Last year, when I started my magazine, BarFly, I thought I’d be rich and famous by now. Seriously. I thought the publishing world would sit up and take notice of this here hot shot independent out of the Northwest, and that the investors and IPO would be quick on my heels. Well, I guess one out of two ain’t bad, but it ain’t the one that I really wanted. That is, I’ve achieved a level of recognition that has made me image conscious to the point of paranoia-- no more post-party puking in bushes or pajama’d trips to Freddy’s for me, lest I shatter the expectations of a witnessing fan or two. But while doors magically open before me, cover charges waived, and drinks often come on the house, I have much less of a pot to piss in than I ever did before. It’s not like I was born rich, far from it. But I was born to be rich. This I know. And I hate being poor, even in the name of so-called art.

I am a material girl. I want as much stuff as I can get and I want it now. As shallow as it is, shopping was, is, and will always be, my favorite pastime. I got this from my family, who celebrated the major events in our lives with trips to malls, the greater the occasion, the more far-flung the shopping center. Which department store we favored the most was an integral part of our individual identities within the clan. My mother is an upright and proper Bonwit Teller, my step-father, a slightly rumpled Filene’s Basement, and I’m a classic, but edgy, Lord and Taylor. Or at least I was, because today I’m down to Walmart.

My standard of living, while never great, has reached an all time low. In the name of semi-artistic pursuit, I’ve forsaken the MAC counter for half-priced Maybelline, Annie’s Shells and Cheddar for the glowing five for a dollar cancer-causing crap, Aveda Baby Cherry Bark and Okra Shampoo for Western Family (and yes, there really is a difference). My contacts should have passed on to a higher plane months ago, my clothes are all tattered and faded, and not in a fashionable sort of way. I haven’t had a haircut since the last time I went home to Mommy (using the last of my frequent flier miles) and my sneakers have chasms that no amount of ShoeGoo will fill.

But these are all superficial, cosmetic sacrifices. The real heartache came when I kissed my best friend, Cable TV, goodbye. There is nothing that can fill the void left by the ceasing of “Behind the Music” marathons and my ritualistic viewing of daily doubles of “A Dating Story” (which was the closest I’d been able to get to the real thing, and thus even harder to miss). When, a couple of months later, my beloved Caller-ID and Voicemail fell, victims to the pinch, I seriously questioned my will to live. And, now, sinking ever lower into the underclass, I don’t even have a home phone. Without the prescience of Caller-ID to forewarn me, I had no alternative but to cut my service. Well, it was either that or suffer through a dozen or more calls a day from an ever-increasing number of irate collection agencies and credit card companies, which was really too much to bear. For some reason, they wouldn’t accept my answer, that yes, I had every intention of paying off every dime of my max-ed out Gold Cards, just not in little bits, but with one big check, as soon as my BarFly ship came in. Until then, since I didn’t have anything to send ‘em anyway, I was filing their bills carefully away in the garbage.

The irony of the situation is that as a business, BarFly is doing just fine, growing steadily, getting more popular, etc., etc. But each month there is always some disaster that cuts into my bottom line. My printer suddenly calls it quits, or my transmission falls out on the highway. Perhaps if I was more driven, more patient, I would be able to overcome these obstacles and keep my eyes on the prize. But I’m not that sort of person. Maybe it was because my parents paid me for getting “A’s” , or maybe I’m just a greedy bitch at heart, but I can’t work without regular, tangible rewards for my labors. And my candle is burning out, at both ends. I can’t face another year of turning green with envy when I’m in the checkout line behind someone with food stamps. I’m tired of looking at what remains of my stuff and mentally tallying what I could reasonably expect to pawn it for. I’m sick of playing the ATM like it’s a slot-machine. Going to the movies has become an unthinkable extravagance, and I sold my VCR two months ago. All this, and I don’t even have a drug habit! If only because I can’t afford it...

So, what am I going to do? Well, I’m more than willing to sell out, even if that will mark me as a pariah among the hipsters of my world. I guess Elliott Smith and I can form a support group of sorts. But, of course, I can’t sell out until I find someone to buy in. That is, if I can find someone to buy in. I’ll probably eke out a few more issues on my own, but that’s it. No more delusions of grandeur, no more dreams of an ever-expanding BarFly Empire. I will not become the Hef in skirts that I fantasized about. In the meantime, I’m getting a job, going back to my metier, bartending. Again, I don’t know where, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find me. Just look for the particularly bitter, rather snotty chick with a chip on her shoulder the size of Conde-Nast. Okay, I know that doesn’t narrow it down too much in a town where your busboy probably has a PhD, but you’ll know me by the distinctive air of failure that will cloud around me like Pigpen. Sounds enticing, huh? Just make sure you leave a fat tip.