It was my first trip to the capitol. My friend T and I had flown into Philly the day before to see another friend's band play. As they were playing the following night in Washington, we decided to make our way down for that gig as well.

We arrive in D.C. and wander around Georgetown, having a few drinks before the show. At the club - I want to say it was called The Bayou - there were, of course, more drinks which turned into a heroic consumption of red wine courtesy of our friend whose band had a tab. By the end of the evening, T and I were drunk and headed for next-day hangovers of at least 7.5 on the Richter scale.

However, as I am prone following a night of drinking, my thoughts were only on food as T and I hiked back to our hotel in the early morning hours. By the time we reached our hotel, T had suffered through a good 20 blocks of my lamenting the fact that nowhere was open.

"How could this be?" I asked. "How can there be nowhere to get food in our nation's capitol?"

If logic had not been sent out of the room by alcohol, I would have connected the dots and realized that it was quite late for most any city regardless of its muscle in world affairs. But, suddenly, fate flagged me down with an opportunity. We couldn't quite remember which hotel room was ours, leading to a dispute between T an I.

"I know it's on the third floor," I said (or likely slurred). "If I'm wrong, you have to go find me some food."

"And if I'm right?"

"I'll go."

I was wrong and I wandered off into the night in a city where I had never been, squiffy and in search of food. I picked a direction and went with it, but I soon realized that things were looking progressively dodgy with each block I went. I considered the idea of turning back when I saw it, a gaudy, neon oasis. There was some kind of convenience store.

I entered, procured goods - an armload of salty, crunchy things and chocolate, caramel items - and got in line. I felt a presence at my side, someone else joining the wait to purchase middle-of-the-night cravings and end-of-the-night provisions. I turned to see a petite, black woman. She was beautiful, willowy, and could have been a tiny dancer on top of a music box except for her attire - just a tiny black pair of black panties under a see-through, thigh-length plastic raincoat.

She introduced herself as Tweety and a friend as Simone. I don't remember Simone as well other than she, too, was quite attractive. I seem to recall that she had on red, go-go pants. Tweety sucked all of the attention from the room, a bunch of boggled-eyed men leering through bleary orbs and me, confused and, for some reason, imagining this Tweety doing some kind of song and dance with Tweety the bird from the old cartoons (Warner Brothers?).

Tweety chatted me up. but I wasn't buying. We shuffled along, edging closer to the counter. When I finally stood before the register, the gruff, old codger behind it, looked up and over my shoulder. He was staring at Tweety and Simone.

"Uh-uh," he grunted, shaking his head side to side under a mop of wiry, grey hair. It was obvious that he wasn't pleased with their presence - competition for dollars, I suppose, that he needed spent on snacks like corn chips not snacks like Tweety and Simone.

"I told you," he said. Here comes the hammer, I thought. "You can't be in here...without shoes."

I looked down and Tweety was, indeed, barefoot.