Let’s just say that all those other storytellers who did have friends, and brought them, hadn’t done so, and only relied on their native storytelling abilities. Would I have won?

No.

Almost all the storytellers were exceptional. Even I was pretty good. But I doubt that even with Jay Leno and all his pals voting for me, I would have won. Because Moon crushed it with her story about becoming a Paralympic archery champion and accidentally shooting out the scoreboard in Brazil. Accidentally shooting out a scoreboard in Brazil is so vastly superior to accidentally deleting the CLIENTS folder at Andy E*n*l Design that I’m left without words to describe it. Let’s just say I’m proud to have lost to Moon.

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I also would have been proud to lose to Critter, who used to be homeless, on drugs, and thinking his friends were about to bomb the Travelers Motel. Same for the woman whose dad borrowed money from the mob to start a sewing factory that burned down, leaving him unable to pay back the loan, therefore causing him to very quickly pull his eleven year old daughter out of school, pack up the rest of the family, and hightail it out of Newark on a moment’s notice. I would have been proud to lose to the Special Operator who brought up ranger panties at least ten too many times. Honestly, I would have felt good losing to most of those goddamn talented tale tellers.

Like others who are creative or human, I’m my own worst critic. I rehearsed the hell out of my piece, somewhat nervous that even though I got it down to four and a half minutes, it was too close to the five minute limit for comfort. Sure enough, Jodi, the Director of Story Story Night, was about to shoot his “you’ve rattled on too long” bow and arrow at me, and I had to clip the final line, “because everybody needs a backup,” that could have dragged me over the finish had the competition not been so fierce.

My mind went blank at the beginning, which lost me five to ten precious seconds right out of the gate. It took me a while to get into a groove, and even then, some of the parts I questioned while rehearsing, though seemingly good lines, didn’t land. I should have listened to my fears on those. “What am I supposed to do, tell Andy I’m not going to play Horatio to Glenn’s Hamlet,” made sense since our section of the evening had us playing the nominees for Hamlet. But it didn’t work. Not even my saying “huh” afterwards could diffuse the audience’s “huh” for including it.

There were other moments like that, lines and phrases that sounded good in my head but had me questioning if they might just be a wee bit obtuse. They were more than just a wee bit obtuse.

I’m grateful not to know how many votes I did receive, if any. I find myself curiously at peace with my trouncing.

The next day, I received a group email from Amanda, my Theater 105 Story Analysis teacher. She wanted to let our class know of an opportunity to pitch a ten-minute play to the TMA (Theater Maker’s Association) for possible inclusion in their Fall Showcase. I’ve never written a play before, but I’m reading one for class. It can’t be that hard to write one when you’ve got A Raisin in the Sun as a template.

Rather than start right away, I made an Instagram reel about losing Slammer of the Year, and then I watched a funny video my pal Jimmy sent me about procrastination. Then I finished a job application, picked up my wife at school, and went out for Japanese food because neither of us wanted to cook, even though I bought chicken to grill, not that Penny would eat it, because she’s a vegetarian (who eats fish, by the way, so technically NOT a vegetarian). We were going to make fancy spaghetti we bought several months ago, but I don’t see why we can’t wait another few months, or years. Spaghetti keeps a long time.

Penny had chores to do after dinner, so that’s when I sat down to write my masterpiece. A ten-minute play is not that long, and neither was my script. I thought it was pretty good for not having ever written a play before. I decided to run it through ChatGPT to format my work into proper script format, in case the way I did it was wrong.

ChatGPT misunderstood the scope of the project, and proceeded to pump up the dialog and make the thing way better than I did. I was impressed and annoyed at the same time. The jokes were good. It sounded like a version of me could have written it, had I written a play before.

But I took the risky path and submitted my own version, instead. Because while I’m proud to lose Storyteller of the Year to a one-handed Archery Paralympian named Moon who’s a helluva storyteller, there’s no way I’m going to lose a playwriting showcase opportunity to ChatGPT.

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When you're not used to caffeine, the initial shock is exhilarating. It’s what death must be like after you get through the hard part. The high lasts for a few hours till you discover you didn't end up where you thought you would, in spite of all the good behavior.

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Ripping your stomach to shreds on a daily basis is, in theory at least, not good for you. Unless you’re working towards a higher goal or laboring under the misconception that whatever doesn’t kill you can only make you stronger. I’ve been drinking coffee off and on for close to thirty years, and I can confirm that not only does it not kill me, it doesn’t make me stronger. Still, I persist, thinking I might learn something profound. Or figure out how to make it not hurt so much.

My friend Russ couldn't figure out how to make it not hurt so much. I wish we'd been good enough friends to know he had voices in his head. To me, he was a cool musical surfer dude I knew for years, lived across the street from, and eventually worked with, confided in, and even once slept on his couch the night I turned my world upside down to be with a girl who probably got dropped on her head as a child. Russ drove a white Falcon with a serape covering the hole in the floorboard on the passenger side. There's no competing with that kind of cool.

After my allergist told me to stop taking Montelukast because it’s a black box drug, my fragile balance was upset. I turned to saline spray, because it’s natural. Eventually, I dropped all the other allergy meds except for fluticasone, which my doctor said to absolutely not drop, at least not till my annual check up. I noticed that the saline spray does something weird, like make me less sensitive to coffee, unless maybe drinking half coffee and half milk has something to do with it, but milk’s not good for me, either.

Sometimes, it's good to be less sensitive. Less bothered by everything, big or small.

I refuse to live in a box. Pretty much everything distresses my damaged digestive system, so I throw things at it I shouldn’t. Like coffee. And ice cream. As a pre-diabetic, eating sweets makes me feel like somebody who jumps out of airplanes for a living, though hitting the ground metaphorically is a lot less scary than hitting it if your parachute doesn’t open. I’ll take the metaphorical over the direct hit any day.

