DOWNTOWN -- Local journalist and coke-fiend Blaine Chowder has been missing for one week.  Concerned family and friends are asking for your help in finding him. Follow along as our award-winning writer Patricia Cake frantically searches for any sign of her honorable colleague.

I start at the seedy underbelly, or stinky armpit, of the Tri-State.  It has been said that every creative genius has his demons; Blaine, it seems, has more than most.  I stop first at a well-known strip club, where word of Blaine's disappearance cuts to the core.

"My Gawd!  Where'd he git to?" cries Pollyanna Stephanopholous, staff member at the Brass Ass.  "I miss those gold dollars he used to insert into my g-string."  I ask the obviously distraught adult entertainer if she has any thoughts on what might have become of the suave wordsmith/super-secret IRS agent.  "I dunno!  I dunno!  Gawd, where'd he go!? How'm I gonna get Lil' Paulie through tap dancing school without Blainey?"  Attempts to revive Ms. Stephanopholous by waving whiskey in front of her face fail repeatedly.

"I'd suggest looking for Gomez," whispers a large hairy gentleman exhibiting an obvious distrust of the media.  "Leave my dancer(s) alone and go bother Gomez.  You'll find him at the Westend Tavern." 

Before venturing to Newport, however, I make a stop back in Cincinnati at Milton's, a hangout known for a clientele favoring the creative class. Luckily, I am able to locate Mr. Barry Gwee, Cincinnati Advance board member and man-about-town.  I pray that he may be able to shed some light as to the whereabouts of Blaine, before it is too late.

"Why are you asking me what happened to that twerp?"  Mr. Gwee seems little moved to assist me in my urgent investigation.  Though he appears to be entirely undistraught, I remind him of the Events Calendar posted on the Cincinnati Advance website.

"Well, the 'candlelight vigil' wasn't my idea.  In fact, it's actually a ritual cleansing ceremony planned by a few CinAdders particularly affected by their relationship with the late, oops I mean 'great,' man of letters."

Leaving Mr. Gwee to his beer and playful pseudo-political-cultural-urbanist-neo-yuppy banter, I grab my esteemed colleague Fred Pastry and head to the Westend Tavern.

As soon as we walk in the door I ask a young lady with a large tattoo if she is familiar with Gomez.

"Why do you wanna know?" she demands in a loud, threatening tone.  Turning to Mr. Pastry, she adds "$30 for everything on the menu.  $30.  $5 bucks off if you are a veteran."

As my co-worker reaches for his wallet I slap his hand.  "Not now, Fred.  We've got to find Blaine.  I'm afraid he may be in real danger."

Fred nods.  "Well, he sure did, I mean does, have a lot of enemies." 

We discuss what might have drawn him to frequent this particular watering hole.  Fred reaches the conclusion that "it must have provided him with a refuge from the animosity of all the people he attacked in print."  (Why is Fred speaking of Blaine in the past tense?  Doesn't he love Blaine like a brother, or at least as much as a saucy Pekinese?)

Certainly, Blaine's is a fearless voice against hypocrisy and good oral hygiene, I remind Fred.

"The folks here don't care much about that.  In fact, they don't care much about oral hygiene here.  Or hypicrosy.  Or reading, for that matter."

Just then I jump as Fred is tapped on the shoulder by a sinister looking man sporting a gray fedora and a pink velour track suit.  Could this be the much-sought-after Gomez?