One of my few gripes with Los Angeles is that it's not a 24-hour town.

Las Vegas? Gimme, gimme more.

New York? Reasonable facsimile.

Los Angeles? Not so much.

My bio rhythms are royally screwed up. I have no problem staying up until 5am. I also have no problem waking up at 4am. I often say to myself that sleep is for the weak -- until I pass out and wake up 18 hours later, bleary eyed and unsure whether I'll look outside to a sunny afternoon or some dark, cold evening. It's a self-defeating mantra.

For the most part, I love being able to function at bizarre hours. My phone doesn't ring. New emails are few and far between. Even traffic goes away for a few blissful moments. Back at home, I can sit down and do research, crank out copy, edit some photos, or whatever the heck it is I do as the blogger/writer/whatchamacallit that I am.

The biggest problem with having no real sleep schedule is finding basic necessities after dark. There's a 24-hour supermarket within a block of my apartment, but that doesn't suffice. I live a typical bachelor existence. Sure, I can cook, but there are far more important things to do -- like watching Sports Center. Trader Joe's is ideal for somebody like me. They have tons of items that I can zap or quickly grill up. They also close too damn early.

I generally start to panic around 9 P.M. That's when most decent restaurants, or at least the pseudo-healthy ones, begin to shut their doors. I call it dinner time. I want to at least try and put something green and leafy in my belly, but fat chance. If I'm lucky, I'll be able to hit up a salad bar at Whole Foods, many of which close at 10. Maybe there's a bazillion-calorie Chipotle meal in my future -- if I hustle. How gentrified does that sound?

By 10:01 P.M. most of Santa Monica, my current 'hood, is counting sheep (non-GMO, pesticide free, and totally organic, bro). I'll usually hunker down at home with my laptop and some junk food, but last night I had internet problems (note to anybody who has a neighbor -- don't name your WiFi network the same as somebody else's in your area). Then the real adventure began.

There are a lot of late-night diners in Santa Monica. I had a flash of inspiration. Maybe, just maybe, some would have WiFi.

The most convenient option was Izzy's, a true local's spot tucked away on Wilshire and 15th. I called and asked about internet. No dice.

Next up ... Swinger's on Lincoln and Santa Monica. An ideal place to let your creative juices flow, they were full of colorful characters, served an over-the-top mug o' mocha, and were happy to give out the password to their high-speed network. It was almost perfect. Almost.

As soon as my battery died, the waitress could only shrug. No AOL, just SOL.

Off to Norm's, a couple blocks down the street on what amounts to Santa Monica's "diner row." A plug was available at both a booth and the counter. One of the waiters said people use the internet all the time. Things were looking up.

But when I tried to find a wireless network, there was nothing on my radar except the occasional, faint signal from Denny's -- that infamous, plasticy chain across the street. Unfortunately, it wasn't strong enough where I was sitting and I couldn't log on from inside Lincoln Boulevard's last bastion of non-uber-commercial-diners.

Final stop: Grand Slam Station. The only person on duty at Denny's made a noble effort to help me, but she didn't speak much English and had trouble understanding that I needed a plug. She walked me all around the restaurant before we could get on the same page, and eventually told me her manager doesn't let people bring in laptops. I doubt that's the case considering they have a WiFi network so powerful that you can detect it in rival establishments, taunting their techie patrons to join the dark side. It didn't matter, because she clearly wasn't going to be accommodating -- no matter how many ice cream sundaes I offered to buy. Ultimately it was their loss. I would have ordered plenty, and just imagine the markup on a couple scoops of bulk ice cream.

Out of ideas (and energy to drive out to Santa Monica's handful of other late-hour diners), I retreated into the night, back to my apartment, and started to clack away on my keyboard the way I did back in the stone age of computers -- into M.S. Word.

PS: Yes, this is the yuppiest thing I have ever written.

Photo by mrjoro via flickr.