The words I am about to express:
They now have their own crowned goddess. - Leandro Diaz
IT WAS INEVITABLE: the scent of Aguila and Aguardiente always reminded me of the fate of unrequited love; as I cold kicked back in a dope Tapas bar in Cartagena, Colombia with a fly Costeña named Lilia. We were grinding croquetas de pescado and Lomo Roquefort, while she was drinking Coco con Limon.
And yes, I always stay crispy clean; I got style, finesse, plus a nifty lean, whenever I hit the scene down here.
We were the last ones in the restaurant and it seemed like it was about to close; when in walked a party of nine. I made a mental note that the restaurant staff kind of jumped to attention. One of the ladies in the party, asked for a cenicero and sparked up. I noticed this as odd since smoking is mostly eradicated in Cartagena. I jumped on the opportunity and asked for a cenicero as well. And I also sparked up.
As I smell the aromatic fumes of gold cyanide, I notice something peculiar about the party of nine now seated in the restaurant. The table consists of one cat, dressed in white linen from head to toe and 8 women. The cat has mad presence.
He gets up to go to the restroom passes by me and gives me a smile. A “Game recognizes Game” type situation if you will.
It is only after he returns to his seat that our camarera informs us that the cat is none other than Gabriel García Márquez.
Truth be told, even though my girl was more fly than any girl at Gabriel García Márquez’s table, I have to give the victory to him.
Table with eight girls?
Camareras jumping to his every move?
Allowing smoking?
80 years old and straight rolling Playboy style?
Gabriel García Márquez unanimous decision over Michael Porfirio Mason.
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA GFK, Jr.
AKA The Sly, Slick and the Wicked
AKA The Voodoo Child
The Guide to Getting More out of Life
http://www.thegmanifesto.com
Since I have been down in Cartagena, mass people tipped me off on the banning of Ed Hardy in a New Orleans Nightclub:
The idea came to Nick Thomas, Director of Programming, while watching the MTV show. “The whole thing is so funny because I was literally watching Jersey Shore in passing at 4 a.m. after being at Republic I thought, nothing would make me happier if not a single person dressed like this was in Republic. Then I thought, “Why can’t that be the rule?” The club put a flier on its window at Mardi Gras and the dress code spread across Twitpix which led to a mention on NPR. “It’s been well received because we have the best clientele, but I never thought the story would have this kind of national merit.”
Specific brands mentioned include No Affliction and Ed Hardy, but Thomas clarifies that, “The dress code isn’t limited to those brands, those are just the most obvious of the Jersey Shore-esque attire.” He includes “any other knock bedazzled tee shirts or hideous foil inks. The dress code isn’t about the brands, but the people that wear those brands. If a big beefy guy, over worked-out with way too much hair gel is copping an attitude at the door or anything within that realm, he’s not getting through. Ultimately if the clientelle in the club isn’t starting fights or disprespecting women, everyone in the venue can have a good time.”
In case you can’t see the photo clearly, it says: “If it’s on Jersey Shore it’s not coming through the door: No Affliction, No Ed Hardy, No Christian Audigier, No Exceptions.”
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA GFK, Jr.
AKA The Sly, Slick and the Wicked
AKA The Voodoo Child
The Guide to Getting More out of Life
http://www.thegmanifesto.com
I have said it before, and I will say it again: I have never been one to play a “big shot”, it’s just the styles I got, that keep my Game hot.
And I am a pretty humble cat. I readily admit where my Game has flaws. I have said before that my Tech Game is slack. And I have mentioned previously that my IPhone, Twitter and Facebook Game are sub-par. And I have admitted that my Text Message Game is a glaringly faulty.
Here is another area where I haven’t done as well as I thought I could have: Swooping Fly West Coast Hipster Girls.