I’ll probably quit coffee again at some point in the future. Because I’m a quitter. Quitting is the one thing that's kept me from giving up altogether. That and trying. That makes two things.

Most sane people recognize that when something disagrees with your equilibrium you should stop doing it. They'd get over the pleasure of grinding their own beans and grind their own teeth, instead. I'm not that person.

My friend Ty was probably a coffee drinker. I say “probably” because we weren't that good friends. He treated me like we were best friends, and I'm guessing other people feel the same way. He's the reason I got to go up and photograph the US Army Parachute Team, The Golden Knights, even though I lacked press credentials. He had a little girl named Quinn, who was the light of his life, and a black ‘66 Cadillac convertible. Planned his own funeral should the worst happen.

I'm having second thoughts. Strong coffee is a weak excuse for not doing scary things. Maybe I'll start the day with my variation of Thai iced coffee and go on a tandem jump like I once said I would. Next spring, after the instructors thaw out. Do it for Ty. Do it for Russ. Do it because coffee and jumping out of an airplane shouldn't be the same.

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What I didn’t know was that Fred had a legendary temper. He used it on me that first day, and it wasn’t even my fault. Fred was old school, dragged unwillingly into the computer age, thinking a user-friendly Mac was actually user-friendly. It wasn’t. And Fred’s fuse was short and lit. He didn’t believe in counting to ten. He blew up, and I happened to be in the blast radius. I don’t recall what he said, but I can still feel it twenty years and a thousand miles away.

I didn’t know what to do. I needed the money, but I didn’t want to be a doormat. “Let’s just see what happens next time.” I stuck around, and he became a dear and lifelong client. I was with him through the first Lindsay, the second Lindsay, and the non-Lindsay who assisted him in between. I got to know his wife Cathy and daughter Melissa. I may even have spoken to his son Billy, who opened a burrito stand I meant to visit but never did.

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Fred yelled at me on more than one occasion, and I took it. I was using him as a sparring partner, to help me learn to absorb blows. I discovered he was really a teddy bear. And that some people with horrible tempers are worth knowing and being around. I learned how to trigger Vesuvius without fearing the eruption. I genuinely liked him, and he liked me. He knew I had his back.

Fred passed away in the lead-up to the pandemic. Lindsay (the second one) was organizing the eulogies, and I asked if I could say something. She said yes, as long as Bob okayed my script.

Bob, as in Bob Cooper, famed studio executive. I didn’t know who he was at the time, so I just wrote the thing the way I wanted to say it.

I knew right away what I would talk about. Melissa’s dog, Birdie. Birdie was a sweet little canine Phyllis Diller. You know, white hair standing up on end like she’d been struck by lightning, with a nervous system to go along with it. Fred loved that dog and doted on her like he was somebody’s mama.

Bob approved, enthusiastically.

Rob Reiner and Dick Van Dyke opened for me at the memorial, but only because they front-loaded the headliners. I’m not sure whose idea that was, but it was backwards and wrong. At least I get to say that Rob Reiner and Dick Van Dyke opened for me at Fred Silverman’s memorial. I assume Billy was there, too, but I can’t for the life of me remember one thing about him besides the burrito stand, and how difficult it is to find parking in that part of town.

Melissa asked me not to introduce myself to Dick Van Dyke, but then afterwards changed her mind. Good thing, because I’ve been a fan since I was four years old, and I needed to tell him so. He was very gracious about it and was glad I didn’t want my money back.

If you’d only known blow-up Fred, you’d say there’s no way it was the same Fred. But it was. When it was my turn, I read the script word for word rather than memorize or riff off it like I would now. I was nervous, stilted, and unpolished. Everyone at the memorial nodded along, because I was right. You couldn’t just look at one side or the other and say “this is Fred.” Bite Your Head Off Fred and Kiss on the Doggie Fred were one and the same.

Bob thought it was great, and so did Cathy, but one of these days I’m going to set up a camera and record it the way it should have been.

Somewhere, God (and my wife) knows where, is a three-ring binder copy of Fred’s unpublished autobiography. He thought it was a kick that I wanted to read it. He wrote me a personal, self-deprecating message of encouragement inside. I saw it just the other day, when we moved everything from cardboard to clear plastic boxes. That’s how lousy a reader (and friend) I am. I read part of the autobiography before setting it aside for a better day. Now I want to read it, but I can’t say for sure I’ll make it past where I got to last time. The writing is good, the reader is bad. I know deep in my heart that Penny will find it in a clear box in the garage.

Maybe we’ll stop at Billy’s burrito stand next time we’re in LA, assuming it’s still there.

When I die, with or without an autobiography of my own, after the bagpiper wows the guests with the first-ever rendition of Amazing Grace at a Jewish boy’s funeral, I hope my body goes missing just like Fred Silverman’s autobiography, and that God only knows where I end up.

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Neither Glenn nor I were ever part of the conversation, other than to overhear them put people down while we continued to work.

I commissioned Bob a couple of times to paint cat portraits as birthday and anniversary presents for Penny. I don’t think the paintings cost more than $100 each. That’s a bargain for commissioned work. The third time I tried to hire him, he declined. Maybe he figured out Andy didn’t like me, or maybe he just didn't want to.

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He and Andy talked about people in a way that made the others look small and stupid. I don’t typically enjoy that kind of talk, but when Bob did it, it was funny. I liked Bob and cut him slack. Had I liked Andy even a little bit, I might have cut him slack, too. Glenn was the same as Bob and Andy. I was the only one at the studio who liked people.

Most people. Not Andy. I generally don’t like people who don’t like me. You would think he wouldn’t have hired me three times if he didn’t like me, but you’d be wrong. I don’t even think I was all that good at what I was doing, and I certainly wasn’t motivated to put in extra effort or learn from him. Why did he hire and re-hire me? Was it sadism? Lack of better alternatives? I have no idea, but he kept bringing me back for more. I would have left if I had somewhere else to go.

