By JANE LOTTER

So I've been drinking again and - oh, excuse me - I mean, thinking again, and I've come to several contusions. That is, conclusions.

Anyway, the first thing I noticed is someone changed the name of this paper. Were you aware of this? I found it disconcerting. I went to bed with the Jet City Maven, but got up with The Seattle Sun, if you catch my drift.

Hmmm. Name changing. Let's explore this concept, shall we? I mean, let's take it to its logical conclusion.

(NOTE TO READER: If I'd gone to film school as planned, instead of getting my degree in history, we'd dissolve into an elaborate dream sequence. But we're stuck with print, so you'll just have to use your imagination. OK, here we go. Dream sequence.)

I step off the elevator into the plush offices of The Seattle Sun, formerly the Jet City Maven. It's pandemonium. People are rushing around the newsroom, yelling out names to each other.

"How about Sybil? No? Don't like it? Sigourney? You look like a Sigourney, you know! You really do!"

The business manager and office hysteric, Sonia Shrewsbury, glides over to me. "Isn't this fun?" she trills. "New names for everyone! Clean cups, move down!" She puts her face up to mine. "Don't you write the humor column?"

"When I'm awake," I reply.

"Never read it myself. Still..." She turns on me. "Name some humorists," she demands. "You mean, my favorites?"

She nods.

"Well, there's Dorothy Parker, of course. And I laugh out loud at Fran Lebowitz and -"

"Stop!" She scribbles something on a pad she's holding, then she sidles up closer and places her right hand over my heart, as if she's about to assist me in reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. Before I can protest, she removes her hand; when I look down at my chest I see I'm wearing a sticker. A sticker that says "Hello My Name Is Dorothy Lebowitz."

"You want me to change my name?"

"It's been changed. Your column, too. From now on, instead of Jane Explains, it's Dorothy Delineates." She pauses and cocks her head to one side. "Or possibly Lebowitz Lectures. I'll let you know."

"Now look here," I say. But she's not listening. She's off in her own world, thumbing through a copy of "Name Your Baby."

Sonia is a woman whose mind is narrow, but whose hips are broad. When she bends over a desk to fill out more name tags I surreptitiously remove mine and affix it to her bottom.

Just then, an office door opens and my publisher, Susan Park, sticks her head out. Grabbing my arm, she whisks me inside. Susan is a classy lady - sort of Katharine Graham meets Jackie O meets Madonna. I express surprise that she has left her penthouse office several floors above to mingle with the common folk.

"I came down to judge reaction to the new name," she explains.

She looks around at the room we've ducked into. It's deserted except for some empty desks and several computers covered in cobwebs. "What department is this?" she queries. "I believe it's accounting," I respond.

"That explains it. Say, that reminds me: time you got a raise. How does 150K plus an attractive benefits package sound?

"Excellent!" I say.

"Yes. I just wanted to say it out loud. What we're really offering is $5 more a month."

"Would that be in Euro dollars?" I ask.

"Either that or Monopoly money."

"I'll take it. Just so long as I don't have to change my name or the name of my column."

"Change the name of your column?!" She laughs. "Where'd you get that idea? And we certainly don't want you changing your own name either!" She looks me up and down. "However, when it comes to your hair and clothing -"

Sonia bursts in. "Susan," she announces, "you're wanted in the newsroom. The usual trouble with Stan Stapp."

Susan exits, leaving Sonia and me alone. "Oh, it's you again," Sonia says. "Where's your name tag?"

I'm about to tell her she's wearing it when she interrupts herself.

"Never mind. I've thought of a different name for you altogether. How does Libby Gelman-Waxner strike you?"

"It's already been taken by the humor writer for Premiere magazine," I reply. "Anyway, we've had enough unexpected changes around here. But more importantly, Libby Gelman-Waxner is a MAN."

She looks at me like I'm a Seattle landmark slated for serious alterations. "You know," she says thoughtfully, "speaking of unexpected changes, there's a team of highly skilled surgeons I'd like you to meet. In fact, they're waiting for you right now in the other room."

(NOTE TO READER: In writing anything - short story, dream sequence in a newspaper column, top secret instruction manual for the operation of nuclear submarines - the No. 1 rule is never end with "And then I woke up."

(Always close with something snappy like "I love you all, darlings! Probably because we haven't met. See you next month!")