I was having a glass of champagne at the neon-blue wine bar when the chief entered, wearing a long, tight, red Chinese silk gown and a black matador hat. She was smoking an unfiltered cigarette from a two-foot, ebony cigarette holder and wearing an old fox-fur stole over her perfectly defined shoulders.

She handed me a piece of paper – a notice of an upcoming women-only wine tasting at Chez Suave put on by the Wine Women Association. The flyer said the group would be tasting Oregon pinot noir and other great Oregon wines.

The chief looked at me through her pools of blue and said, “Handsome, I need you to cover this event – or, I should say, I need your altar ego, Fran the wine gal, to cover it.”

I thought about my feet. They’d ached for over a week after I’d worn heels posing as Fran for the first time. I was about to say no, but I could never refuse anything the beautiful chief asked me to do. So I agreed.

I went to my cousin, Martha – a big girl who has a vast wardrobe of dresses – so I could once again transform myself into Fran. I decided on a long, layered orange dress with an orange-slice pattern. And, keeping with the citrus theme, I chose lemon-colored, pointed high heels and an ash-blonde wig. With a pile of clean, white sweat socks, I gave myself an ample bosom. I topped off the ensemble with a shocking pink hat.

This time, Martha helped me with my makeup. I looked in the mirror and marveled at my transformation: I looked like the cheapest whore in the world. But no matter; I was just trying to get into a wine tasting as a female, I reminded myself.

I drove to Chez Suave in my vintage orange Toyota truck, then handed my car keys to the handsome, underage surfer-blond valet.

I felt both sexy and pretty this time, as I walked past the same old crones snickering at me. OK, dog breath, you just wish you could look as good and as sexy as me, I thought as I strolled past.

I knew that several of my favorite Oregon wineries were going to be there, including Bethel Heights, Domaine Drouhin and Rex Hill, among others. Oregon has had several soft vintages until the outstanding 2002 vintage. 2003 and 2004 have been outstanding as well.

Although there has been a lot of focus on Oregon pinot noir, wineries in the state also produce excellent chardonnay, riesling and pinot gris, also known as pinot grigio. The three major appellations in Oregon are the Willamette Valley, the Umpqua Valley and the Rogue Valley – but only Willamette has produced world-class wines.

I got a glass from the table serving Chehalem pinot gris and took a sip. The wine tasted heavenly: delicate fruit and melon nuances, and no oak to mask any of its flavors. It was a pity to spit it out, so I didn’t.

Then I tried a pinot noir, which had sweet, delicious fruit, full of watermelon and burnt cherries, and a slightly spicy finish. It was wonderful.

I was smiling and trying to be as feminine as possible, having had no prior experience being a girl, when I spotted trouble coming toward me in the form of Sgt. Bacchus from the Wine Police – that international elitist order that enforces wine “laws” and etiquette.

At just over six feet tall, Sgt. Bacchus is a blonde Amazon. She was wearing a black leather jump suit and carried her ever-present night stick. I turned away and started to chat with an annoying lady who was asking me where I got my hair done. I then went over to the Bethel Heights table, hoping to lose Sgt. Bacchus.

Just when I thought I’d lost her, she appeared behind me like magic. “Hey, sister,” she said, tapping her night stick in her hand. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“No,” I stammered. “I’m from San Jose. I’m Fran – just visiting.”

But before I could blink an eye, she ripped the ash-blonde wig off my head. There were screams of, “He’s a man!” One chubby woman to my left fainted.

What happened next is out of a “Three Stooges” comedy. I started to run away as quickly as my high heels would let me, but Sgt. Bacchus grabbed the back of my dress and ripped it off. There I was for the whole world to see, in a black bra stuffed with clean sweat socks and my Garfield the cat boxer shorts.

I had only one option as Sgt. Bacchus closed in on me: I took the dump bucket and threw it at her face, covering her in pinot noir. I heard her cursing my name as I made my escape.