Ambient Five: Rushing Tides of Flushing Toilets–Days 196-202

Magnes Recording for Ambient Five: Rushing Tides of Flushing Toilets Day 196. The Butler had informed me that dreams are yet another projected reality projected onto us from ourselves, as we Project and with another Projection, which in turn in projecting itself onto us and destroying us. Our dreams are either slowly or quickly devouring us depending our your perception of time. My perception is very keen.

June 4, 2012 at 7:27am   · Like · Comment

Magnes Recording for Ambient Five: Rushing Tides of Flushing Toilets Day 197. “This prison is the entrance to the greater depths of the Posh Trenton Studio. I am its caretaker. I created it. I am bound to it. I am its chief prisoner.”
”What is it built on?”
”The source of Ambient music.”
”What is the source?”
”Where are the prisoners?”
”They come and go as they please.”

June 5, 2012 at 7:35am   · Like · Comment

Magnes Recording for Ambient Five: Rushing Tides of Flushing Toilets Day 198. In the middle of the room was a man with ridiculous white hair. It was bushy and jutted out from his head in all directions. He hadn’t materialized, as well. It was as if the man with the ridiculous hair had always been there, he had always existed in that spot only now I could see him. He spoke, “Hello Michael. It’s me, Jim Jarmusch.”

June 6, 2012 at 6:05am   · Like · Comment

Magnes Recording for Ambient Five: Rushing Tides of Flushing Toilets Day 199. Jim Jarmusch’s voice was both droning and dead. The lifelessness was caused by the ennui Jim had been injected with by Brian Peter George St. John Bapiste de la Salle Eno, who was looking to perfect the New York No-Wave scene in the 1970’s or 80’s.

June 7, 2012 at 10:56am   · Like · Comment

Magnes Recording for Ambient Five: Rushing Tides of Flushing Toilets Day 200. “Hello Jim Jarmusch. Shouldn’t you be riding Jason Schwartzman around Jonathan Ames?”
”I’ve been a prisoner of Brian Eno’s since I was a part of Robin Crutchfield’s Dark Day.”
”Robin Crutchfield was a part of DNA.”
And at the same time we said, “Who was a part of the No New York Brian Peter George St. John Baptiste de Salle Eno compilation!”

June 8, 2012 at 8:43am   · Like · Comment

Magnes Recording for Ambient Five: Rushing Tides of Flushing Toilets Day 201. “Jim?” “Yes Michael?” Jim said as he patted down his pockets searching for a cigarette that did not exist, for there was no smoking in the jailhouse. He would continue to pat down his pocket to no avail. Truly, this place is death. Except I don’t smo…ke, so I wouldn’t know what that’s like, but the other me does and he would know what it’s like.

June 9, 2012 at 10:28am   · Like · Comment

Magnes Recording for Ambient Five: Rushing Tides of Flushing Toilets Day 202. “I just want you to know that I did not see your last two films because I heard they were terrible and I didn’t want to ruin the films of yours that I liked.”
”Fair enough.” Jim grimaced at some secret joke.
”What are you grimacing at?”
”I used to eat a lot of cheese when I was younger. Brie. On crackers. I forget what kind of crackers.”

June 10, 2012 at 5:23am   · Like · Comment




Notes From a Desk Calendar (Underground)

So, for Christmas my father bought me a desk calendar titled “I Hate Everything,” which promised 365 days of something to hate. In other words, my dad wanted to tell me to go fuck myself. This calendar was clearly written by a psychopath:

Tuesday, May 29 2012. I hate that the air on a plane has to be recycled. I hate that the cool stuff is always on the other side of the plane. I hate that there aren’t enough pillows. I hate the fear that the airline lost my luggage–again. I hate that my carry-on never fits.

This calendar was written by Matthew DiBenedetti. He was born in a hollowed out sycamore tree in the wilds of Hoboken in 1883.

Wednesday, May 30 2012

I hate that I never discovered dinosaur bones.

