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I have awakened, no longer the short-sighted, nebbishy putz that you know. No, today, I am lucid, enlightened.

I am Dionne Warkwick, and I am clairvoyant. I see things about your future, and I will share them with you.

I see brown, a vast soupy sea of brown. Coffee, perhaps. Or poorly made gumbo. You will ingest this brown, then get very queasy. Then everything will be all right.

Your lunch, it bores me. I will skip it.

Later in the afternoon, you will hear me on the radio and think, “Where is Dionne right now?” I am right here, you fool! Talking to you! I know all! I see all! I sing all! Do not doubt my authority!

Ah, that reminds me of the time Sammy and Soupy and I were playing a joint engagement at Caesar’s, and we got to this one point in a Humperdinck medley, and I don’t remember who did it–it think it was Soupy, but don’t quote me on that–and he just went off. I mean off, girl. He started singing that Neil Diamond pot smokin’ song and Sammy and I–or maybe Soupy and I–didn’t know what to do, so we just joined right in, and that was the biggest standing ovation we ever, ever received! And I owe it all to marijuana.

Thank you, Secaucus, you’ve been a great audience! I’m here all week…

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Back from dad’s. Interesting time. Fun with dad and one of my younger brothers (I’m one of four boys). Lots of uncomfortably nostalgic moments–gut-wrenching, nausea-inducing, though not always in a bad way. Seeing houses I used to pass every day, now painted different colors with different owners. Visiting the family farm, very different from when my grandparents were alive. Seeing their barn torn down, a new man living in their house, all the livestock sold, nothing but acres of lumber now. All in all: weird, but bearable. At least the people don’t change.

My dad bought some new land–that’s cool. A place for a new house, with a small lake. It’s beautiful, covered in poplar, live oak, and pecan. When I got home, I found three ticks on my leg.

I change when I go back to Mississippi, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. I become more prone to small talk, and a Southern accent I never really had as a kid creeps into my speech. On the one hand, it’s easy to talk to my family that way–when in Rome, right?. On the other hand, it feels vaguely schizophrenic–worrisome because schizophrenia runs in my mother’s side of the family. Luckily, I’m adopted.

On the drive back to New Orleans, I had another odd moment. I’d gotten to a point on the interstate that’s fairly isolated–no major towns for several miles in either direction. It was there that my old Bronco broke down about a year and a half ago (bad water pump). Anyway, today I’m driving down the interstate, blaring some old skool Nina Hagen or something, and when I get to that point in the trek, I see a car on the side of the road–a green Volvo, windows down, flat tire. A few yards further, I see a guy, mid- to late-20s, walking along, thumb out. He’s wearing a white t-shirt, jeans, horn-rimmed glasses. Exactly what I was wearing when the Bronco gave out. He looks like a thoroughly nice college kid having a bad day, in need of a jack.

I tried to stop, to pull over, but I was in the passing lane, and couldn’t squeeze over just then. And by the time the other cars had cleared, he was nothing but a small disgruntled speck in my rear view mirror. To him, I was just another guy in another car, rocking out to some guitar-laden music and leaving him in the dust.

I felt awful. I started to panic. I knew how he felt at that moment, alone on a Mississippi highway as the sun’s going down, plenty of cars passing but no one stopping. My anxiety was made worse by the fact that it was so clearly some kind of cosmic, Shirley McClaine-style sign from goddess; my sartorial twin, frustrated, angrily walking the very same stretch of gravel shoulder I’d traveled a few months back. When it happened to me, I was picked up by a woman in a compact car with her two kids. I could have been anyone, Charles Manson’s little brother for all she knew, but she took a chance, and I told myself then I’d try to repay the favor someday.

Someday was today and I had my chance and I blew it. I felt awful all the way home. Wherever you are kid, I hope you’re with friends, warm and full of food.

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Thailand, as it happens, is a country whose male-to-female transsexuals make up an unusually accomplished and accepted subculture. There are no legal sanctions against homosexual or transgendered lifestyles, and kathoeys, or drag queens, are everywhere. In the late 90’s, one of the country’s most popular celebrities was a cross-dressing kick boxer who kissed his opponents and wore lipstick in the ring. The second-highest-grossing Thai movie ever made, “Iron Ladies,” tells the (true) story of a transsexual volleyball team.

My boyfriend’s always wanted to go to Thailand, but I never had much interest in the place. But this article may have changed my opinion. I mean, any country that puts transsexual volleyball players on the big screen wins points in my book.

And yes, I’m reading the article to my dad and little brother as I go.

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Holy crap. I’m posting from my father’s house. This is unsettling because:

a. My dad lives in the Middle of Nowhere Mississippi.

b. My dad lives in the Middle of Nowhere Mississippi and he has DSL.

c. My dad lives in the Middle of Nowhere Mississippi and he has DSL and I don’t.

d. Dad will eventually become knowledgeable in the ways of email.

Of course, I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s not like Mississippi is Irkutsk or anything. Dad’s also got digital cable and a Sprint PCS phone. Go figure.

On a completely unrelated subject, I may soon have some pretty sassy news about a production we could be mounting this summer. The rights haven’t been positively secured just yet, but we’ll probably know something this week–good lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise (as they say here in Mrs. Hippie).

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Another trip to Baton Rouge today. You’ve no idea how much fun that is. No, really.

Hey, did you hear about that new pirate movie? It’s rated “argh.”

Don’t blame me–it’s Jonno’s joke.