I especially despised when he would mutter under his breath about whatever he didn’t like about what I was doing. I’d say, “what was that, Andy?” To which he’d respond with silence. That part was at least a little bit satisfying.

There was a time I liked Andy. After Suzi was born, we had a nice phone conversation about kids. That was the only time.

Soon after Suzi showed up, my hours for Andy dropped to almost zero. By then, he had moved his design studio into his home in Ojai, over an hour away. He didn’t want to be in LA for 9/11, Part Two, which he was sure was bound to happen. It didn’t, but I was glad to be rid of him. Losing those hours got me to commit to not working for Andy. I freelanced for one more prima donna art director before waving goodbye to graphics for good.

Everybody’s got at least one Andy in their life, somebody they’ve got nothing good to say about. But hopefully, whoever your Andy is, he’s got an older brother like Bob, because Bob’s all right by me.

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Are you following me on Instagram? I’m not saying you should, but if you want to see what I’m like on camera, that’s usually where I hide the stuff I’m too embarrassed to put on here. It’s over at: @louisbkatz on Instagram.

My acting coach, on the other hand, made a big deal about knowing or dating Marlon Brando when he was in his prime. The only reason I had an acting coach was because I was a member of AVEC, the American Value Exchange Corporation, a barter organization in Santa Barbara. It was hard to find anything useful to spend barter credits on, so I spent them on acting lessons.

At the time, I was cast as a prison guard in Frank Pacheco’s off-State Street production of Big Brother, a low budget adaptation of George Orwell’s 1984. My acting coach had no role in landing me the part. Neither did my acting.

Every Tuesday, I drove up to Santa Ynez with my fellow cast member, Sonny, for our dose of Marlon Brando and some honest critique of how lousy an actor I was.

Frank Pacheco had no idea we were getting coached on the side. I doubt he would have approved.

I didn't know whether to believe the Brando stories or care, but they made me not want to be like that.

Which is why I'm hesitant to share what I'm about to share about Jay Leno. I don't know Jay personally, but I've met him a couple of times and once blew past him on my Guzzi when he was riding back into town from the Rock Store on his jet engine bike.

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I was working for Andy for the third and thank God final time, after Glenn got shot by his mother in law. If you ever met Glenn, you'd understand why. His first words to me upon returning from the attempted murder were, “Andy prefers if you do it this way.”

One day, the phone rang, and it was Jay Leno, wanting to talk to me. I’d had it up to my eyeballs with Andy’s passive aggressive growling at me for not being his dream production artist like Glenn was. I had big plans to tell Andy to f*ck off and become a motorcycle broker for the newly announced Muench Mammut, a 2000cc ridiculously excessive remake of a ridiculously excessive classic, only this time you could watch yours being built over the internet, which was practically unheard of (and dare I say, ridiculously excessive) in the early 2000’s.

My wife knew somebody who knew somebody, which is how I got my promo materials to Jay in the first place.

Now he was calling me at Andy's, which was a big deal, because Andy was a big deal as a graphic designer for all the big deal musicians like Tom Petty and Bruce Springsteen. Art directors with names like Vartan were involved.

Andy was genuinely impressed.

Jay knew all about the original Muench Mammut. Had I taken notes, so would I. We talked for a while, and I continued to work, because I was on Andy’s dime. At the beginning of the conversation, my Mac desktop was full of clutter. At some point during the conversation, I dragged everything into the trash and emptied it. My desktop was clean, and everything was gone, including the CLIENTS folder.

I interrupted the history lesson and said, “hey Jay, can you call me back tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

I hung up, sick. Andy was an old school designer, raised on pencils and x-acto knives. He didn't have an opinion on backups. He probably would have been in favor, had he known you could have one.

I walked up to Andy's desk. He was hunched over his hand lettering and didn't turn around.

“Hey Andy, I'm sorry, but I accidentally deleted the CLIENTS folder.”

He didn't miss a beat. Without raising his voice, “f*ck you.”

I called three different IT guys. Only one called back. He came down the next day and shared the bad news. No way to recover the CLIENTS folder.

Glenn, who opted not to press charges against his mother in law, had to be completely rewired and lost his spleen as a result of the shooting. But he remembered copying most of the CLIENT files to DVD’s, so it wasn't a complete disaster. In a way, Jay Leno is at least partially at fault (though not responsible, no, that's all on me) for my deleting the files in the first place. None of this would have happened had he called me outside of work hours.

Still, we invested in a backup system. That was the same day Andy brought in muffins, but not for us. They were sitting on his desk, in plain sight. And they were still sitting there at the end of the day, when we went through our weekly ritual of my having to ask him for my paycheck.

I decided that rather than broker ridiculously excessive motorcycles, classic or otherwise, I was having more fun when the computers broke down.

I became an IT guy.

Because no matter what Dolly Parton (who, unlike my acting coach, never dated Marlon Brando) says, it's good to have a backup plan.

Catch me in Boise at the Story Story Night Slammer of the Year competition on Monday, September 21, at 7pm, at the Idaho Shakespeare Festival grounds. Tickets at storystorynight.org.

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Three years earlier, feeling that I was much too lazy, I bought a Nexgrill charcoal grill at The Home Depot and assembled it in the car port while hopped up on Kombucha. The Nexgrill was no quarter inch thick steel beast, but it looked vaguely like what I imagined a grill was supposed to be.

I don't recall how many fingers I lost putting that thing together, but once it was done, I parked it under the car port and forgot about it till the apocalypse.

The plague was a real time lesson in how badly I handle adversity. I did all right for a couple of weeks, but by the end of the first month, I came to the conclusion we were being played, and I shifted into “f*ck off, don't tell me what to do” mode.