Now, don’t get it twisted, I have swooped tons of these girls. Probably more than whomever the hell the top hipster guy is. Still, my resume is a little spotty, unlike say my track record VS Exotic Dancers or wealthy daughters of Eastern European Oligarchs or wealthy hijas of Latin Society. In those areas, my win-loss record is the stuff of legends. Kind of similar, to Rocky Marciano.
Anyways, being a patron of the arts, I went to this Hipster/Wimpster Art gig a few weeks back.
Instead of going with my usual Custom Suit wearing, Zippo Clacking, Thick Bankrolling self (which I diagnosed as one of my issues with swooping these girls) I decided to switch up speeds like Bruce Lee driving the Fuji in the movie.
As I got dressed for the gig, I threw on some plaid pants that I had Custom Made (think Drugstore Cowboy, not Fuzzy Zoeller), an argyle type sweater I picked up in Milan, and an Italian Leather Jacket I grabbed in London.
Keep in mind, I have no idea if this is how a hipster “male” dresses, but they were the only things in my wardrobe that were pseudo “hipster like”.
Fast forward to the Art gig.
I viddy a couple of young fly hipster girls smoking some grits and I use it as an opportunity to ask for a light even though I have two Dunhill lighters in my pocket.
They ask me what I do for a living.
I respond, “I am a solopreneur.”
They ask me where I live.
I say, “In those new condos in XXXXXXX, by that ‘Starchitect‘ named XXXXX XXXXXX.”
They ask where I got my plaid pants.
I don’t tell them I got them Custom made and simply respond, “Vintage”.
The two girls are digging my steez. Although, when one hipster girl pointed to a Wimpster guy and said, “I hate that guy, I ‘de-Friended’ him” and I responded, “You should twitter that”, they kind of looked at me funny.
Regardless, I invite the flyer of the two West Coast Hipster Girls over to the makeshift bar sponsored by some weird Vodka company at the art gig as the other West Coast Hipster girl starting talking to some Wimpster guy.
Things were going smooth.
I almost blew the whole heist though, when I pulled out a huge 4 G Bankroll out of my pocket to pay for the weird Acai Vodka and sodas.
The fly hipster girl looked at me strange, but in a heads up play, I quickly asked her, “Is this Vodka Artisanal?” “Or is it an organic farm to table free-range Vodka?” and got her off the subject of my cashroll.
After some more small talk, kissing her, more drinks, meeting a bunch of Wimpsters, a venue change and at one point, I even made myself cringe when I said, “I really have become a Locavore, of sorts…lately”. I finally maneuvered myself back to the fly hipster girls crib.
Cartagena data sheets coming soon. Till then, I will be getting mad shoulder rubs, drinking Aguila, shooting Aguardiente, putting together export deals, banging out salsa, grinding arepas con queso, all the while dressed in the lightest of fabrics.
The Rest is Up to You…
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA GFK, Jr.
AKA The Sly, Slick and the Wicked
AKA The Voodoo Child
The Guide to Getting More out of Life
http://www.thegmanifesto.com
Lately, I have been getting a few emails basically asking:
“I know Mardi Gras isn’t exactly your steez, but I will happen to be in New Orleans during that time this year. What advice do you have for an Up and Coming G on the Rise for Mardi Gras?”
Great question. I am still around for you, keeping it underground for you.
Although Mardi Gras isn’t exactly my stilo, I have been in New Orleans during Mardi Gras before (It was a “work” trip, some PicayuneStandover job, back when I used to work for The Barons, in case you wanted to know).
Now, truth be told, Mardi Gras is probably the best “big gig” in America. And although my love for New Orleans is well documented, “big gigs” are not really my Forté anymore. But as far as doing Mardi Gras up “G Style”, you have come to the right place.
Here is how to march through Mardi Gras like “The Second Line”:
Custom Suited Down
The Crescent City, being G Manifesto Turf, is a very Suit Friendly city. Being Suited Up in The City that Care Forgot is never more important than during Mardi Gras. One, you will be dressed doper than your competition. Two, fly girls will be all over you like a Mac Gloss sale at the Beverly Center. Third, and probably most importantly, being Suited Down in The Big Easy is like an all-access pass. This can come in real heavy when you need to cross parade lines and cut down on travel times when you are doing mad Day Swooping. Seriously, you won’t know how important this is until you are there. You can thank me later.
