Setting off Firecrackers in a Dynamite House

Long ago, in a world far away and fading, Bob Dylan wrote, “you don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.” LinkedIn is full of weathermen telling you which way the wind blows. I’ve got no beef with that, but it all starts to sound the same after a while. I tried playing in that sandbox, and I felt like a phony. It’s not so much “who am I to tell other people what to do?” It’s more, “I don’t want to tell other people what to do.” My gigantic ego works differently. Mine’s more, “I can tell wildly entertaining stories in a way that makes people stand up and take notice.” Or “God gave me this big, beautiful mouth, and I’m going to use it.” People like me. I’m personable, with gravitas. I get up in front of an audience and let loose, not necessarily knowing what’ll pop next, but having faith I’ll be setting off firecrackers in a dynamite house.

I've been a storyteller since the fifth grade, when my pal Elston and I co-wrote a very long story about Jed and Stefia, two talking dogs, instead of paying attention in class.

My first novel was born in my second sophomore year of college at UC Santa Barbara, back in the 80s. It was called Gone to Find Alice, then Running Out On Time. I could never decide which title I liked better. I think the first one. I went back and forth for years with that tome, with a tremendous amount of help from my mentor, Barry Spacks. An encouraging call from Gordon Lish, editor at Alfred Knopf, came while I was suffering the worst migraine of my life. He didn’t like a book about college students, but he wanted to see my next novel, A Parrot Named Ronnie, which I never ended up writing due to distractions.

The first one never went anywhere either, except the blue recycle bin—many years later. My wife thinks there might still be a copy of it floating around somewhere, but I hope not.

I eventually became a graphic designer and production artist, but after one too many prima donna art directors, I decided I knew enough about Macs to become an IT guy. So that’s where I went next, starting my own company from scratch, not knowing what the hell I was doing and not caring if I did, because you can always figure things out if you’re willing to go through hell—which I was, and still am.

I sold the business after 23 years to become a professional speaker.

To become a professional speaker, all you need is gravitas and a long runway. “You have to solve someone’s big, expensive problem,” they told me, but I couldn’t figure out what that was. What I really wanted was to tell stories—to be like my heroes: Bob Dylan, Tom Petty, Muhammad Ali. Not solve problems. Just entertain people.

You have to pay your dues to do that, which meant getting a day job.

I got one at a credit union, but they separated me after less than three months because of a Christmas show I did for the City of Middleton called Put Your Clothes On, You’re in Middleton Now. I posted a link to the video on our company intranet, thinking it could lead to storytelling opportunities within the credit union.

The show was PG, but the credit union was afraid I might make someone uncomfortable. My boss called me into her office and said I was on administrative leave, and that they’d try to resolve it quickly so as not to leave me hanging.

She had me come in the next day to a room where they separate people. I’ll admit it was the happiest day of my credit union career, because they separated me.

They don’t even call it “fired” any more. Separated. Just like they don’t scold you when you get into it with a member who doesn’t like Tom Petty. They coach you, instead. It was all quite innocent. Tom Petty was playing on our credit union music station, and after I yelled “WELCOME!” as loud as I could, so she’d come to my line, I commented to the member, “do you like Tom Petty?” I was going to point out that he was playing. The member snapped “I hate Tom Petty!” Which I considered the perfect opening to tease her a bit. She was in no mood to be teased, and being a new teller, I got nervous with the actual mechanics of her somewhat complicated set of transactions. I did them in a way to reduce friction, at least on my end.

After she left, William, the assistant manager, said “Louis, got a minute? Lock your screen.” So I did, and I stepped back to his desk.

“How do you think that last transaction went?” I thought he was going to tell me about the actual mechanics of it, which I knew I could’ve done better.

“I think I probably could have done it in one step instead of three.”

He shook his head. “There are half a dozen ways you can do any transaction. How do you think the rest of it went?”

“Oh. You mean Tom Petty? Not well.”

He agreed, and then he proceeded to coach me. Not scold me. I got coached a lot at that job. It’s better than being scolded, I suppose, but it’s still not pleasant.

And so we find ourselves now—still needing a job, still unapologetically Louis, writing my own words and telling my own stories.

I hope you’ll stick around.

COME ALONG FOR THE RIDE

If you need more laughter and less fear,
more connection and less pressure — let’s talk.

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

— Louis Barney Katz

📞 208.805.2740
📧 louis@lbkatz.com
No assistant. No gatekeeper. Just me.