As a lad of one, Matthew loved to learned about civil war trivia and decided that he was going to fight in it. He did, despite the war ending some twenty years before he died. His parents put on a show with a number of friends and staged the first re-enactment. It was awkward because a lot of the survivors were still, you know, alive, and they complained that they didn’t get the rape and torture of their families down right. Plus, General Sherman said they never got the fire quite right. More orange than red, he said.

Thursday, May 31 2012.

I hate that scary movies keep me up at night. I hate that when I pull the covers over my head, I feel safe. I hate knowing that is so not true.

When he turned three, Matthew was declared a genius by his schoolmarm. He was sent to a school for advanced students only for his new marm to discover that Matthew could neither read, nor write, nor speak English. Matthew’s files got mixed up with a man named Smitty, who was a genius. Smitty was sent to an “Institution” where he was promptly murdered with the other dullards of the time period. Smitty left blueprints for a waterless toilet but, alas, the math involved so complicated that no on could understand it.

Friday, June 1 2012

I hate When I run out of dryer sheets. I hate that all shirts aren’t wrinkle-free. I hate starched clothes.

At five, young Matthew discovered that his father was a local politicians, by the name of Krist Cristie, who had restarted the “Know Nothing Party.” Matthew took his father’s message to heart and burnt down several priests and hundreds of German immigrants. He stole their strudel. He did not enjoy the taste.

Saturday/Sunday, June 2/3 2012

I hate that I’m always hungry. I hate that SpaghettiOs are for kids. I hate that Saturday-morning cartoons aren’t nearly as good as they used to be.

At eight, Matthew wrote his first daily desk calendar titled “Things I Am Not Very Fond Of.” Each day had one item that Matthew was not fond of. He ran out of things that he was not fond of in March and the rest of the year simply reads: Beets. The calendar sold very well and became the official calendar of the Silver Party.

Monday, June 4 2012

I hate clotheslines. I hate that you can’t see them in the dark. I hate outdoor motion lights.

On Monday, June 4 2012, Matthew DiBenedetti sent me a cease and desist letter to stop making fun of him. Slander, he said. Slander! I told him that I would meet in in the center of town at low-noon for a duel. I’ll let you know what happens next week, gentle readers.

Most Famous Stories in the Portland Review

What is this? Helen. They want me to tell them more stories about famous foist stories in The Portland Review? Christ. I got a stomach problems. God. These kids don’t care. Fine. Fine!

Back in 1853 I was a clerk for a law firm on wall street, and since I’m a rather elderly guy today it might be hard for me to remember, but I did meet Herman Melville.


Mell, as his friend’s preferred not to call him, was a janitor sweeping all up over my firm. He kept coming by and asking me questions.

“Hello good sir.”

“What can I do ya for?” I said, doing some very important paperwork.

“Were you asleep?”

“Just restin’ my eyes, kiddo. What’s up?”

I was up shitcrick. This no nothing party member janitor found me napping at work. Now I made a handsome salary in those days, which was about seventeen cents a month. God, could you live like a king on that. I used to eat nothing but ham, which is odd because I’m a chosen person, if you know what I mean. What? Oh come on Helen. I’m just kidding. My uncle was in the vaudeville. Zeppo Marx. You know. The Marx Brother that the Marx Brother’s all hated. Zeppo. Yeah yeah.

“Good sir, can you do me a favor,” this Herman kid asked. “Could you read this story of mine, and start a literary magazine and publish it?”

“Kid, I don’t know the foist thing about publishing. I’m not even sure I know how to read.”

And then he pulled a gun on me and the Lone Ranger came out with Hemingway riding him instead of a horse and I took a nosh from the onion on my belt, which was not the style at the time because onions had just gone out of style, and well. Blackmail is such an ugly word. That’s what Hermy said. Uh.

Helen. I need a Fresca. What? Sanka? Well, that’s not the same. Sigh. Whatever.

