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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

I don’t live in a region of the country where it’s considered normal or natural to say “y’all,” but since I don’t have a more melodic way of saying “all you people,” I decided to incorporate “y’all” into my vocabulary just now, and if that makes me some kind of poseur, well, y’all can go suck an egg.

I bring this up, because y’all already know I’m a hot chocolate freak, even though it blows up my gut like a balloon and makes me wish I had some other drink, instead. Everything else blows up my gut, too, so I might as well rearrange the deck chairs and go down with my ship. Coffee’s out of the question, it just makes me even more anxious. Coffee’s how come I nearly jumped through the ceiling whenever anyone came through the drive-thru at the credit union. Now that I’m no longer at the credit union, I suppose I could take up coffee again.

If you’ve been with me a while, you know my SOME LIKE IT HOT CHOCOLATE recipe. I’m not going to rehash it here, other than to mention sweetened condensed milk. Not sure why it took me so long, but this morning, it occurred to me that I should try using dulce de leche instead. That’ll give me two new drinks: a caramelly hot chocolate, and then one without chocolate that’s just caramelly. I think it might be amazing. People already make dulce de leche drinks, if I’m not mistaken. I just haven’t done it yet.

Where do you have to live to get to use “y’all” without raising eyebrows? That’s the real question here.

And where should I order my cocoa powder, you ask? I get mine from Worldwide Chocolate. I just blew through a kilo of De Zaan’s Rich Terracotta, and now I’m going to try Cacao Barry Plein Arome, because it’s French, highly rated, and I’d rather send them money than troops next time things go sacre bleu.

About me. I’m a storyteller of the “the world’s going to hell in a handbasket — let’s go down with it” school. You can book me to enrich your corporate retreat, special event, or superannuated children’s birthday party by calling me at 208.805.2740 or dropping me a line at louis@lbkatz.com.

I’ll also endorse pretty much anything for the right amount of money, including your half-baked product or service. Just say the word.

You can check out more of my material at lbkatz.com or on YouTube.com/@lbkatz

At the age of 64, against all odds, I decided to sell my IT business and become a professional storyteller. Not because the world needs yet another storyteller (although it does), but because it’s what I was born to do. I don’t have the same energy, drive, or ambition that a young person has. I don’t have a bunch of followers or fans. I may not even be your cup of tea. But NOBODY tells a story like I do. I start where the song leaves off. I bring in characters from the Bible, mythology, pop culture. I blend them together. I invent. I exaggerate. I drop the bottle on the floor and watch it shatter into a million pieces. Then I pick up the pieces and glue them back together, knowing they will never be the same.

I don’t solve big, expensive problems. I don’t out-guru the LinkedIn sages. But neither did Bob Dylan, or Tom Petty, or Muhammad Ali. They just did their thing, and it’s what the people wanted at that time in that place. I’m just doing my thing, hoping you’ll come along for the ride.

You can book me for your event or festival by calling me at 208.805.2740. I pick up my own phone. You can also email me at louis@lbkatz.com. Yay or boo, this is what I do. Go ahead and sign up for the FAN CLUB at lbkatz.com.

Oh, and be sure and catch my most recent show over on YouTube. I split it into bite-sized parts.

While I’m in the asking mood, I’d love for you to introduce me to the others in your circle. They don’t have to be big spenders. Think Chamber of Commerce, Rotary Club, Moose Lodge. Stages and reps are what I want, opportunities to get up in front of an audience and talk story. And by all means let me know how I can return the favor.

Thanks!

All the best,

Louis

Boise, Idaho 2026

IBS SUCKS. I made a face and snapped a pic so I could create an emblem of what my insides feel like most of the time. Normally, when I’m not like this, the smile you see and the laugh you hear aren’t fake, but they mask what’s really going on below the surface.

You’re going through something just as bad. Or worse. I can’t help but compare. And feel like an ingrate for complaining so much. Complaining doesn’t solve anything.

Social media is a showcase for our most carefully curated images of ourselves. We don’t want to scare people away by spilling our guts on the table. We show the world what we want them to see. We spin our suffering into lessons to inspire others, hoping for a big payoff.

Me? I’m just venting. This IBS has been a nearly lifelong companion. I can’t get rid of it, much as I want to. I go on in spite of it, finding gems in the dirt. Many of us hang on because we have to, not because we think tomorrow will be better. It might be. Or we might miss something. Or one day there might be a cure. Others are counting on us. People we love. People who love us. That one tenuous thread we hang from.

How’s your day going?

I tell stories from where I stand. You can reach me at louis@lbkatz.com or 208.805.2740. I’ve got plenty more over at lbkatz.com, including a sometimes weekly newsletter. Hope to see you around!

I don’t like to rehearse, except for in the shower, because it’s an excuse to take a longer shower. I love taking long, hot showers, whether I’m rehearsing or not. They’re soothing and relaxing, and a great way to put everything else off. The rest of the day’s not anything like that. Way more hassle. If it were up to me, the day would consist of sleeping and a shower. That’s it. I guess I’d have to eat. Let’s just assume that eating is included. Sleep, shower, eat. What else? Nothing. Except for going to the bathroom. Better add that to the list.

Now that I’ve broken the Middleton Historical Society with my epic tale, WE MOVED IT ONCE, WE CAN MOVE IT AGAIN, I’m wondering, what should I do next? Continue to polish the Middleton tale, with its stories of Noah, Moses, and other biblical, mythical, real, and exaggerated characters? Or come up with something entirely new? What about something swirling around my musical heroes?

Frank Sinatra didn’t like to rehearse, either. He was notorious for refusing to do more than one take on the movie set. The opposite of how he was in a recording studio. I’m no Frank Sinatra, but knowing this about him makes me feel less hard on myself for not rehearsing as much as I should. It’s a trait I excuse as authenticity. I don’t want to sound like I memorized my story. When it’s true, at least to you, you don’t have to memorize. Everything flows together.

