Learning Espanol, Thug Style.

Spanish is a subject studied for a number of years throughout both my public and transition into private school, however I'm by no means fluent nor even sufficient. To rectify this sad reality I must improve, become better, develop my skills. And so to this end I've decided that the most logical thing for me to do is to listen to mad amounts of Puerto Rican rap, memorize the lyrics, pronunciation, and meaning, then next thing I know after time, effort, and practice, I'll know the deal. What I'm wondering is if the parallel will hold true, in that should an individual not know English, then learn it by listening to 2Pac, 50, and Wu Tang, would they sound like a thug in the language? I hope so, and project that I'll be rocking and rolling Espanol silly like and all gangsta-ish as soon as I've internalized the flows. Mi lengua es Ingles porque yo estudio ahora, escucho con la reggatone porque es proximo de la hora. Now the real question is, should I learn from Nengo Flow or Conculluela, the feuding rappers in Puerto Rico who have brought about an East/West style division in their rap world, as should one be crushed, I'd woe my Spanish to taste of the losing lyricist/street soldier's style.

Car Hurtling and the Moonlit Trails

Running after the twilight of sunset has become a contemporary practice of mine in these days of late, with the darkness presenting me with an alternative to the traditional sunny jaunts. The budding trees and sparse light of the street-bulbs flooding through above as I hug the yellow lines running in the center of the street, my body is a robot and my soul the ghost in the machine. My road-dog Ryan joined me last eve for a run which rose above the concrete into the wooded paths of Newton Hill, the ground and all around nearly pitch as one's vision turns black-and-white, dangling branches pushed away as others are crushed and cracked underfoot. Coming down and out of the woods, sprinting across a busy city street, headlights flashing, I realize I need something more, something beyond the norm. Cars are all over, impeding my progress as I duck and dodge, and suddenly realize, why go around when you can go over? And so the game is made, cars are given points in their order of difficulty, a sedan being 1, SUV 2, Truck 3, and so on, with multiple cars strung together creating a multiplier. For example, were I to trample over a car then leap onto the hood of a truck and then ground it, I'd be awarded 1+3 being 4, times 2 as a pair of vehicles were strung together, and thus 8 points total. I've achieved 1 thus far, Ryan 0, but I'm not worried about it, there is time, and the competition has only just begun.

An Analogue Gentleman Going All Digitial

Seated up in the Bean Counter, a transcendental coffee shop with cupcakes that will melt your mind into an ocean of pleasurable waves, I type impatiently upon my laptop. For my gig as an academic ghost writer I've a six page paper to write upon how transactive memory affects one's performance upon the job, and more specifically, how it influences consensus and teamwork, and between reading I watch a video upon the Berrics Trickipedia of a pro boarder doing a kickflip like a god, learning for his form. The client needs three sources, specific articles to be sourced, and I've only one to download, in the form of a pdf. Drawing my Blackberry Curve, Maroon and leathered, I email my fill-in editor at the company, Kasra curiously not the man on the other end for a time, stating as such, that I've only so much time, so much access, and need the information right quick. Two minutes later a chi-gong sound effects goes off thrice. I check it. The information has arrived via a yousendit link which I download. Data, as with knowledge, is power, and so armed with my source arsenal proceed forth to load it up and fire off. Rock and Roll.

the California Core Training Routine & Lifestyle

My work-out routine and fit lifestyle, assembled through training with sun-bathing hedonists in Miami, football players in Boston, alongside surfers and boxers in California, will soon be a purchasable commodity, oh yes and no doubt, as decreed by the Fitness Fuhrer.In the form of a dvd series to be marketed to those who wish to be truly fit, torn up, fucking ripped, this lifestyle will spread, like the wildfires that made it snow ash during my first tenure on the Golden Coast. More to come as the endeavor develops; now scouting the set and asembling the marketing package with my boy and fitness disciple Ryan.

My Expatriate Theory

A reality I've considered is the fact that amongst the most powerful men to have walked this planet, the rulers, the dictators, the emperors, were not from the country over which they reigned. These three men, this triumvirate of titans, are those of Hitler, Stalin, and Napoleon. Hitler was born in Austria, and would eventually fight for Germany, evolving into her Fuhrer. Stalin was a Bolshevik terrorist from Georgia affiliated with Lenin who became the Gen Sec, the Boss, of his adopted Mother Russia. Napoleon was born upon the small island of Corsica off the coast of Italy, and in a similar fashion to Hitler, excelled in the military of his adopted country, to one day become the beloved emperor of France. This made me realize, should I one day fulfill my childhood aspiration of becoming the Emperor of America, the starting point, to follow the path of established historical successes, would have to be an abutting country. Mexico and Canada be warned or perhaps notified of a future honor, in that almost surely the launching of an American empire will use one of you as the pad.