Between all the restaurants shutting down and the risk of committing murder against once ordinary humans who'd morphed into mask-enforcing Moonbeam Mussolinis, it was easier to just stay home and burn charcoal, even if I had no talent or, more importantly, patience.

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You can't just light charcoal and throw your food down right away, even with a fancy electric Looft lighter, recommended on YouTube. A Looft lighter, if you don't already know, looks like a thick curling iron and blows hot air like a talk show host. It’s what you invest in at the start of your barbecue career, when your enthusiasm exceeds the combination of your knowledge and experience.

The Looft lighter, used correctly, will get your charcoals going, slowly. Here's the part where patience is supposed to kick in. Mine didn’t. I didn't wait for the smoke to turn the right color, at least not at first. Not till I started watching barbecue videos while waiting. No wonder my early experiments yielded bitter, acrid fruit.

One of those videos convinced me that a weed burner, which is the gardener’s equivalent of a flame thrower, is the right way to get down to backyard business. By then, I’d graduated from the Nexgrill to an honest to goodness ugly drum smoker, fashioned out of a 55-gallon oil barrel. The weed burner is how you can reach the coals and wood sticks at the bottom. It works.

But not on your patience. That's something you've got to work on yourself, and it always takes too long. If patience is impossible, persistence comes in second. I’m persistent.

Had it been up to the Moonbeam Mussolinis, we'd still be on lockdown today. Somehow, having something to do with politics, the pandemic was declared over, and somehow, through persistence, I learned how to manage a fire, but not till years later.

My biggest lesson from that miserable time was that most people don't want to fight alone. Many will take the opportunity to become their neighborhood’s petty tyrant. And even a nice guy like me can turn into a fire-breathing a**hole. I'm still in the “don't tell me what to do, f*ck off” camp.

When life hands you lemons, make lemonade. When life hands you Moonbeam Mussolinis, grab a weed burner.

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Which should have led to a deep and intricate meditation on itinerant street musicians, but didn't. Instead, it led me to consider how few of us get to be known only by our first names, like Donovan. You might think his last name offers an explanation, and it does, though the same last name didn't negatively affect other well known individuals who shared it.

Everyone knows who Donovan is, even those too young to know his music. Even those who don't, who I'm sure will one day outnumber those who do, will assume he must have been important, based solely on the fact he's known by his first name. Like Prince, before and after his “The artist formerly known as Prince” phase.

But Prince wasn't even his name, so we'll have to put him into a different category.

Stevie's another one, but here the water gets muddy. Stevie Nicks is also Stevie. So’s Stevie Ray Vaughn. If you're superstitious, you'd say he shouldn't have covered another Stevie’s song, and maybe if he hadn't, he wouldn't have gotten caught in the crossfire.

I'm talking about the helicopter.

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The Shadow of Your Smile is playing in my head. That beautiful, unmistakably Stevie, harmonica solo. I don't recall hearing it on my dad’s Zenith Transoceanic when I conducted my daily music services in Bobbe and Zeide’s bedroom as a child. But it's embedded now, a tune I'll learn to play, too.

I told Adam that if he or I were to go by our first names, it would merely confuse our fans, more so for me, since I'm only just now spooling up my fan base (I debuted at #86 on Substack’s “Rising in Humor” list after finally categorizing myself).

And yet.

I was Louie up until the first day of kindergarten. When I showed up to the door of Mrs Hanscomb’s class, she asked, “what's your name?”

“I don't remember,” I said. For the next twenty minutes (or maybe it was five. Time moved slower in 1966), she tried to get me to say my name. I wouldn't.

She finally gave up and asked, “is it Louis?” Louis. Not Louie.

“Oh yeah!”

I became Louis that day, except with my family, who never adapted to the new reality. Because of them, I could never bury Louie. I gave up trying a dozen years ago, when I declared myself “Louie the Lens, Your Personal Paparazzi.”

“But you hate that name,” Penny insisted.

“Not any more.” I don't know that I've ever come up with anything cooler than Louie the Lens.

So now I'm thinking, maybe when I make it big, because I will, I'll just go by Louie. Everyone will know who I am, and even those who don't will assume I must have been important.

Because why else would you be known by just your first name?

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Long before arriving at Boise State for Spring Semester 2026, I attended Humboldt State University for one year, UC Santa Barbara for two years, dropped out for two and a half years, dropped back in at University of Arizona, Tucson, for one semester and a couple of summer sessions, transferred back to UC Santa Barbara and graduated with a BA with Honors in Political Science and Spanish two years after that, one month as a cashier at the Santa Barbara Food Coop, then back to University of Arizona, Tucson, for their new Masters in Spanish Literature program before calling it quits, in tears, after the first week.

I blame it on living on fruit and nuts for five years, and the resulting Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Or maybe I’m just unstable.

Now, forty years later, still suffering from Irritable Bowel Syndrome, but with additional complications, some of which are all in my head, I find myself back in school as a Narrative Arts auditor, and in desperate need of a job. Maybe not desperate enough.

I decided to attend the Idaho Tech Gems mixer, even though I didn’t really want to. I was already out, visiting the mailbox store to grab a package for my wife, Penny, who was at school with a broken foot and can’t pick up packages. I meant to bring in the flowers that her best friend Gretchen sent over. Gretchen even texted to let me know they were sitting on the porch, and I was just about to bring them in when I got distracted. I get distracted a lot, even when lives are at stake, in this case the lives of flowers left sitting out in the 95 degree heat.

Killing the flowers like that would bring down the combined hammer of wife and stand-in wife upon my innocent yet forgetful head. Nothing to do but stress about it when my actual wife texted a couple hours later, after the mixer, to let me know there were flowers on the porch, and could I bring them in before they died in the 95 degree heat. I was long gone from home by then and mere blocks from where I was to pick her up after school.

