I had a hankering for those "soon to be almost famous" chicken wings. I had been thinking about them all day. I had to have some. It was a gorgeous day at the Inner Harbor. The Orioles were playing Anaheim, and I had two hours until I had to meet Bob at Gate "H".

Now, my friends and I had been coming to this particular establishment for the last 7 or 8 years. Drive 40 or fifty miles from Washington. At least twice a month, every month. Spent hundreds of dollars in food and drink. Not to mention the merchandise. I was a regular customer. Imagine that.

Only problem was, tonight I was dining alone. I was about to enter the dreaded world of the "single diner." The curse of the business traveller and the casual diner alike.

I took my favorite table near the patio, overlooking the Harbor. The Tall Ships were still there. What a view! On my right, there was a boisterous party of eight teenie-boppers, smoking like chimneys and downing gallons of soda. Nice tattoos, too. On my left a father, mother and obnoxious young child were feasting on some wings. They were smoking, too. Well, not the kid. And directly in front of me a party of midshipmen were loudly cheering the sports channel overhead. Yeah, they were smoking, too. The Academy should only know. I could see three different orange-and-white clad waitresses attending to these tables at a furious pace - back and forth they went, pausing every so often to take a seat at their tables and chat with the customers. Only problem was I had been sitting, unserved, at my table for 20 minutes by now. I knew I had entered the "single diner zone."

Desperate, I decided to try the casual-stroll-to-the-rest-room ploy and grab a waitress on the way back. You know what I mean. I glanced in the mirror in the "Most Men's Room." Nope, I was not invisible. I had no ugly zits on my face. I wasn't wearing white socks and loafers. It had to be "the single diner phenomenon," I decided.

As I headed back to the table, I passed a group of orange and white outfits, gossiping about last night's crowd. "Can I get some food over there," I said, motioning to my table, in my most pleasant voice? I saw them looking around and pointing. An inaudible conversation took place among them. They had probably drawn straws to see who got me.

Finally, "J.R." wandered over to my table, asking pleasantly what I wanted. I ordered 10 "Three Mile Island Thermonuclear" wings, celery and blue cheese and a draught (or is that "draft" - I never know?) beer. She had them at my table in less than ten minutes, along with the check, leaving immediately to sit down and chat with the customers at the next table. Oh well, so much for socializing.

After three delicious, mouth-watering, lip-numbing and nostril-flaming wings, the sensation of fire began to overwhelm my mouth. My eyes began to water and my nose run uncontrollably. I had finished my beer with the first wing. Now I needed more. Stat. Only thing was "J.R." was busy chatting with the midshipmen. OK, so they had nice uniforms and they liked ships. But I needed to slake my thirst now.

I evidently must have looked like I was about to self-implode, because "J. R." suddenly appeared at my side, her baby blue eyes staring in disbelief. "Are you all right, sir?"

"Yeah, just had a thermonuclear event. Could I get another beer, pleeeeze?"

She hurried to the bar area, returning almost immediately with a fresh brew. I downed it in one gulp. But, alas, "J. R." had gone, leaving a new check on the table. She was sitting with the midshipmen again. Seemed to have a lot of time for them. I was beginning to fume now, and it wasn't from the wings.

The world of the single diner is a lonely one. We suffer in silence in cities across America every day. Thousands of us. We wonder whether we have turned invisible, sprouted green hair, or have signs on our tables that say "quarantine." We put up with ludicrous waits while our friends at the next tables are dining on hot, scrumptious entrees and enjoying a tingling, lusty Chardonnay. We grow old waiting for the condiments and a refill on our beverages. And we might as well be waiting for the Euro Dollar to hit circulation when we want our check and change. And a smile would be nice, too.

Well, fortunately, for me the night ended well. As I was about to leave, Craig, the new General Manager, happened, by chance, to randomly select my table on his "rounds." I told him of my plight, adding a few embellishments for good measure, of course. He bought me a beer and we chatted for a while about the "good old days" when men were men and the owl hooted with gusto and smiled on all customers equally. We exchanged business cards and the next thing I knew I was holding a "VIP Coupon" for a free all-you-can-eat Wing Fest for ten of my closest friends. On my way out, I found a $10 bill on the stairs.

I was a happy camper. So the Orioles lost. At least I felt that I had accomplished something good. Somebody out there really gives a hoot.