I am out of the country for the summer, but I just got the call; The 5th Street Gym in Miami Beach was robbed. Cleaned out. Heisted.
Devastating news, as I am a member of The Gym and love that place more than anything. The stole all the equipment, photos, belts, hell, they even took the ring. It looks like the only thing left is the pull up bar and arm straps for hanging crunches. And the recently moved jump rope rack.
I can’t even imagine who would want all that stuff (except the photos) with all the blood, sweat and Dino’s dogs hair all over the place. Hell, there is some of my blood in that place. And for sure a bunch of my snot and saliva.
I am also amazed how they pulled this off. I mean hell, it is on the corner of 5th and Washington in South Beach. Not exactly a minor intersection in a 24 hour a day town.
Unreal. I wish Matt and Dino luck and I hope they get the gym up and running as soon as possible. Hell, I will be back in Miami Beach soon.
Real sh*tty news. And I thought I was having a great summer.
It looks like there is a lot of misinformation about the location about the current The 5th Street Gym in regards to the old one. To set the record straight, the original 5th Street Gym was on the second floor of a building that was torn down. The current 5th Street Gym is in the new building, in the same location as the original on the first floor that it shares with a Wells Fargo location of all things.
MIAMI BEACH, Fla. (WSVN) — A historic South Florida gym where some of boxing’s all-time greats have trained became the scene of a “crime ring” of sorts, Monday.
The 5th St. Gym, a Miami Beach landmark, was hit by burglars over the weekend. The inside was left gutted, stripped off its boxing ring. That’s right, the entire ring was somehow picked up and hauled away, along with lots of equipment and personal files. “Well, we were vandalized, as you can see, and the ring was stolen,” said Nina Spencer, whose son owns the gym, “the whole ring. That whole area there was a boxing gym.”
And this was not just any ring in any gym. This is a gym steeped in the history of boxing. Autographed photos of Muhammad Ali, George Foreman and Sugar Ray Leonard once hanged on the gym’s walls. Now, they too are gone. “This is so sad,” said Spencer. “It’s devastating. We’re devastated.”
The 5th St. Gym opened on Miami Beach in the 1950s. Famed boxing trainer Angelo Dundee who trained, among others, Muhammad Ali, was part owner of the gym. In a YouTube video, Dundee speaks of the greatness and history associated with the gym: “It’s a great place to train because fighters like to sweat, and man, you could sweat in Miami Beach.”
Alright. Stop what your doing, because I’m about to ruin the image and style that your used to.
It is time again for The G Manifesto “Best of 2011” Awards.
Once again, these Awards are places or things that I have been to or experienced in 2011. So don’t get itchy if your local dive bar in Denver or favorite P.F. Wang’s in Poughkeepsie didn’t make the list.
Here are the rest of the Best of 2011, G Manifesto Awards:
Best International Nightlife City: Montreal, Canada. I am in love with this city. I am not sure of too many things, but this I am sure of: I will spend at least two months this summer in Montreal. Honestly, I think I can swoop a fly girl 8 out of 10 nights I go out there. It is probably closer to 10 out of 10, but I don’t want to sound like I am bragging. I almost slit my wrists for not coming sooner.
Honorable Mentions:New York City. I had too much success there in 2011 to leave it out.
Most Overrated US Nightlife City:Los Angeles. California has become a Police State, and Wessyde nightlife has gone down the tubes with it. California nightlife needs a whole new start like a person with a severed arm needs a tourniquet and a shot of tequila.
Best US Nightlife District: Brickell, Miami. Quality of girl is off the charts.
Best US Restaurant for Fly Girls:Cipriani’s. No single restaurant in America holds as many stunners.
Best International Nightclub:Andre Carne de Res, Bogota. I don’t get impressed by nightclubs any more. Well, that’s until I stepped into Andre Carne de Res in Bogota. Place is sicker than a cancer victim.
Best High-Action City:Abidjan , Ivory Coast. It went off the rope earlier this year. I hit a decent Cocoa trade playing the political takeover as well. To be frank though, the time I spent on the horn and researching that trade, it wasn’t that great.
Best Day Game City: Miami Beach. Lincoln road. No question.
Best Beach: El Sardinero, Santander, Spain is more breathtaking than northern California’s coastline. And more striking than La Jolla, California.
Best International Restaurant:La Taberna del Gourmet, Alicante, Spain. The food is so good it made old E-tab and Cocaine buzzes hit me. Seriously, my nose got sweaty while dining here. Ate here three nights straight at one point.
Honorable Mention: Toque and Au Pied Du Cuchon, Montreal. Both these restaurants are straight crack.
Best Trade: The Silver trade. I rode the silver miners up and sold out earlier in the year. And unbelieveably sold out of my paper silver near the top. Super lucky. Now I buy physical on the dips.
Best US Restaurant: Joe’s Stone Crab. Miami Beach’s answer to former G Manifesto “Best of” winner, Galitories. Illmatic. I even got a table on the last day of Stone Crab season with two fly Latinas.
Best International Hotel: Hotel Maria Cristina, San Sebastián, Spain.
