Laurie Gould: Don


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Ms. Know-it-all

I am in the garden center, trying not to be an asshole.

The College Tour

Good afternoon, and welcome to the U of X!   We are so thrilled that each and every one of you is here visiting us today.   I myself am a U of X alumnus, and I can tell you that this is the MOST AMAZING place to go to college in the country.  

 Do you know about all of our Really Famous and Accomplished Alumni?    Three US presidents went here!  

Don't Check the Box!

Here it is, folks -- the title track from my second album!   Cop a listen.   The whole kit & kaboodle will be available soon -- and you'll hear it here first!


Announcing my upcoming concert tour!

CDBaby, the website on which I sell my music, is constantly telling me that I should use my blog to announce my upcoming concert schedule.   I have failed to heed this sound advice for many reasons, the biggest being that I have not had any concerts to announce.   Now, however, I am finally ready to make appropriate use of the blog to announce my grand tour.  So here it is:

Garden of Memory

About two weeks ago, my wonderful father passed away.  To quote a birthday card my brother gave him in the early '70's, my dad was absolutely loving and hilarious.  I miss him terribly.

Dad died a few minutes before midnight on a Tuesday, and I got the call just a few minutes later.   At 5:00 am, in a sleepless daze, I packed my suitcase for what would be an 11-day long journey, first to Florida to be with my mom and help organize the memorial service, and then for a long-planned work trip which would immediately follow.    (As for packing:  I did pretty well on underwear, less well on socks.  And no, you can't get away with wearing the same pair of black pants five days in a row, because they do actually show dirt, particularly if you spend one of those days splashing through the muddy March rain in St. Louis.)

At 7:00 am Steve drove me to the airport, asking on the way if there was anything he needed to take care of in my absence.   "The seedlings in the basement," I answered.  "Just keep them alive."

The Unbearable Whiteness of Being

It is mid-February in Boston, and we have had all that we can handle.   It is endless, this onslaught of whiteness, pile on top of pile.   At first we were pleased; but we no longer have any idea what to do with all of it.   We have no place to put it.  We've run out of room, out of ideas, out of patience.

I am writing, of course, about turnips.

I scream, you scream, we all scream for eye cream

Earlier this week I had my 50th birthday, a major milestone.   So naturally, my thoughts have lingered on the topics on which one dwells at such junctures.  I am thinking of the roads not taken, and the one that stretches ahead.  I am thinking of friendship, of love, and of loss.   I am contemplating mortality, my own and that of those I love.   And of course, I am thinking about eye cream.

The Miracle of Lights

And it came to pass on the seventh day of the month of Kislev, just after the Feast of Turkeys, that Laurie, daughter of Bob and Inge, went unto Whole Foods.   And she saw in Whole Foods a Whole Shelf of Chanukah candles, and she saw that they were good candles, hand-dipped, in colors many and various.   And she saw that they cost $22 a box; and she said unto herself; "That is a lot of shekels for a box of Chanukah candles."   And Laurie, child of Israel, did vow on that day to find and purchase more reasonably-priced Chanukah candles before the 23rd of Kislev when began the Festival of Lights.

But Laurie, daughter of Bob and Inge, grew distracted with work and family; verily, Laurie had a life.  And thus did Laurie break her vow, and she did not purchase Chanukah candles before the 23rd of Kislev; but instead did light the Menorah for three nights using leftover candles from the previous year. 

Bang-Up Job

I must tell you about the bruise on my knee.  It's a three-dimensional, technicolor marvel.   There's a huge lump in the middle, and my kneecap is surrounded by a purple ring, like Saturn.   Red stripes radiate from the center, perpendicular to the kneecap, but tilted about 10 degrees south.   Fascinating.

Earlier this week I took a spill, something that happens to me every so often because I am a little klutzy and more than a little absent-minded.  I slammed my knee – hard – on the concrete floor of a parking garage.   I was with my mother at the time, and she was a bit freaked out – understandably so, because she has a few decades on me (she’s my mother, after all).  For someone her age, a fall of that sort could be catastrophic.   But I am still this side of 50, and lucky for me, my bones are still pretty strong.  I was able to get up, dust myself off, and hobble on. (Let me assure you that I am truly, absolutely fine; as a three-time knee surgery veteran, I can tell you for a fact that this beauty of a bruise is only skin deep.)

While I am indeed this side of 50, I am barely so: the mid-century milestone is closing in, just over a month away.   It’s a big one, this birthday.  Sure, by anyone's definition, I have been middle-aged for quite a few years now.  But when you hit 50 you are unquestionably, incontrovertibly flipping the album over to Side B.   (And you unquestionably, incontrovertibly need to be at least 49 to parse that metaphor.)

Rocky Mountain Liftoff

I am at the Denver Airport, shopping for gifts that will express something truly unique about the Rocky Mountain State.

There are fridge magnets with cute woodland animals:


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