And that’s how Tin House got started. Now stop calling me.



Ambient Five: Rushing Tides of Flushing Toilets–Days 189-195

Magnes Recording for Ambient Five: Rushing Tides of Flushing Toilets Day 189. The wall to my left, or possibly right, opened up, or rather the door swallowed shucked me, devoured me, moved me, and reconstructed me on the other side.

May 28, 2012 at 6:47am   · Like · Comment

Magnes Recording for Ambient Five: Rushing Tides of Flushing Toilets Day 190. I found myself in another room. A room full of great thin plumes of smoke. I squinted and saw something moving in the distance. The room appeared to be some several million Enos long.

May 29, 2012 at 7:01am   · Like · Comment


Magnes Recording for Ambient Five: Rushing Tides of Flushing Toilets Day 191. The smoke smelled like rotting sassafras byproducts instantly reminding me of my childhood growing up next to the sassafras factory in Baldwin, Long Island. A town, incidentally, founded by the Baldwins (Alec, Stephen, Smitty, etc) an immortal family of Victorian vampyres.

May 30. 2012 at 5:21am   · Like · Comment

Magnes Recording for Ambient Five: Rushing Tides of Flushing Toilets Day 192. The smoke that smelled like sassafras byproducts, such as apple products, formed into the shape of a man. That shape of a man was the Butler who was holding a candlestick. He took out a blue Bic lighter and lighted it. The smoke swirled round and round and round…..

May 31, 2012 at 10:11am   · Like · Comment

Magnes Recording for Ambient Five: Rushing Tides of Flushing Toilets Day 193… and the Butler inhaled all of the smoke. “Come Michael. We don’t have much time. There are thirteen rooms we must fight through.”
”How many?”
”That doesn’t seem like a lot.”
”It’s a moderate amount.”
”Aren’t we in a room now?”
”No. Come!”

June 1, 2012 at 9:14am   · Like · Comment

Magnes Recording for Ambient Five: Rushing Tides of Flushing Toilets Day 194. We stood at a door made out of skulls. The glue that held the skulls together began to fume and the stench it created eddied up my nose, and probably the Butler’s (but I am not sure). The doorknob was what looked to be a walrus tusk, but I was informed that it was a whale’s penis. It was not very smooth.

June 2, 2012 at 2:57pm   · Like · Comment

Magnes Recording for Ambient Five: Rushing Tides of Flushing Toilets Day 195. The room was barren. I do not think it had walls. We passed into non-existence, save for a skeleton in the middle of the room. “Is this the bone room?” I asked.
”This is the Room of Ancillary Dreaming.” The Butler informed me.
”Is this real?”
”It’s a prison.”

June 3, 2012 at 6:19am   · Like · Comment


Most Famous Stories in the Portland Review

Morty (Last name unknown) was the founder and editor-in-chief of The Portland Review from 1921-2010. He is currently retired, living a life of modest luxury in Florida. “Helen!” he screams, “I need more cream. It’s hot out.” These are his stories.

The Killers (1926, Ernest Hemingway). Oh Christ. I remember sending that acceptance letter out in the mail. Great story. A little weird that there was little to no dialogue in it, but god, the writing was great. I think Ernie narrated it from a mouse’s point of view, originally. I can’t remember. You’d have to ask the currentReview editor to dig that one up. But man. He (Hemingway) hadn’t published very much at that point, I think just this book about cats, and was living in some European country eating biscuits or something). So my gut reaction to this story was that it was great and that we had to publish it. I mailed out the acceptance letter and the very next day I got a call.

“Yeah,” I said, answering the phone.

“Thank you.” God that voice. Sounded like. Well. It just sounded like some guy. Nothing special. It was like he wasn’t real. Some ghost was calling it. Or a computer, if they had those at the time. Maybe a calling machine. But the voice was just there, like a lump of crap. Flat. Affectationless. Dead to the world. For a second there I thought someone was about to off himself and called me, wrong number of course, as the his suicide call. Also, I hadn’t had a change to drink my morning Joe.

