How to Manifest Your Dreams in Three Easy Steps

Alice, atop her impenetrable martello, descried a dirigible undocking from the Empire State Building. A lithe Othello possessing a taste for cabaret and salacious salsa, restrained her enthusiasm. As luck would have it, favorable winds puffed the touristic blimp within rope-ladder distance of the roof of Crazy Studios.

Reunited and feeling woozy from the radiowaves from the nearby cellphone repeater the slithy toves hopped hopefully out of the frying pan and into tea cups.

Have Yourself a Little Revolution

Jesuit-educated, like Fidel, our friendly neighborhood rose painter dropped in to add a little local color to our coffee.

Presiding over his first dreamcast and aflame with fever, the Bishop of Bank Street reclines in the green room awaiting his grape-feeding courtesans and reiterating the demands on his rider to no one in particular. The guest list to the Wondermare draws from only the noblest relics of the evening.

Adventure Blimp

Off we went, pirates with lost salty souls, hell bent on time travel and adventure.

"Who can tie a rope? Demanded the excitable Hatter.

"We don't need a rope if we don't intend to dock," said the sprightly Sage.

"Damn the rope," cried the salty Sea Witch. "A rope will weigh us down almost as much as children or ambition."

And with that they climbed aboard the hovering vessel and threw the anchor to the fire escape below. Only the heavens and hovering police helicopters could track their trek or cared for their gate.

After they had sailed or rather floated with a quickened trajectory for three weeks time (with nothing to eat but black currents and each others toe jam) they spied a curious effect.

There in the clouds that followed their trail appeared to be some kind of smiling cat. A UFO of feline proportion.


"Oh look at the alien pussy!" Cried the Hatter.

And look they did.

"We don't one here!" Said the slightly jealous Sea Witch, fearing hair balls and bad intention.

"Maybe she has food," said the quick think Sage.

And with that smart, ego sustaining insight, they waved the pussy to board. And board she did.. Although it wasn't a cat at all. It was in fact a cousin of the Hatter. A long lost relative, who despite numerous attempts to contact the Hatter through Facebook, he was forced to adopt the method of a floating pussy to garner his attention.



After a meal of tinned sardines and graham crackers, they docked (using the manpussy's rope) at a Paris cafe where they sipped absinthe tea well into the day and the night and the next morning.

What to Wear to the Wondermare!

"Take your brain, it's time to go," advises the Mad Hatter as he adjusts the volume. "We've a reservation for a table for ten on the tabloid rooftop just now. The paparazzi are arriving via zeppelin and I've invited the mind at large, and a Facebook Lazarus for each of us. Do come, my head's free at last! "

The Skeptical Pirates considered the invite but never texted back. Rumors run rampant, but they don't hear a thing.

With the utmost sang-froid she clenched her speech in her left hand like a firelock and assumed a most persuasive angle of incidence. And she spoke, “I can feel the everwater through the crystal sunlight fly with the mindblown priestess in the early twilight.”

A Zombie Grows in Brooklyn

The corporeal undead were out in force on Sunday, May 31st, and believe you us, it was worthwhile to survive the weekend if only to witness the weirdness.

Real-life undead girls in rotting clothes and their chewed up boyfriends followed through on the threat implicit in the ominous clouds above.

The whole sick crew at Crazy Studios decked respectively as a cop, a priest, and a remarkably self-accepting zombie loaded up the Benz with gear and went westward to investigate the hitherto unknown phenomenon of people dying to get into Brooklyn.

We can report that exorcisms don’t work on reanimated corpses.  Then again, we seem to have misplaced our copy of the revised De Exorcismis et Supplicationibus Quibusdam.

In spite of an ecumenical effort, they inexorably bar-hopped Bedford Avenue.

Those spooky mothers just kept coming.  

The resultant soft parade of decomposing flesh finally pooled in McCaren Park for more madness, mayhem, and a few gallons of stage blood in various viscosities.  Maybe even a bit of the real stuff, courtesy of Doug Sakmann and DisGraceLanD Hook Squad.