Far & Few

I work 12 hour days. I get up at 6:30 in the morning, and my last lesson finishes at 6:30. I'm teaching (2 and 3-year-olds) at a pre-school for five hours, then off to synagogue to teach the Rabbi's 6-year-old, and I finish with adults at various locations throughout town. It's a wear, but fulfilling. It helps that I listen to this most mornings, if I can. It's postal workers cancelling stamps in Ghana. Put it on repeat and try not to feel better by a smidge.



I just heard that the Crocodile Hunter died. I don't know. I can't count the times that I saw him fucking with a cobra or trying to hug a badger and thought that I can't wait for the inevitable show where he finally gets it. Don't get me wrong. It sucks the dude died, but it's hard (for a meager misanthrope as I) not to have thoughts like that when he would announce that he was going to do something seemingly suicidally perilous. "My breath reeks of KFC and I'm gonna give this alligator a little smooch." Do it. Do it. Do it. Today's going to be the day. I'm disenheartened that he was just swimming along, and wham... Bye Buddy. I hope you're fucking with dangerous animals on some higher plane.



The whistling postal workers got me thinking sonically. Peep this shit. I know. I am a cruel bastard.



Speaking of finding shit with sound, found sound.



I steal music... from here.



and here.



OK, enough of that. Chech out some quirky mag covers...



I'm too pooped to pope. Until next time, remember that it's about a blank who wants to blank.