Wives aren’t always or even often like hammers. It’s a rare occurrence. So rare, you might think it’s unwise to even bring it up. Mostly, it happens when your mind takes leave of its senses, and in combination with your wife’s best friend, who think it’s her job to act as a stand-in, even when your wife is right there to do the hammering. I can see their point.

Penny reminded me the flowers would probably die in the heat, to which I agreed and offered to drive back home if she wanted me to. But by then it had already been long enough for them to die, so why bother?

Earlier, at the mixer, oblivious to the lurking danger of flowers, I was glad I forced myself to be there. My friend Robert, who I only know through mixers, said how much he enjoyed my videos, and that I should keep making them, because the LinkedIn algorithm has changed, and nobody’s doing videos any more, and mine are way different than anybody else’s, anyway.

After a while, I said goodbye to Robert so I could prospect for jobs and so he could prospect for beer, and I was talking to another guy who looked even older than me but turned out to be only 58. He asked me when was the last time I felt good, and I said 40 years ago. Then he told me about his triple bypass, which made me feel better, knowing I haven’t had one.

But I still don’t feel good. I think about dying a lot, mostly because it gives me hope that someday I’ll feel good again, even if I don’t feel anything at all. I’ll be sad if death turns out to be even worse than life, but there’s always that risk if the ghost of Hamlet’s father wasn’t just being dramatic. He never did reveal what would cause Hamlet’s hair to stand “like quills upon the fretful porpentine.”

I think about what would happen if I were to die on campus, and if my parking expired shortly after I did. Would I get a ticket, and would my wife have to pay the fine? Somehow, that seems unfair, especially considering the flowers on the porch wilting in the 95 degree heat. The ghost of Hamlet’s father had no way of anticipating any of these developments.

But that was yesterday, and I didn’t die, and neither did the flowers, which is a miracle in itself. The hammer remains poised to strike, as does murder most foul.

We don’t always die when we think we will, or how, and we often die when we think we won’t, and how. That’s why we should live every moment as if we’re trying to get away with whatever we can before God or the cops catch us doing it.

And if you go back to school, make sure to add enough time to the parking meter so your wife doesn’t end up holding the ticket.

Who’s Jada? Jada is half of Bristol Cavern’s dynamic duo Social Media team, the ones who recorded me telling stories and playing harmonica deep in the bowels of Tennessee’s biggest and best cave that runs underneath the City of Bristol, where I chased fireflies in the cemetery after dark when I wasn’t supposed to be there.

I hadn’t even brought a harmonica with me from Boise, because I wasn’t planning to play harmonica in a cave, but I was able to pick one up and not for cheap at Guitar Center in Johnson City, which is one of the Tri-Cities.

Jada’s Zach’s kid sister. You know Zach, he’s the manager at Bristol Caverns, or at least he seems like someone who makes decisions on behalf of the owners till they contradict him later. He’s the one who’s getting married and having his dad officiate instead of me. I think he might have already gotten married right after we flew back home, and then shortly after that, Penny flew down to LA to work and broke her foot on her boss’s driveway. I think we should get our friend Karen, who used to work at the penitentiary, to pull some strings and send my wife’s boss to prison. People should have to pay for their crimes.

Jada wants a MADE IN CHINA tattoo, because that’s where she’s from, and that’s where Zach and his family went to adopt her, sometime after she peed on the Great Wall of China. I think everybody should pee on the Great Wall of China.

Jada’s not the only one they brought back to America. She’s got two younger sisters, but Zach says she’s the best one. And she does a great Asian nail lady impression. Imagine if she were to do that while peeing on the Great Wall of China.

When Jada’s in the cave, she likes to do the Worm, which you can see on YouTube. She’s a natural, and not only that, if you’re a beginning moon walker, she can perfect your technique, even when you’re not in the cave.

One final birthday note: she likes to wear a bat onesie for the cave tours and to photo bomb Zach’s wedding. See, I told you he got married already. If he ends up getting married again, maybe I can officiate that one.

Jada, I hope you have a wonderful birthday, and that someday when you get married, you hire me as your officiant.

If you’d like to personally wish Jada a happy birthday, visit @bristolcavernsofficial on Instagram.

Then I thought, why not copy the body of my latest promo email into an article, and hope that you’ll forward it to your friends and colleagues? You know, someone like your southeastern magazine editor pal who’d love to publish Stuck Inside of Boise with the Jonesborough Blues Again.

Did I tell you what’s in Stuck Inside of Boise with the Jonesborough Blues Again? Chasing fireflies in a cemetery after dark in Bristol, Tennessee (or is it Virginia? Depends on what side of the street), despite the risk of a $2000 trespassing fine. Contemplating throwing muscadines into the Tallulah Gorge, where a big sign warns you not to. Wandering into random BBQ joints expecting the baby backs not to be dry. Wailing on a harmonica deep inside the bowels of the earth at Bristol Caverns. It’s a helluva story.

Here’s the email I sent to 658 unsuspecting humans

Hey Jared (never mind who Jared is, he’s one of the recipients),

I’m Louis Barney Katz, a returning student in the Narrative Arts program at Boise State University. Finding the right classes to audit at my age has proven challenging, so I decided to start a club and a podcast, instead. When you’re a BSU student, you get to do those things for free. The club is called The Unbroadcast Podcast Storytelling Club, and the podcast is called The Unbroadcast Podcast Broadcast.

But then I thought, since I sold my IT business after 23 years to become Boise’s #2 storyteller, wedding officiant, and mobile notary, why not also become America’s #1 Unbroadcast Podcaster? Why not offer these treasures to the world at large rather than just a bunch of ingrate college students? So I created The Unbroadcast Podcast Storytelling Hour, a monthly show for people who want to hear stories and tell stories. Not only that, I share pointers on how to make everyday objects like a vegetable peeler come to life when you open your mouth.