Best US Hotel: The Plaza Hotel, NYC.
Worst US Hotel: Shore Club, Miami Beach. Place has slipped. The service is a joke compared to Las Vegas. Place kind of made me edgy. And that is not easy to do.
Quote of The Year:“It’s so crazy. I am in America. The country that I represent, the Red, White and Blue. I make money in America. I feed the American citizens, I feed the people that are less fortunate in America. Even when I make it rain, I am still throwing money to Americans!.”By Floyd Mayweather Jr. at the post Victor Ortiz Fight presser.
That quote would have been hilarious alone as a joke. But the fact that Floyd was dead serious when he said it not only makes it the “quote of the year” it makes it the funniest thing said all year as well.
Best Movie:The Business. Finally a real International Playboy in a movie. Of course, it wasn’t a Hollywood movie, but that is to be expected.
G’s of The Year: Miguel Cotto and Nicolas Berggruen. Cotto is an obvious choice. If you are not familiar with Berggruen, you should be. This guy is the ultimate International Playboy/ Perpetual Traveler. Peep the Data Sheet on the cat:
Long before dabbling with blank-check companies, Berggruen had already made enough money to buy all of the trappings of the ultrarich: a Fifth Avenue apartment in Manhattan, a mansion on a private island near Miami, the Gulfstream IV and artworks by Damien Hirst, Jeff Koons and Andy Warhol. Berggruen says that living amid all of that luxury turned into a burden and didn’t make him happy.
“I understand the human instinct to want to create a nest and possess things, to show them off,” he says. “But for me personally, it became less and less interesting.”
So in 2000, Berggruen sold his houses, put his art collection in storage and gave away or sold most of his possessions, including his car. He says his decision to live a rootless existence wasn’t a means of dodging taxes; he says he pays them in the U.S.
The investor, who signed a pledge promoted by fellow billionaires Warren Buffett and Bill Gates to donate at least half of their wealth, says he’ll give away all of it eventually. “Everything I do now is about growing the pot to have more to give away,” he says.
He has never married and says he is not interested in having children. Berggruen has been photographed at charity and fashion events arm in arm with a series of actresses and models, including Gabriella Wright, a British actress.
Roberts returned from Vietnam to New York with screws and a metal plate in his head — the aftermath of an explosion. By the time he was 20, he was one of New York’s biggest nightclub impresarios, rubbing shoulders with everyone from Jimi Hendrix to John Lennon.
But after a business partner turned up dead and an informant told the police Roberts was involved, he hightailed it to sunny Miami. The year was 1975.
“When I first came to Miami, I wasn’t smuggling: I was like all the other dealers on the street just trying to make a living, and it got to a point where I had so much business that these people just couldn’t supply me,” he says.
That’s when Roberts shifted from being a drug dealer to a drug importer for the Colombian Medellin cartel.
Importing paid well: By the end of 1976, Roberts says he was moving 50 kilos of cocaine worth $500,000 or more a month. Roberts was living it up: He had half a dozen servants, a Porsche, multiple houses, dozens of race horses and friends in high places, including the Colombian drug lord Pablo Escobar.
The U.S. government labeled Roberts the “American Representative” of the Medellin cartel; he became known as “the bearded gringo” on Miami’s streets.
Roberts and a few American partners created a highly advanced drug-smuggling system that included secret airfields, listening posts to eavesdrop on Coast Guard communications, and homing beacons for tracking cocaine shipped by sea.
“We ended up getting, up by Tampa, a 450-acre farm and it was all surrounded by trees and we put two runways in there and we put hangars in for the planes to go in,” Roberts says.
Their drug-smuggling schemes stymied the U.S. government for nearly a decade.
Death came for Jon Roberts, the infamous cocaine cowboy, on Dec. 28 at age 63, after a long battle with cancer. But his public career as a charming monster is just beginning
A true-crime memoir, “American Desperado” (Crown; $28), written with journalist Evan Wright, has just been published. In Hollywood, director Peter Berg and star Mark Wahlberg are developing a movie based on his exploits.
Dying at his ease in Fort Lauderdale in the company of a devoted younger spouse and his 11-year-old son Julian, product of an earlier marriage, was an improbable end for a man who never repudiated his lifelong philosophy that “evil is stronger than good.”
“How many times have I encountered a crooked politician who wants to establish he’s a nice guy, or a killer who wants you to think he’s a good guy at heart,” says Wright. “I was fascinated because here is a guy who has done monstrous things and he’s not trying to portray himself as a nice guy or a victim.”
As Roberts tells Wright in “American Desperado,” “I might be a sociopath. Most of the time I’ve been on this earth I’ve had no regard for human life. That’s been the key to my success.”
If “American Desperado” is to be believed, Jon Roberts beat people to death in New York, skinned enemy POWs alive in Vietnam, and helped a future CIA agent murder famed mobster Meyer Lansky’s stepson in Miami – with Lansky’s approval.
Roberts first came to national attention as one of the stars of “Cocaine Cowboys,” a Miami-produced documentary that was a surprise hit in 2006. The film details the early 1980s, when Miami became a nearly lawless place awash in cocaine, violence and corruption.