“Lissen kid. Don’t kill yerself until you get the person you wanna talk to. Like a lady. Ladies are good to talk to. They listen.”

“This is Ernie.”

“Yeah, great. And my friend Bongo Bob has a bridge he can sell ya.”

“No. I wrote The Killers. The story you accepted.”

“Jumping Jesus on a pogostick,” I said. “Don’t you live in Canasia or something? How’d the mail get there so fast.”

“I just want to thank you for publishing my story.”

“Oh yeah, it was pretty good. Had some suggestions.”

Ernie gulped. Young writers needed to be wrangled, you know? And it’s my job to do the wrangling. We, editors, see something that can be developed and we do that. No writer is born fully-formed. You see these chuckleheads being published in the Nude Yorker. You think that comes that easily? No. Editors mold the prose. The unsung heroes of the writing world, us. Editors. Someday someone’ll write something about whatever it is we do titled Whatever It Is We Do Is A Secret. But I digress.

“Kiddo, put a few lines of dialogue in there. Some breathing room. No one wants to read a list of cheese.”

“Kinds of cheese.”


“There are a lot of kinds of cheese. Brie. Monster. Charlie Cheese. Uh. Wednesdaydale. Yellow. Orange….”

And then the goober was getting ready to list things, so I cut the joker off.

“Dialogue. Scene. Stop with these long paragraphs and flowery sentences. You’re nuts are purple but your prose shouldn’t be.”

“My nuts are pink.”

“Well, what do you have that’s purple?”

“My guts.”

“You need to go out there and live for a year son. Go hunt a lion. That’s how I got my job.”

And then I hung it and drank my coffee.

That, my friends, is how literature is born. And a legend. Helen. My cream! I need my cream!

If I still had a prostate. Uh. Well. Nevermind.

Things I learned About Richard Nixon From the First 306 Pages of His Memoir.

The best memoirs tell you all of the things about the subject: the Writer Take, for one instance, this line from the great John Malkovich’s memoir: “We were young and committed and there was nothing we could not do.”

I have an erection now.

Here, now, gentle reader, is what I learned about Richard Nixon after reading the first 306 pages of his memoir. Just like the title of the post says. It should be noted that I am reading the complete hardback of his memoir RN. Don’t be afraid.

1) At lunch with Eisenhower in July of 1967: “We ate lunch alone on the screened-in porch overlooking the farm. We had chicken with noodles and a salad garnished with pickled water-melon rind, which he proudly said he (Eisenhower) had helped to make. “The rind wasn’t thick enough,” he said as he helped himself to more.” p 286.

2) I wrote down some “New Year’s Resolutions for 1965″: Set great goals. Daily Rest. Brief vacations. Knowledge of all weaknesses. Better use of time. Begin writing book. Golf or some other kind of daily exercise. Articles or speeches on provocative new interntational and national issues.” p 265.

3) It was frustrating for me to see as inept a candidate as Goldwater running for President. p 263.

4) We found a taxi and went to a restaurant where an excellent Hungarian orchestra played gypsy music. I was recognized, and after dinner I went up to the bandstand and banged out “Missouri Waltz” on the piano. p 249.

5) One day in 1938, Mrs. Lilly Baldwin, the director of the local amateur theatre group, telephoned me to ask if I would like to play the part of a prosecuting attorney in their upcoming production of Ayn Rand’s courtroom drama, The Night of January 16th. I took the part and thoroughly enjoyed this experience in amateur dramatics. p. 23.

6) He (Nixon’s high school football coach) used to say, “Show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser.” He also said, “When you lose, get mad–but get mad at yourself, not your opponent.” p 20.

Pat! Quick. Futurama is on. I love that show!