I’m trying really hard to make it as a writer, storyteller, and performer. That’s why I’m writing to complete strangers like you. You can see my work for free over at The Unbroadcast Podcaster. You can become a paid subscriber if you like the writing and want to be one of my Merry Bandoliers.

You can also purchase tickets to The Unbroadcast Podcast Storytelling Hour by clicking HECK YEAH.

HECK YEAH

I hope to see you at the show, or on my mailing list, or as your future contributing writer and/or employee!

Live Large. Be Bold. Have Faith. Fear Nothing.

All the best,

Louis

Boise’s #2 storyteller, wedding officiant, and mobile notary

lbkatz.com

208.805.2740

PS Ever wonder what it’s like to BBQ on the Moon? Find out in my latest article in Boise Lifestyle magazine: https://citylifestyle.com/articles/bbq-on-the-moon

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Oh wait. One time, I tried door off and lid off. Lots of oxygen feeding the fire. Flames everywhere. The results of that experiment were don’t try this ever again.

Door off allows you to add more wood or charcoal easily, without generating a bunch of dirty smoke. Dirty smoke is to barbecue as having your wife take a brick to your head is to marriage. Not desirable. Granted, for chicken thighs, you’re not going to be adding more wood or charcoal, because it’s a fast cook. But knowing you can if you want to? Freedom, baby!

You would think with the door off and all that air rushing in, you might be battling flare up’s. But with the lid on, there are no flare up’s. And it’s a clean burn. And oh, that delicious, smoky smell, with a combination of lump charcoal and apple and cherry wood chunks from Ukraine. They’re round, like tree limbs, rather than square like Home Depot.

Delicious! Yes, I was out there every ten minutes to make sure nothing burned, flipping and turning those chicken thighs like I was Muhammad Ali, floating like a butterfly, stinging like a bee. When they were done, I thought, “wow, somebody else must have made these.” They were that good.

Later in the evening, I turned my attention to my arch-nemesis, the chromatic harmonica. I’ve been on again off again with the chromatic for over forty years. It’s way more challenging than a standard blues harp like the Marine Band. I’m good at the blues harp, maybe even very good. After playing for the social media team at Bristol Caverns, they wanted me to move there and join the team so I could serenade them in the cave every day. I would have said “yes,” because I dream of setting up shop in Tennessee, where storytelling lives. But Penny dreams of migrating to Oregon, where our only-born daughter lives. So we remain in Boise, where no one lives, knowing that although we’re billed as the City of Trees, there are way more trees pretty much anywhere else.

What’s tripped me up on the chromatic is trying to play songs that are too hard to play, then giving up when I can’t play them. What I’m trying this time is easy songs, like On Top of Old Smoky and Moon River. I’m making headway, and not only that, I’m enjoying myself. I might even try A Hard Day’s Night before too long. That’s how cocky I’m feeling after the BBQ and chromatic victories.

Two breakthroughs in a day ought to be enough. But I’m not satisfied. There’s got to be something else doing the Damocles dance over my head.

A Hard Day’s Night is turning out to be a little bit trickier than I anticipated.

I’m Louis Barney Katz, Boise’s #2 storyteller, wedding officiant, and mobile notary. If you like my stories, share them with the people in your circle and introduce me to your magazine editor friends and event planners. I’ll travel anywhere the money’s right to tell stories up on stage or play harmonica in your cave. Also, keep an eye out for my first and so far only story collection, Stuck Inside of Boise with the Jonesborough Blues Again. I expect to complete it (and start it) any day now.

I can’t seem to get a job, either. Apple rejected me three years in a row. Starbucks kicked me to the curb twice. The credit union hired me but changed their mind a few weeks shy of the probationary period, mostly because of something I did that involved storytelling.

In other words, I’m useless, with no commercial value to anyone unwilling to figure out how exactly my wisdom and experience can help them.

I can play the harmonica, but who needs that?

My photos are pretty darn good, but again, who needs that?

People like me. So what.

My dad always knew I was a quitter, so he made me join the swim team at the age of 7. And he kept working on me till I was out of the house, and even then, he encouraged me to “always be better than average.” Not a quitter. I thought he failed, but he didn’t. Somehow, I’m no longer a quitter.

Which is a problem, now that I’m 65 years old and useless. Suicide is out of the question. I’ve thought about it many times over the years, just because that’s how my mind works, but it turns out I’m not legitimately suicidal. I once owned a gun and had motive, opportunity, and whatever the third thing is (means?). I couldn’t bring myself to do it as I sat, depressed, in that motel room. So I packed up my Smith and Wesson and went home with yet another manifestation of imposter syndrome under my belt.

Yesterday, I signed up for Social Security at my wife’s urging. She’s more survival oriented than I am. Social Security sends you just enough money to live below the anxiety line, and then you can make another $24k a year on top of that. Still below the anxiety line.

I’m not ready to give up and retire just yet, and even if I do, who’s going to put me out to pasture if I’m not willing to do it myself? We can’t just flip a switch and call it a day. We have to go through the decades long process of slow decline and hope for a sudden heart attack rather than the longer, more torturous killers like the Big C (I don’t want to spell it out, for fear of bringing it on. That’s what happens when you’re a hypochondriac).

I still think I can make it as a storyteller, even if it’s just at the Rotary Club. I could sell my car and not leave the house. At least I wouldn’t be breathing all that smoke outside.

Another way to go is to run out of money and starve to death. I know there’s a safety net, but nobody’s forcing you to take advantage of it. I think the more likely worst case scenario is that you decide not to starve to death and somehow eke out a meager living in a trailer far away from anywhere you envisioned yourself ending up. And then you take up smoking (and drinking, why not?) to accelerate the end process, which only makes you more miserable. Does thinking about bad things cause them to happen? Does thinking about pleasant things cause those to happen? Does thinking anything cause anything to happen?

Well, does it? I’m waiting for something to happen, but so far? Nothing.

