Where You Hang Your Hat


And the location where one places one’s chapeau is home, or so goes the old adage.

Houston is currently home to me and has been for the ast 21 years.  TWENTY ONE YEARS.  And what do I have to show for it?  Not much.  Heartache.  More scars than I could ever want–physical and psychic, therefore why stay?   I’m setting my sights on leaving this berg

I’m a broadcast has-been in an industry that’s has been.    The dynamic of the industry in which I once kicked so much ass is dying.  You think you hear static on your car radio when you drive under a bridge?  Nope, that’s just radio’s death rattle; the tiny escape of air before the ultimate finality of  death.   I’m setting my sights on other things, other places, people…other situations.  

And dare I say that I think I might be getting ready to possibly contemplate the off chance that I would one day – maybe – would consider seeking a life partner.

A husband (Gulp!!).

And for the men in my audience, that wasn’t the good kind of gulp. 

No, that was the audio produced from the natural reflex of complete and abject terror.  Or realization….or both.  No,  I’m pretty sure that’s terror.  

And I have every right to be scared.  I don’t come from good marriage stock.  And most everyone I know is divorced,  in the process of getting a divorce or miserbaly unhappy in their marraige.   I know the odds in this day and age aren’t great.   More marriages end than succeed.  Lots unhappiness swirling around in the ether and it affects everyone it lands on.    This is disconcerting to me.

But even so, I can’t help myself. 

Of all the things I’ve done in my life..and I’ve done a lot…the one thing  that has always eluded me is love…real, authentic love.  I want to be half of a good, working, enduring relationship comprised of mutal love,  respect and dirty, git down, crankin’ sex

Gulp again!!    And yes, this time prurient your interests till it hurts, fellas.

But I digress…

So, while I still live in Houston–for the time being–I dream of HEADING WEST, maybe to a city that I will give one more chance to prove it isn’t hell on Earth;  and perhaps, that chance to possibly re-inspire a love that like herpes and a Merchant/Ivory movie,  just won’t end.  

I’ll contemplate this and more  in a place that’s safe.  It’s a place I go when I’ve had too, too much;  where I take my heart and soul when this big city drains me.  That’s why I always pack lunch and duffle bag and head on over to LaurieLand.  It is my world…and I am the Mayor, Governor and benign despot of a populace consisting of one very loyal  subject.


What? You don’t believe in LaurieLand?  You don’t buy that it exists?

E-MAIL INQUIRY:   A Mr. Richard Fader from Ft. Lee, New Jersey asks: 

Dear Laurie; 

Is this place you speak of, the verdant and quaint village that magically appears on the Scottish horizon every 100 years and then was made into a Broadway musical, which was followed by a circa 1954 film extravaganza starring master hoofer, Gene Kelly under the muscial auspices of Lerner and Loewe and ultimately directed for film by the talented, yet gender confused, Vincent Minelli, father of Liza, and walking Hollywood ashtray????? 

A Mr. Richard Fader



Dear Richard;

No, that would be LaurieDoon.

LaurieLand is something entirely different.   And it ain’t Ft. Lee, New Jersey, either. 


See Richard? It IS real!!


I also often speak of the corporation I own.

It too, is real..


.Actually,  I spend most of my time out and about in LaurieLand, doing relevant PR as the face of Laurie Industries.   I hone my PR skills and other things here.  You see, this is the mental HQ and where I do my best thinking.  It’s where I decided that I will soon  leave Houston to seek my emotional fortunes and the all important need to breath much different air. 

I think about a lot of things and people here.  It is a safe haven located in a safe place that’s not reachable by mainstream transport…just one special bus.

It drops me off in front of Laurie Industries.  I enter the hustle and bustle of the front where commerce happens, then I make my way to a back room where the magic happens.

It’s a tiny, windowless room lit by an oil lamp.   It’s where I have dreamed about singing in a big, grandiose, overly produced Academy Awards opening number–when it still had one. It’s where I dreamed of having my own talk show; being at least 5’10” and weighing 112 pounds and thinking of the Him du Jour and scribbling  “LK + his initials” on anything not nailed down. 

It’s where as I child,  I’d squat down by the fire where Pa smoked his corncob pipe and Ma warshed our buckskin clothing on a warsh board.  That was  where I practiced my letters and did my cypherin’ and other book learnin’ with a chunk of coal on the back of a shovel, but that’s only after I’ve chopped down trees to split rails out of them or some kind of  Abe Lincoln-esque crap.

When I’ve had enough, I move out front to deal with the imaginary people in my head who come into my store to buy phone cards, car deodorizer, designer knock-off watches, lottery tickets, Moon Pies, Yoohoos, bags of sunflower seeds, rolling papers, Colt 45s and fake Social Security numbers (side gig, ONLY) to anxious, but enthusiastic  non-English speaking consumers living in  LaurieLand sureptitiously…off the grid, as it were. 

They sneaked in to my world from the laxed, lawless land of mean, ugly Pilotville.

And yeah, I have regular customers. The ones who speak some English are friends of mine, I suppose. We laugh, kid each other–tell a few jokes,  especially as they leave my store.

They say, “Goodbye, Godless infidel woman whore, worthy of a fatwah for offending the Prophet AND for the excessive mark-up of select merchandise.”

I forgive them for the tautological mistake..English isn’t easy and I respond with  equally funny things like, “Thanks for shopping with us and don’t let the door salaam you in the ass, shithead!”

Good times…..


One comment

  1. Been in Dallas 20 years. Ready to move to Denver, or farther west.

    Don’t care if it’s impractical, or just a placebo for boredom.

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