Dining Spots Without A Sexual Orientation, encountered a situation in which a grilled cheese sandwich was a theoretical impossibility at certain times of the day. The surly short order cook at AMS's cafeteria never had a problem making grilled cheese for breakfast even though it was only on the lunch menu. I've certainly never felt threatened with impending death or cataclismic destruction of the World As We Know It when my sandwichmaker has been plugged in after midnight.

To paraphrase a quote from my friend Mark, the most rational person is put in the most irrational position when dealing with irrational people.

So, in keeping with the name of this site, I can now officially include Annie's Paramount Steakhouse, at 17th and Q streets, NW, into the list of things that are a Pain in My Ass.