What about a show centered completely around Glen Campbell? Everyone (and definitely Bob Dylan) agrees that Wichita Lineman is the “greatest song ever written.” He didn’t write the song, but he’s the one known for interpreting it best. Jimmy Webb wrote the song, and he nearly ditched the most exquisite line.

I need you more than want you. And I want you for all time.

You should always have an extra pair of eyes on anything as important as the greatest song ever written.

Where would I stage it? Never been to Wichita. And would I cast myself as that man on the pole? Or as someone driving by, singing in the wire? Another angle would be to make our hero something completely different, someone trying to understand what it’s like to be a lineman, who feels like he’s got to make a pilgrimage to Wichita for credibility’s sake, and if he actually follows through, learns that there’s an unbridgeable gap that can’t be explained simply as too much time having passed since that moment in the song.

We can travel through time and distance. We can imagine ourselves anywhere, using only the material we’ve gathered through experience or read about in a book or seen in a movie. The place and time don’t have to be the actual place and time. We can impose our own rules. Wichita becomes Palm Springs, where Sinatra spent so much of his life. We get rid of the palm trees and replace them with something we saw in Oildale, not far from Bakersfield. Maybe Wichita looks like that. Or we apply reality sparingly. Not every story has to have detailed descriptions of flora and fauna, or the kind of wood used on the counters in the Thrifty’s just off Main Street. Every town has a Main Street, and a lot of them look alike. Just don’t assume they all serve the same flavors.

Our Chrysler was big and white, with a blue band across the top of the windshield. That’s what tinted windshields looked like back then, a blue or green band. Blue was my favorite, but green was novel. I stretched out in back, not minding the hump in the floor. I fit easily, while Annie laid down on the back seat. We didn’t wear seatbelts. We were on our way to the Palm Springs aerial tramway, to the snow, which never fell in LA. It was a two hour drive, and I don’t think the freeway was completed yet. Sinatra or someone similar was playing on the radio, which was AM. We hardly ever got to go up to the snow. I only remember going there once. Palm Springs was fancy. We walked around but didn’t stay there. We vacationed in Desert Hot Springs, about half an hour away, where they had pools of different temperatures. That was our getaway more than once. And my first escape when I was finally allowed to drive on the freeway. A waitress’s boyfriend threatened me for insisting I’d ordered a plain hamburger after she brought me one that wasn’t.

I hear you singing in the wire. I can hear you through the whine.

We don’t always get it right the first take. But much of the time, we do. I think maybe Sinatra’s onto something, and we should just throw ourselves out there, as we are, full of confidence, knowing it’ll never get better than this. No second guessing, just do what it takes to make sure that first take is the best one. And maybe an occasional rehearsal in the shower.

I posted WE MOVED IT ONCE, WE CAN MOVE IT AGAIN to YouTube, in thirteen parts. You can watch it, starting tomorrow, when the first episode drops at 9:15am MT. Here’s the link:

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLpsHD1I7fstJjW6wWLDEK1M5a4IxWzDqL

Read the rest of my stories at lbkatz.com, or if you’d like to book me for your event or corporate gathering, drop me an email at louis@lbkatz.com, or give me a call at 208.805.2740. Thanks!

I watched a commercial on YouTube for The Ritz-Carlton Yacht Collection and thought, heck yeah, I want to do that. Not as a passenger, but as crew. Having read Cecil Mackenzie’s Donald Mackenzie: “King of the Northwest” and part of Peter Stark’s Astoria, along with some articles about the recently discovered wreckage of the Lac De Belle, I feel uniquely qualified to be on board. Not steering the yacht, mind you, nor anything technical, but as the face of the company, something guest services related, where my winning personality and big, beautiful mouth would make the travelers feel right at home or at least glad they’re here. If you’ve studied Mackenzie, like I have, you know that finding the right crew is crucial and not easy. So here I am. Sign me up.

Yachts have sailed everywhere you can think of, including the Northwest Passage. So why hasn’t The Ritz-Carlton Yacht Collection gone there yet? I think they should. Thanks to Yelp, the experience will be nothing like the Tonquin’s voyage around Cape Horn, with prickly Captain Thorn tossing shipmates overboard whenever they made him mad. That’s not the Ritz Carlton way.

Cutting through the Northwest Passage on a luxury yacht strikes me as the ultimate combination of fun and adventure, especially if the crew knows what they’re doing. Ever done it? What’s it like? I’ve never been on a yacht, but I figure this is my best shot for landing on deck and having it paid for. I will give 1000% of myself, of course, and the guests will be talking about the experience for the rest of their lives, no matter how long that is.

Did I mention the food? I’m sure it’s really good. They’ve also got art on the walls or whatever you call walls on a yacht. Ritz pulled out all the stops, except I don’t think there’s a Montblanc boutique on board, which is a mistake. People need to keep journals on this sort of trip. You don’t want somebody who wasn’t even there making up stories to fill in the blanks.

For those of you who know me and have gained the trust of Ernesto Fara, President of The Ritz-Carlton Yacht Collection, reach out and tell him that I’m ready to hit the high seas and make him proud, just as long as my wife gets to come along, too. And the pets, naturally.

I’m a storyteller and former IT business owner, about to embark on a course of study in Resort and Hospitality Management at Boise State University. You can book me for a yacht voyage, corporate story time, or speaking/workshops by calling me at 208.805.2740 or louis@lbkatz.com.

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.” The usual suspects are 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.

I write and I speak. I can even show you how to tell brilliant stories about the most seemingly boring things, like vegetable peelers. You can book me for your company or event by calling me at 208.805.2740 or dropping me a line at louis@lbkatz.com.

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