I love Portland. It’s been my home for five years, and in that time, Portland’s “done good” by me. Sure, I may have to travel out of state if I want to get laid, but that’s not necessarily an intrinsic fault of the city, just a perpetual flaw in its menfolk. (Somebody prove me wrong, PLEASE!) Although I may not be getting any here, in other respects, I’ve come a long way here, baby. With relatively little effort on my part, since moving here, I’ve succeeded in realizing my goals, or at least realizing that I have goals, which is a triumph in itself. Portland’s been my own personal vocational rehab clinic, and within its supportive confines I’ve found my path (as I like to say, “If you can’t make it here, you can’t make it anywhere”). It’s taken some time, but I’ve finally clawed my way out of the restaurant industry tiger trap that I fell into in my freshman year and have been languishing in ever since. Now I’m on the brink of embarking on what may be my long sought ticket to the high life: I’m becoming a publishing magnate.

Just what is a publishing magnate? To clarify, let me point out that it’s magnate not magnet. I am not attempting to promote my lifestyle by attracting metallic objects of any size or kind (although if I get stuck to a brand new car, I won’t complain). A magnate is (according to my trusty Little Oxford Dictionary) “a person of wealth, authority, etc.”. I can only dream of what may lie in that enticing “etc.”, but the wealth and authority I am ready to assume at any moment. I’ve been practicing, preparing for my new role. Somehow, I was able to acquire a platinum Visa card recently, and have been flourishing it at every opportunity, quickly developing the expensive new tastes, to which I eventually hope to become accustomed. And in my last few months of bartending, I’ve been exercising my authority, cutting off drunks with an ever increasing imperiousness. Magnate status, here I come.

Oh, yeah, but what about the publishing part of my new title? Well, that comes from BarFly, the hot new zine that’s going to take Portland by storm this summer. I’ve spent the last couple of years distilling my hard won knowlege of the several hundred watering holes in and around Portland, and now I’m ready to disseminate my findings to the world on the glossy pages of my very own mag. It hasn’t been easy, constantly going from bar to bar, choking down Sapphire and Tonic after shot of Rumpleminze after Rolling Rock, but the research had to be done, and damned if I wasn’t going to do it all myself. It’s taken a lot of dedication, and far too many Aleves on far too many mornings after, but I felt that I was called to do this work, almost like a modern day Joan of Arc. Laying my liver on the line for the benefit of others has endowed me with a new sense of purpose. Plumbing the depths of every dive from Boring to Beaverton is my noble mission, one that may even pay off big enough to supply the Mickey Mantle transplant special that will surely be the greatest reward for my intensive labors.

Although I am very excited about my venture, I am given pause by one particular aspect of my new career. As anyone who has been a faithful reader of this column knows (and you all are, aren’t you?), I treasure my private life above all else. It hasn’t been easy for me to splay my innermost thoughts and feelings on these pages. I may seem to gush quite effortlessly every detail of my (lack of) sex life, for instance, but at heart, I’m really quite shy, retiring and modest. As I ascend to the lofty heights of magnanimity, I will have to contend with the prying eyes of the public who will undoubtedly be insatiable in their curiosity as my celebrity grows. I’ve already noticed men pawing through the garbage in the dumpster outside my building, and I know that this is just the beginning. To protect myself, I’ve been hiding my most incriminating unwanted materials in the hollowed out bottoms of empty catfood cans, but it’s a ruse that probably won’t work forever. But my rubbish is the least of my concerns. An alarming incident occured last week, when I was followed from EJ’s to Club 21, by a gang of clever paparazzi, who had disguised themselves as my friends and co-workers. It wasn’t until I was suddenly blinded by the glare of flashbulbs that I realized I’ll have to be far more careful in the future. Thank god my bodyguard was able to rip the undeveloped film out of their cameras before beating them into a bloody pulp.

After that narrow escape, I decided not to waste any time breaking ground on the state of the art, high security, BarFly Mansion. Taking the lead from my role model, Hef, I’m outfitting the extensive compound with everything I’ll need to keep me safe and comfortable for years to come. In anticipation of the Y2K crisis, I’ve been secretly buying up the world’s supply of Bombay Sapphire, ensuring that I’ll have more than enough to keep me going through the dark days of the next century. I’m stashing a minimum of 15 cases at each of the wet bars (there’s one in every room, even the master bath!), and storing the rest in a climate controlled underground warehouse. Bill Gates has been hard at work, personally designing the electronic surveillance systems that will keep BarFly Mansion impregnable to even the most dedicated would-be interlopers. And I’ve been supervising the hiring of all staff, making sure that not a single house-boy is below muster. Let me tell you, it’s not easy to find good help these days! But with the benefits package I’ve put together (full medical and dental, unlimited shift drinks, use of the grotto and putt-putt course, and gorgeous Armani G-strings for the house-boys), I’m hoping to attract the best and the brightest. (You can forward your resume and references to the Rocket, if you think you’re BarFly caliber.)

In closing, I’d like to add a few words of caution for my public. First off, I will gladly sign autographs (for $10 each which I will donate on your behalf to the BarFly Charitable Trust), but please don’t interrupt me when I am inbetween shot and beer chaser. Second, I promise that I will now and always graciously accept all offers of free drinks (and select other intoxicants) that my adoring fans send my way, but please don’t speak directly to me or attempt to join me, even if I am sitting alone and appear to have a friendly, expectant look on my face. The moments of solitude I enjoy in public will be few and far between, and I’ll want this time just for me. Lastly, I swear that I will never forget about all the little people in my life, even if I do leave you far behind, someday. But you had better start ante-ing up those belated birthday and Christmas presents now, if you want to stay on the A-list. Remember, there’s only so much room at the top, and my head’s going to take up most of it.