Posts Tagged ‘Storytelling’

Upcoming at The West End: What Went Wrong?

With a teeny bit of a departure from classic storytelling we have moved forward to our MouseMuse Live Magazine format. October 12th, We will be featuring a new storyteller, Edward Gibson, who came to one of our shows and got hooked on being up there. A stage addict so fast?

He brings with him a a lively out-of-state  audience and a share of humor I value. And then, if all goes as has been planned, we will be joined by a singer/songwriter who approached us on FB MouseMuse FB, and he became a follower. While he confesses to having written his confessional “What Went Wrong” love song in his twenties, he has promised me (we’ve never met!) that if he ventures from his home in New Jersey, he will give the torment of love lyrics an Elvis Costello mellow. Lindsley, the singer/songwriter has serious eldercare health responsibilities so he is trying to keep a promise to us and to his family.  Lindsley Seaman we hope to see you.

I will be sitting myself down on a chair and beginning a monologue of “What Went Wrong?”  No title yet, but it did go wrong fast.

For me the hints of wrong were happening for years, I mean for heaven’s sakes, I treated my sister to an escorted trip to  Napa  and then a gorgeous drive all the way down to L.A…  and when we boarded the plane in NYC  she wanted Continental Airlines to replace her seat with a newer seat, not another assigned seat which many people, including myself were willing to exchange with her, but one with better springs because….because…  and she held  fast to that demand. The flight was delayed due to the Princess and the Pea and a new seat carried onboard and engineered into place.

An Evening Beside The Lake of Beer

‘Tis a beautiful thing to be Irish or to be in the company of the Irish.

“There by the lake of beer,

We’d be drinking good health forever,

And every drop a prayer.”

~from A Lake of Beer for God, by St. Brigid of Kildare

And nothing goes better with good company and good drink than great storytelling.  We’re in the process of interviewing storytellers and we have a quite a few names.  The Gaelic Club will be open to the public for this event, which is rare indeed.  The pub bar will be open for those who care to enjoy a wee dram.  Do remember to bring cash as it is a cash bar only.  Located on Beach Road in Fairfield, tucked away just off the Post Road, The Gaelic Club is a hidden bit of heaven.


Mr. BIll, Oh No! It’s Too Exciting. Bosch’s Blog

To all MouseMuseians (a new term I’ve conjured up for all followers of things MouseMuse and lovers of the well told tale) – We are about to embark on a new season of Storytelling that should bring our audiences to the floor, either with tears or laughter.  Three evenings of entertainment at the Fairfield Museum and Historic Center.  Three additional evenings at the Gaelic Club in Fairfield.  Shows, produced by MouseMuse, of a slightly different tale, at the Bijou Theatre in Bridgeport.  Over 50 storytellers will grace the stages in the coming months and weave their tales of love or lust, travail and travel, work, non-work, mistakes, blunders, histories, comedic encounters and, who knows, perhaps alien adventures.  Like a story strapped to the hood of an Indy race car, we fine tune the engine, coach the driver, check the oil, fill the tank and set them loose.  We never know exactly who’s coming in first, who might have a technical problem, or even bump into the guardrail along the telling. 10 minute bursts of insight, passion, escape, and hilarity.  Join us as we set forth on six months in a row of storytelling extravaganza!

“Expect the Unexpected” Fried Hedonism, July 10

Well, who knew? Here in our no-cheese allowed household, (an ironic twist for a mouse to be allergic to cheese) we went to TWO BOOTS OF BRIDGEPORT for our first Summer Storymaster’s jam in June and what did was discover? They have incredible pizza with non-dairy cheese. Plus they have gluten free pizza. That was unexpected. The crowd of 40 people turned out on a rainy Tuesday, and we immediately set to the task of entertaining them, feeding them with po-boys, fried calamari, excellent salads, hamburgers, fries fried in the great tradition of French fries. Hey, if you’re going to eat fried, eat good fried. We are all for hedonism 10 percent of the time.

July 10 brings us back there again. We’ve got our ambient music with guitarist Steven Epstein and vocalist Paula Darlington onstage. We have a trivia contest for the audience, a show with four veteran storytellers and contest for the three minute storytellers we pick from the hat. Nice prizes from local merchants.

