If I were a storyteller:
I would tell about the time I tried Cygnus X-1 and in a flash of light was whisked away to the farthest reaches of space in a giant bass guitar-shaped spaceship with a picture of menacing white owl on it. Then I would tell everyone I knew about what I saw: galaxies and worlds beyond our own, populated by beings who communicate in a language we can only understand if we drink strong, but not lingering porters that are surprisingly refreshing and come in 22 ounce bottles (and sometimes brandy snifters) and, of course, if we fly by night.
But that’s if I could really tell a story. I don’t think I’m very good, so forget it. It’s not important.