As an American representative of the Medellin Cartel, Roberts helped import some $2 billion worth of cocaine into South Florida, working with infamous figures like Albert San Pedro, Pablo Escobar, Bobby Seal, Max Mermelstein and Bobby Erra.
“He’s a killer,” says Wright, author of the acclaimed Iraq War book, “Generation Kill.” “The notion that Jon is a monster because he kills people doesn’t disqualify a person in my code of life. He’s a killer — let’s move on from there. Let’s find out more.”
Last night, I spoke to Roberts’ smuggling partner and costar in Cocaine Cowboys, the laid-back and quirky Mickey Munday, with whom he had epic disagreements. The last time Munday saw Roberts, he recalls, was at a Miami restaurant with Peter Berg — where the cancer-stricken old criminal vowed to kill Munday before he kicked the bucket: “Before I go, I’m going to get you.”
“I told him: ‘If I had a bucket list, I might put that blonde over there on it,'” Munday says. “‘But not whacking somebody who’s known me for 25 years.'”
“I always thought that he would beat this, I really did,” Munday told me. “If anybody could, it was him, because he’s the meanest son of a bitch I knew. If cancer could get to him it could get to anybody.”
Munday later texted me, referring to Roberts’ nemesis Mermelstein, who also died of cancer: “I hope Jon is kicking Max from one end of Hell to the other.”
Here is a real innovative move that I just dug from the crates of The Chambers of The G Manifesto:
One of my attorneys introduced me to couple of real estate cats who owned this building with a restaurant on the first floor and some office spaces on the second floor.
The interesting thing about this building was that it was previously owned by some Albania or Russian Organized cats (I forget which) and they had a bar on the lowers and a gambling den (maybe some hookys) on the second floor.
Since the second floor was a little vice ridden, they installed a “secret door” that you could access from this little stairway in the restaurant. There was a button you pushed, and then the wall rose straight up. Real smooth.
Surprisingly, the multi-colored striped-shirted real estate cats that bought the building actually had the style and taste to keep the “secret door” which lead now to some office spaces.
When they showed it to me, I instantly rented one of the office spaces. Not to do work of course, but to swoop fly girls.
I would take girls to the restaurant below (which was actually pretty decent with a chef with some pretty heavy Wolfgang Puck pedigree) and say, “Let me show you something.”
I would then lead them up the stairway, walk to the wall, and hit the button for the “secret door”. The key would be to act like nothing was out of the ordinary, just a normal night in the life.
Girls would always be amazed.
I would then show them my “office” and go for the swoop.
It was really that easy.
Everyone should try to incorporate this move into their repertoire.
Since I happen to be in Belfast visiting family, and since this is probably not getting to much coverage in America, check it:
East Belfast riots ‘a wake-up call’, says Baggott
Two nights of riot mayhem this week are a “wake-up call” for Northern Ireland, PSNI chief constable Matt Baggott has warned.
Speaking as First Minister Peter Robinson and deputy First Minister Martin McGuinness pledged to work to try to prevent a repeat of the violence in east Belfast, the police chief spoke of his sadness that the province was taking “two steps forward and one step back”.
It is understood Mr Robinson yesterday met UVF leaders as part of efforts to maintain calm. After briefing the Policing Board on details of the flashpoint flare-up, Mr Baggott also claimed dialogue is key to avoiding a summer of trouble and tension.
He said: “We should recognise that in some places the peace is fragile and it’s a wake-up call to us all to redouble our efforts to make Northern Ireland the safe, prosperous place everybody wants.”
With a senior civil servant tasked with investigating the problems in east Belfast, First Minister Peter Robinson said the focus was on avoiding a repeat of the chaos which damaged the reputation of the province in the week of golfer Rory McIlroy’s US Open triumph.
“Where there are genuine concerns, we want to help,” he said. “We represent and care about this whole community and we want to hear what it has to say.”
Many media commentators, some London-based, some local, who spend little time on the ground in places like the Lower Newtownards Road or Short Strand, bought into the line that this latest conflagration was the result of spontaneous working class loyalist anger.
They argued that, because loyalist paramilitaries had no representation in the Stormont parliament or that because socioeconomic or educational attainment was low in poor Protestant areas around eastern Belfast, these communities suddenly erupted in anger.
In doing so, the commentators swallowed a fairy tale as faux as the make-believe pirate battles on Sunday.
Returning from a short break in the west of Ireland, I bumped into a resident of the Short Strand on the Dublin to Belfast train last Friday morning. She is a woman I have known for more than 30 years, who has no love for republican paramilitaries or wants, in any way, to see a return to violence.
Over the two and a half hour journey north, she explained in grim detail how her home in one end of the Short Strand district was attacked while her daughter’s house was subjected, simultaneously, to a similar bombardment in another part of the area.
She explained that the sortie began with military precision around 9pm on Monday, that all of those who attacked their homes were wearing surgical gloves, masks and combat uniforms, that they arrived with wheelie bins stuffed with bricks, bottles and other missiles, and that the entire attack appeared to be well organised.