"Te broker, Nancy, seemed nice enough, except she didn't know much about apartments and was all kinds of frazzled. She also had a side business, selling cat hammocks." Beat. "From organic cotton." Warm, lovely laughs followed. Te Moth happens the third Tues- day of each month, and it's cool because you can't use notes and the stories should be true and your own. Even cooler: You don't know if you will be among the 10 selected once you drop your name in a hat. Also — and this is key — everybody is there to see the Moth; you're only the form it briefly takes. Somehow, this relieves much of the pressure. In my allotted five minutes, I talk- ed about the local dress shops and their ridiculously Old World pieces. I did a too-long spiel about the salsa. I recounted how I carried that card- board box of cats. (After me, one old- er Louisville man explained how he and his friends used to throw rocks at black kids and how he felt ashamed. Wow. And I wrote about salsa.) One reason the Moth works is be- cause it promotes community. It is the cure for isolation, the iPad's an- tithesis. When you're there, you take part in what seems like an ancient form of group entertainment: story- telling. When you put your name in the hat, you go from being a culture consumer to a creator. Soon my allotted time was done. Unfortunately, I wasn't.
I cut to the conclusion: I moved out of the apartment, defiantly hold- ing a cat carrier in each hand, like, "Take that, bastards!" At show's end, three audience- member judges tallied scores for the 10 performances. Te winner was a man who said he and some boyhood friends once accidentally started a forest fire after literally smoking newspapers. I didn't finish in the top three, which was disappointing. I think running too long hurt my score. Or maybe they just hated cats.
— David Serchuk 2.12 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE [19]
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