The Joy of Cooking, or recipes gone awry, dinner tables that turned on you, and all things that can happen when you break bread with others.

The Masters 

I (Ina Chadwick) am telling a story about the time we were invited to a Baptism for an boy named Epstein far down in Kentucky-Derby-monied aristocracy.
Joe Limone‘s father was the lenient one in the family. He had only one rule at the table, no soda. Wonder how long it took to break that rule? Show up, find out.
Paddy Jarit and his wife sat down with another couple at an all inclusive resort and from dinner to dinner they miscommunicated because they spoke different languages.
Gina Ludlow nearly wound up eaten alive at a ceremonial table in Africa. The predatory animals were the last ones she was afraid of.

Great drinks, Great fun. Kicky and relaxed for the summer.

We are back in serious mode at Fairfield Museum and History Center in October.

Try a Youth Elixir for 24 Hours

Yesterday, we found the fountain of youth. Oh, we have found it before and always in a different place because the fountain moves to where the real estate is affordable for the next generation. In New York City the fountain is gushing in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Once upon a time it splashed on me in Washington Square Park in Greenwich  Village, then in Soho and then in TriBeCa. The Meatpacking District had a brief loan of the fountain as has Hell’s Kitchen. But a trek over the Williamsburg Bridge dumped us smack into the middle of what felt like New Orleans. Dilapidated old shingled row houses with ten names on the buzzer system, auto repair yards, factories turning into edgy galleries, rock and heavy metal music clubs that used to be in Manhattan. Coffee bars to the max. Thrift shops galore. Bodegas, boutiques and bodies with piercings and tattoos that look great on them now. Boots and purple hair. I love it.
Sitting in an outdoor garden at a Thai restaurant on the densely populated-with- eateries- street, Bedford, we watched young mothers with strollers walk by, young women proud of their pregnant  bellies tighly showing  in spandex. Dogs, dogs, youth culture dogs for the City life. Small and quick on their hilarious low feet, dachshunds, pugs, and various forms of mutts that all resembled Jack Russell Terriers.
To make “my” husband ecstatic it takes used vinyl record stores that allow you to queue up  the turntables and listen before you purchase, but not for the dollar table selections I liked. They’re too scratched, but the nostalgia of the label is worth simply singing the songs in your head.
The elixir of youth permeates even the restaurants where the owners of a lovely cafe seemed too young to have earned a 24 for food from Zagat. We started for home after the Friday exodus to the country would’ve been over. Magic happened. The sun was setting behind the skyline of Manhattan and we were passing on the East River side at the East River Park in Williamsburg. A parking spot opened and we pulled in and jumped out as fast as we could to make the sky corals and grey flumes of clouds a reality for a picture. Sunset was happening fast.
A boy, a flawless looking young man carrying a skateboard, was also standing and watching in awe. He offered to take our picture. As the lights began to twinkle across the river in the high rises, our young man told us he’d just come back to Brooklyn that day. He had been living in Los Angeles. This sunset scene was what he’d longed to see again. He’d had a place on  Hollywood and Vine and was trying to make his way up the fame ladder with a band. He was a drummer, but when they lead singer

broke up with him, he left the band. He loved New York for its direct cautions to artists. He questioned Hollywood’s tendency to say “they’ll call you back,” but then never do. New Yorkers say “No thanks and goodbye. You know where you stand.”
The beautiful young man introduced himself as Ethan and asked us if we had had dinner yet? We had, but we wished we could’ve absorbed more of  Ethan’s luminescence. We talked him into exploring Rome and Paris because he’d never been out of the country.  But he loved Cities. He was thinking of Indonesia first. We said, ” view America from familiar cultures first.” He asked for a hug. We stood talking with Ethan, who was of Italian descent, in the dark as they locked the gates to East River Park.  We walked toward our luxury car, our  hard earned money in mainstream careers made me wistful. We both chose a safer path after our dreams in the arts paid off in passion, but not in true sustenance,  as we moved into family mode.
Goodbye, Ethan, we both sighed. We had exchanged personal contact information. You brought us a drop of the new fountain of youth. We will savor it.