Ritz Carlton Hotel, New Orleans
The Ritz needs to be your Base of Operations during Mardi Gras. Think of it as your Roux. The location, just off Bourbon, is like the Galatoire’s Goute (Crab Maison, Shrimp Maison and Shrimp Remoulade) at Galatorie’s; nothing short of perfection. Furthermore, it is on the French Quarter side of Canal, which can be pivotal, so you don’t get stymied by parades.
The Ritz Lobby Bar is probably the most user friendly Lobby Bar in America. Do like I do; lock the entire place down: from the bartenders, to the waitresses, the general manager, to the bus boys, to the band, to the lounge singer, to the girl whipping up the Bananas Foster.
These days I walk around the Ritz lobby bar like I am some kind of half IRA, half ETA Le Roi. Mad Regal with une couronne, getting everything Lagniappe.
Gentleman’s Clubs
The Gentleman’s Clubs are where you are going to do your strongest work during Mardi Gras. Laissez le Bon temp rouler. Especially, during the early part of Mardi Gras week. To kick the fountain of youth*, the early part of Mardi Gras can be relatively mellow. Not unlike a regular night in The City beneath The Sea.
Bottom line, American’s don’t party as hard as say, the Spanish or the Brazilians. Sorry to debunk the whole myth that American’s party the hardest. We have really become a bunch of sissys in this country. Present company excluded. But that is neither Pascal’s Manale nor Suits by Canali.
Anyways, back to the Gentleman’s Clubs. I have written extensively on Swooping Exotic Dancers. Re-read The G Manifesto and follow to The Seventh Letter. You should do more than fine.
Some of my finest moments of Triomphe have happened in New Orleans Gentleman’s Clubs. Well, the activities that took place succeeding, anyway.
Way Down Yonder In New Orleans - Louis Armstrong
Bourbon Street, Street Game
My plans to conquer the streets are embedded in my head like the Mark of the Beast.
And when it comes to Bourbon Street Game, I was born with it, I am getting on with it, and I am gonna have it till I am f*cking Dead and Gone with it.
During the early part of Mardi Gras, Bourbon Street can be pretty dope. Keep in mind; you have to sift through a lot of girls to really find the quality. It’s similar to finding une babiole in some King Cake.
As far as all the beads and girls flashing?
Like Ice Cube once said, “I ain’t the one”. Although, I do have mad respect for the culture.
If you follow my tips, and you got the Mojo Bag, Gris-gris, spider dumpling, goofer, black cat bone, and John the Conqueroo, you should have plenty of topless girls back at The Ritz Carlton anyway.
Grinds
You definitely have to get your grind on heavy in “America’s Most Exotic City”. Hit all the main guns; Galatories, Felix’s, August, Café Du Monde, Deenies, Bayona etc.
But also make sure you hit up some of the grind sessions outside the Vieux Carré, like the crawfish boils. And get your Gumbo on. This is where knowing some local Exotic Dancers can really come in handy.
I have been known to go “missing” New Orleans: Miss New Orleans, Miss Louisiana, Miss Metarie, Miss St. Bernard Parish, Miss Chalmette etc.
But always keep your wits about you. One time I woke up in the Bayou covered in blood, a Johnny Favorite record playing on the phonograph, chicken’s feet and mad fans spinning. It was mad weird. Ruined my Ozwald Boateng with le violet, l’or and le vert interior.
Ma Rainey -Louisiana Hoo Doo Blues
Later in the week
During the Later part of Mardi Gras, things simply get too tumultuous and hectic. It could take 45 minutes just to walk from The Ritz to Rick’s Cabaret because of La foule. And your handmade shoes from London will get all scuffed up.
