Some people don't know how to tell a story.

And that's okay. It's not a moral failing. It just means your talents lie elsewhere. Probably.

But if you're going to tell me you're a "writer," and you still can't tell a story? Well, then I'm annoyed. (As you might guess, this happens more often than I'd like.)

Last week, for example. A work acquaintance and I were discussing various celebrities we've seen or met (as you sometimes do in L.A.), and Nick Nolte came up. I told my friend that I'd met Nolte once. He said he had a Nick Nolte story, too, but I should go first.

So, I launched into my Nick Nolte story, which goes something like this:

"The company I was working for had produced a movie starring Nick Nolte. We were in post production, and Nick had to do some ADR. Now, of course, celebrities can't drive themselves anywhere, but the company I worked for was too cheap to hire a professional driver. Hanging from the lowest rung of the Hollywood ladder as I was, it fell to me to pick up Mr. Nolte and deposit him at the recording facility.

"I didn't work for the company during the actual shoot, so I'd never met Nolte at this point. But I've heard stories, as I'm sure you have. Plus, several people enjoyed regaling this poor PA with horror stories from the shoot. For instance, Nick regularly showed up on the set wearing only pajamas with a hole in the crotch. And no underwear.

"The nicest thing anybody would say came from my fellow PA, who put his arm around my shoulders and said, 'Well, at least it's not Gary Busey.'

"Needless to say, I was a little nervous on my way to Mr. Nolte's house.

"I pulled up, went to the door, and rang the bell. Nolte answered the door himself, fully dressed. So far, so good. He introduced himself, I introduced myself, and we hopped in the car.

"We made small talk about traffic and weather and so forth. I mentioned I was from the Midwest, and he said he was, as well, so we chatted about that, too. All in all, it was very pleasant.

"And then I got lost. I don't know why, but Culver City isn't laid out on a grid, like most cities. It looks more like the streets were designed from a tangram box. It's like M.C. Escher was on the city planning board.

"Anyway, I got turned around and flustered, and I'd couldn't figure out where the hell I was on the map. I was afraid that if I stopped and asked for directions, I'd run into a little muppet who'd tell me, 'Don't go that way. It leads directly to the studio!'

"So, I'm screwed. Not only am I lost and I'm late, I've got the bat-shittingest crazy motherfucker in Hollywood in my back seat.

"I think he must have realized I was lost as I flipped through the Thomas Guide like Number 5 needing input. He asked where we were, and I admitted I had no idea. He told me to hand over the map, and proceeded to give turn by turn directions. We took a bunch of side streets, and managed to get there only five minutes late.

"As he got out of the car, I apologized for getting lost. He told me not to worry about it, everybody gets lost sometimes. Then he thanked me. And he even remembered my name.

"And that's my Nick Nolte story. He didn't flip out or go nuts. He didn't kick me in the head, or pee on me while doing coke off a hooker's ass. He didn't do anything! What the fuck's up with that? I wanted a story that involved the phrase, 'I'm sorry, Mr. Nolte, I don't know where to score an eight ball.' Instead, I get a nice, normal guy, who understood that we all get lost sometimes. Damn it!"

My friend laughed, enjoying the story. So, I ask him to tell me his Nick Nolte story. As best as I can recall, this is how it went:

"My wife and I were shopping for a new home. Our realtor showed us a really big house. The basement had a huge, brass-covered dance floor. The bedroom had a huge ceiling, and it even had a basketball hoop. The realtor asked us if we knew whose house this was. We didn't. He said, 'Nick Nolte's.'"

And that was it. That was his... "story."

Let's compare the two for a moment.

Mine has a clear structure. First, I establish the expectation that Nick Nolte is a batshit-crazy motherfucker. This is fairly easy for the audience to accept, I think. Then, I contrast this expectation with Nolte's actual behavior, which was quite pleasant. Hopefully, at this point, the audience is assuming that my initial impression is only a set-up, so that whatever nutty thing happens next will seem even nuttier by comparison. Finally, I undermine this expectation by revealing that Mr. Nolte was, in fact, quite pleasant. Then, I throw in a topper, by acting indignant that Nick Nolte wasn't a batshit-crazy motherfucker, which humorously contrasts with the reaction most normal people would have, i.e. "Thank God Nick Nolte wasn't a batshit-crazy motherfucker."

Now that I've dissected the frog that is my anecdote, let's look at my friend's. He went to a house. It was owned by Nick Nolte. That's it. Period. The end. Freeze-frame, star-wipe to credits.

What the hell? That's not a story! It's not even a series of events. It's an event (looking for a house), a physical description of the locale (a basketball hoop in the bedroom? my stars!), and a brief backstory (the house was owned by Nick Nolte). Whoopedy fuck.

And this guy claims to be a screenwriter! Argh! What is wrong with people? Do you not realize that you're here for my amusement? Amuse me, damnit, or shut up and listen to people who know what they're doing.