Notes From a Desk Calendar (Underground)

So, for Christmas my father bought me a desk calendar titled “I Hate Everything,” which promised 365 days of something to hate. In other words, my dad wanted to tell me to go fuck myself. This calendar was clearly written by a psychopath:

Thursday, May 17 2012

I hate that I love salt.

Come, Pilgrims! Once more we must tredge through the much of sin to reach our destination of the eternal love of our Lord, sucking at his bosom for all of the eternities. Come! Come! We must hate that things that we love and learn to love the things that we hate to stamp out all of the malice in our hearts for our heats must be free! Free! Heart free mind clear!

Friday, May 18 2012

I hate slugs.

Thine enemies whilst crawl on thine bellies on thine ground and try to slime thee. We must avoid. But, we must not hate them for they are fulfilling a particular porpoise in Lord’s design. Of course, we must crush as we see fit for they are testing our mettle! Come! Let us show the goodness that we are made of by crushing! Crush!

Saturday/Sunday, May 19/20 2012

I hate that my teen mix tape was probably left in a car I sold years ago. I hate that someone else is still laughing at the songs I had on that tape.

No! That bothersome beast Nostalgia threatens to devalue our sense of valueness. No! Do not listen! For did Christ listen to the Devil in the Dessert? Custard, I believe. The most sinful of all things! Quick. Some Angel Food Cake. Succor. Life. Remember your past, but overcome. We all HAD to listen to Moz at some point in our lives, but we live! We grow! Adult! Life! Plus we don’t hate minorities like Moz.

The devil has many cats.

Tuesday, May 22 2012

I hate leaving a tip for someone who doesn’t deserve it. I hate when I don’t get a tip. I hate when people give you unwanted advice. I hate when someone gets to the free stuff before I do.

Greed! The Enemy that wants us molten, like bread. Let he who is without stone throw the first sin! No! Judge not! Tip. Tip merrily for life is hard stuff! Don’t judge! Remember the devil and his cats. All free things are not created in equality. For instance, for no price at all I will stab you in the genitals. Is that what you want? Oh please please please let me get what I want, you say. NAY! Forward! Pilgrim! The journey matters! The destination not so much. 

Wednesday, May 23 2012

I hate being the chauffeur because I have the largest car. I hate that nobody kicks in for gas money. I hate that the Internet wasn’t around when I was in school. I hate that technology keeps getting smaller, but my fingers stay the same size. I hate that babies have fat fingers.

Pilgrims! Sometimes the much will overcome. You can’t go on but you must GO…ON… GO! ON! The ravages of age deafen us to the glories of death. Lord is on our side. Come. Let us rest for some TaB. That shall give us the vitamins we need. TaB! 

Thursday, May 24 2012

I hate that wind chimes don’t always chime. I hate the wind. I hate that you saw that coming. I hate being predictable.

Pilgrims! Our patience has come to fruition. We are breaking the Dev-Eel down in the most basic of stuffs. Soon. Defeat will be ours.

Friday, May 25, 2012

I hate that I can’t afford things on the menu that are “market price.” I hate that seafood tastes like the sea.

Yeah, I don’t know about this one either, you guys. Maybe we should just put our headphones on and listen to “The Passenger” by Iggy Pop for the rest of the trip. The music will let us ignore all! Pilgrims!

Saturday/ Sunday, May 26/27 2012

I hate that I hated school. I hate that I want to go back to college hate that teachers don’t get paid more. I hate that I don’t get paid more.

For every righteous hate you must MUST not turn that hate inward, Pilgrims. You may hate, but not with your heard, as Lord said, “I hate you, but not myself.”

Monday, May 28 2012

I hate that after watching Titanic four times they didn’t see the iceberg sooner, not even once. I hate that Rose didn’t make room for Jack on that piece of wood. I hate that she said she wouldn’t let go, but did. I hate that you know I liked Titanic. (It was for the historic aspect, I assure you)

Ah! The devil doubts himself! Pilgrims! Progress is ours! The goal is in our sight. Well, mine anywhom. Come. The Beast awaits!