Guess I’ll just keep on going till somebody else puts me out to pasture.

I’m Louis Barney Katz, Boise’s #2 storyteller, wedding officiant, and mobile notary. You can put me out to pasture by calling me at 208.805.2740 or shooting me an email at louis@lbkatz.com.

Last year, I re-entered the pre-diabetic range after a several year break, so I quit sweets for a couple of days, then changed my mind and decided “to hell with my toes,” and went back to all my bad habits, which often includes daily ice cream. Not in the form of 8am floats like people order at the Bottle Cap Cafe outside of World of Coca Cola in Atlanta. That’s too early for me. I like my ice cream at night, on the couch, watching The Rockford Files with my wife.

If you live long enough, you’re bound to get hit by a truck, so why not throw some sand in the gears of your blood sugar levels? At least I don’t smoke cigarettes or spike my floats with Maker’s Mark. Maybe I should.

There’s a fine line between joy and self-destruction. I haven’t found it yet, nor have I come close. I generally play life safe, other than my dietary habits, which also, by the way, include homemade barbecue two or three times a week (sometimes more) and spaghetti, which for reasons of a hypersensitive constitution, causes me way more grief than it ought to.

This year’s test results came back this morning, with ABNORMAL pinned to my A1C. Same numbers as last year, which I take as a good sign. I’m pretty sure I ate more ice cream this past year than the year before.

To the truck bearing down the I-84 away from all those fires out west, be sure and make it instant and relatively painless. And if you don’t mind, please wait till after I’ve had my chocolate milk.

I’m Louis Barney Katz, Boise’s #2 storyteller, wedding officiant, and mobile notary. If you’re looking to fill a position with a former IT business owner who’s got a way with words and people, I’m your guy. You can reach me at 208.805.2740 or louis@lbkatz.com.

I’ve had the most harmonicaest of times, and the least harmonicaest of times. Lately’s been the least harmonicaest of times, which is why I did not bring even one harmonica with me on my storytelling pilgrimage to Jonesborough, Tennessee. But when Penny and I went on the Bristol Caverns tour, and she suggested I come back the next day and record myself playing deep down in those caves, I knew she was right. She always is. So I picked up a Marine Band in C at Guitar Center in Johnson City, and the next day after dropping Penny off to gamble at the Hard Rock Casino, I made my way back to the Caverns for a video shoot.

Playing harmonica in caves is like playing in stairwells where it all began for me. Only it’s better, not just acoustically, but in every other way imaginable, simply by the mere fact you’re in a freaking cave, for God’s sake!

Another great place to play a harmonica is down by the river in Bryson City, where I met another visitor, named Red Blood, who plays guitar and sings. He moved down from Nashville, where it was too big and too loud for him. The Smoky Mountains suit him, and there’s free food down the street. Along the train tracks is also a terrific spot to make music.

That was the day Penny and I left the tri-cities to catch a Sean of the South show at The Dallas Theater in Dallas, Georgia. I threw a Tom Petty playlist together real quick, based on the song Drivin’ Down to Georgia. I knew right away there was no good way to play that song on my diatonic C harp. Too many notes missing on that type of harmonica. I didn’t have a chromatic with me, and it’s not the sort of instrument you’d want to run out and buy when you’ve already got one, even assuming you could find a music store that keeps them in stock. I improvised, badly, and went back to banging out hits like Heartbreak Hotel, Oh Susanna, and On Top of old Smoky.

Once home, I reunited with one of my chromatics, the CX-12. I keep a Chromonica 64 in the console of my car, in case I get stuck at an intersection. For those of you unfamiliar, which I assume is most of you, the CX-12 has twelve holes for a grand total of three octaves, whereas the Chromonica has sixteen holes for a grand total of four octaves. The CX-12 has a plastic body, while the Chromonica is metal. The CX-12 comes apart so you can easily replace parts that go bad, because they do. The Chromonica doesn’t come apart quite so easily, even though its parts also go bad. The last time my Chromonica needed repairs, I attempted to do them myself. I ordered the CX-12 while my Chromonica was out-of-state after I botched the reed replacement.

In theory, you can play any song on a chromatic. It’s got all the whole notes along with the half-notes, which you access by pressing a button on the side. That means, in theory, I can play Drivin’ Down to Georgia on the chromatic.

Had I applied myself fully, instead of recording myself practicing, then stopping to write all sorts of nonsense, I probably could have mastered the song by now. Still, I didn’t do half bad in the few minutes I devoted to learning the thing. It’s not all that hard. Just a handful of button presses that now come fairly easily.

If I keep on quitting the chromatic, I may never learn it as well as I’d like, but at least I can bang out a song or two now and then.

What’s something you keep quitting and coming back to?

I’m Louis Barney Katz, Boise’s #2 storyteller, wedding officiant, and mobile notary. What I most want to do is write and perform, but until I’m exceptionally unforgettable at my craft, I could sure use a job. If you know of anyone who wants a former IT business owner who’s good with words and people, please make a warm introduction or show them this story. You can reach me at 208.805.2740 or louis@lbkatz.com.

At first, I thought that the World of Coca Cola in Atlanta would be the same sort of thing as the one in Las Vegas, where it’s basically a big swag store. True, WOCC Atlanta does have a swag store, but not till the very end. Mostly, I wanted to go because we were at the tail end of our storytelling (me) and jewelry-making (Penny, my wife) pilgrimage, and I was tired. Our flight home wasn’t till end of day, so we had some time to squeeze in one last, unambitious adventure.

This is not a review, by the way. I expect to be brief and send you on your way before too long.

Penny found us the Bottle Cap Cafe while I parked the car for $25. This is not a rant about parking fees, either. Let’s keep moving.

Ever since that sign above Tallulah Gorge, letting you know not to throw anything into the gorge, I’ve been wanting to throw stuff into the gorge, but not anything that would hurt anyone down below. A muscadine would be perfect. I didn’t even know what a muscadine was till the day we visited Tallulah Gorge. In case you don’t know, either, a muscadine is a variety of grape with a very thick skin. The taste is more tart than a civilian grape from the grocery store, and you wouldn’t miss it very much if you were to throw it into the Tallulah Gorge, which I didn’t do.

I bring this up because if after reading the sign saying not to throw things into Tallulah Gorge I’m thinking of nothing but throwing things into Tallulah Gorge, surely I must not be the only one. I started asking around.

What I discovered is that many Atlanteans have not been to Tallulah Gorge. And those who have aren’t inclined to throw things into it.

Here are some items you ought to throw into Tallulah Gorge: a live pig. Don’t be alarmed, you could put the live pig into a harness, along with a parachute, to ensure he lands safely at the bottom. The parachute mostly because you can’t always depend on the updraft. A car would be neat, as a publicity stunt for a local dealer. No parachute needed, just drop that thing out of a cargo plane and let the pieces land where they may. Ping pong balls.

What would you drop into Tallulah Gorge? Or any other gorge, for that matter? More importantly, does a Coke float, and how, when it’s only 8 o’clock in the morning?

I’m Louis Barney Katz, Boise’s #2 storyteller, wedding officiant, and mobile notary. What I really need, since none of the things I do make money, is a part or full time job while I get better at writing and performing my stories, which is what I really want to do with the rest of my short life. You can reach me at 208.805.2740 or louis@lbkatz.com.

We saw each other every day for a couple of weeks. I wrote her every day I was gone on a month long graduation road trip with my buddies. We saw each other every day when I came back.

I called her every day from college. We were at opposite ends of the state. After a while, she seemed different. And distant.

We broke up long distance after I’d already racked up a $70 phone bill.

At the time it seemed like a big deal. I never got my varsity jacket back, or my class ring. That was a big deal, too.

Love sometimes happens at inconvenient times. But that's no reason not to go to college.

Can you think of anything more ridiculous than being allergic to hand lotion? I wouldn’t even use the stuff, but as I get older, my skin has turned into a battlefield in which the weather has gained the upper hand. The way I notice this so-called skin lotion allergy is that when I use it, it knocks me out. Makes me tired and listless, prone to sleep in way past normal. That and hot chocolate has grown too heavy as my daily driver. I need something stronger to kick my a** into morning gear. Coffee.

For the first time since giving up coffee back in October, I drag the dripper and the grinder out of mothballs. I had to give up coffee, because it was causing me to jump through the ceiling every time somebody pulled into the drive-thru at CapEd Credit Union. Now that I’m no longer there, I can jump through whatever I want, so hello coffee!

I like to do things my way, meaning complicated, so I weigh the beans and measure the water to a 16:1 ratio of 500ml water and 30.4g beans. I grind the beans at an “8” setting on the OXO burr grinder. Pour the water into the OXO dripper. They’re not paying me, by the way. The scale? OXO, of course. And the can opener I use on the dulce de leche? Also OXO.

Here’s what I do once the coffee’s brewed. I measure a coffee spoon each of dulce de leche and sweetened condensed milk into my red YETI ridiculously oversized insulated mug. A teaspoon of Guittard Chocolate Company cocoa rouge (hey Gary Guittard, your cocoa powder is da bomb!). Then I pour some of the brewed coffee into the mug—not a lot!—and mix it all together so I don’t have dulce lumps or cocoa powder grit. Nobody taught me this recipe, I just figure it must be good. I learned a thing or two about measurement with my hot chocolate experiments. If the proportions aren’t right, I’ll just tweak them tomorrow.

The proportions are just fine. I might try it with more or less cocoa powder, but this way it’s not espressified hot chocolate. I like the mix. Maybe a pinch of salt. I think it’ll work either way.

A side note. Dulce de leche straight out of the can is heavenly. Have it for breakfast instead of ham and eggs. Don’t skip the pancakes.

I’m Louis Barney Katz, storyteller. Have you taken my Stairway to Heaven Challenge yet? Put your phone away and sit still with one of the really long songs I recommend.

You can book me with a direct phone call to my cell at 208.805.2740. Think corporate retreat, special event, or your superannuated children’s birthday party. Send me an email with the story of your worst f*ck up of the past week. I won’t tell anyone. louis@lbkatz.com.

More at lbkatz.com and YouTube.com/@lbkatz. You can even follow me on Instagram @louisbkatz

God said to Noah, “build me a boat. Something big’s about to go down.” If you’ve been following me for a while, you already know the story. But here’s something you might not know, because even I didn’t know it till recently. Remember that after God told him why to build the boat, Noah said, “I’ll have to think about that.” Which meant he went straight to his wife, Idit, and said “you’ll never believe what just happened. God told me to build a boat.”

“Why should He tell you that? That’s crazy,” she said. “Besides, there’s too much work to do around the house. Who’s going to tend the crops and milk the cows and invent useful agricultural implements?”

“But…God,” he said.

“God schmod. Seriously. You going to listen to God? Or your wife?”

Noah scratched his head. And then he said, “God.”

“Thirty days,” she said. “That’s all. If you’re not back in thirty days, I’m filing for divorce.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll be back long before that.”

And that’s how Idit became Lot’s wife.

I’m Louis Barney Katz, storyteller. I see things, so you don’t have to. Book me for your corporate retreat, special event, or even your superannuated children’s birthday party. I also lead storytelling workshops and perform “celebrity endorsements for the rest of us.” Even if your product or service sucks. Sure, I’ll say it sucks, but you’ll still gain more customers, because that’s how marketing works. You can reach me at 208.805.2740 or louis@lbkatz.com.

Check out my latest stories, videos, and other stuff at lbkatz.com and YouTube.com/@lbkatz. #storyteller #eventplanners #noahgoesrogue #lotswife