This is when posting up in the tranquil environs of The Ritz Lobby bar will really pay dividends. The Ritz Lobby Bar; a better investment than equities in 2010.
Krewes
If you really have Game, like your humble author, you will infiltrate the parties that The Krewes throw. It is always good to intermix some New Orleans aristocratic “Débutante girls” with a steady diet of Exotics.
So how do you infiltrate these parties and swoop these “Débutante girls”?
Do me a favor.
I have said it before, and I will say it again, for those data sheets, a publisher is going to have to come at me a la Vaynerchuck; seven figs min.
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA GFK, Jr.
AKA The Sly, Slick and the Wicked
AKA The Voodoo Child
The Guide to Getting More out of Life
http://www.thegmanifesto.com
I am feeling sinister, kind of like a Donald Goines Novel. In short order, I have infiltrated a table of four fly Argentinean girls and two Argentinean cats. Two of the girls are beautiful, albeit they are too Hipster looking for my taste. If I want Hipster girls, I can just stay in New York City or Los Angeles.
The other two Porteñas are striking enough that I would contemplate dating either one for a month or two if we were America. But we are not in America.
Thankfully, the two non-Hipster girls are more into me, and they are so stunning that I feel my ears get pointy and my mouth starts salivating. But I remain calm and Tranquilo because I have been through this literally hundreds of times.
After a rapid fire pregunta y contesta session that I passed with flying colores, I go with a little of the old “absence makes the heart grow fonder” move and I get up and get another Goose and Soda. Which is really, kind of, an idiot move, since they are 10 times more expensive than a regular cocktail in BA. F*ck it though. I have been heisting a bunch lately, hit a trade on Wynn, and I need something stronger than Malbec, to levelize my dome piece after hitting a “street jay” hard with a couple of Porteñas and some guy they were with earlier.
After locking down the bartender, I head back to the table with the four girls but get intercepted by a Swedish cat that tells me to join his table. After seeing five fly Swedish Girls and just him and his Swedish buddy, I accept.
“Where are you from?” asks the second Swedish Cat in a thick Swedish Accent.
“Hollywood. Los Angeles.”, I answer.
I get the predictable, “Oh! Hollywood!”, “Los Angeles, I love LA!” type responses from everyone at the table.
And just like that, I am in. (Well, the Custom Suit might have had something to do with it, since it really did have an immaculate cut, and actually had an Elmo red interior. I also had the crimson Brioni Pocket square. Mad Flash and so much red you might have thought I was Brim or Piru.)
After peeting a bunch of cocktails in expeditious style, I could feel the buzz all through my gulliver.
The first Swedish cat then asks me, “Michael, how do you say “Cocaaine” in English?”
I kind of laugh and respond, “Umm…’Cocaine’ is how you say it.”
First Swedish guy then says, “No, I mean how do you say it in LA? The, how do you say, slang for ‘Cocaine’.”
“Beeks! Yes, Beeks. That is how you say it! Beeks!”, the Swedish guy kept yapping almost uncontrollably.
“That is what we need! We need Beeks! Beeks! Can you get Beaks?” he says in a frenzied manner that is all too familiar. (Although, I have never this sort of behavior from a Swedish cat in BA, so the whole thing was kind of novel.)
“Not sure.” I respond, laughing. I give him a “thumbs up” as well. (I always like to give foreign cats a “thumbs up” so they will think that’s how we do in America).
The Swedish guy then starts yelling, “Beeks! Beaks! Anyone have Beeks!?!” all across the lounge.
Gratefully, the music is so loud; no one can really hear the guy. And no one knows what “Beeks” are in BA.
Santa Maria (del Buen Ayre)
Either way, I spot two fly young Porteñas smoking jacks right outside the doorway of the lounge, and I have little faith that these Swedish guys will score any Beeks with their tactics.
Furthermore, I don’t think I even really want any Beeks. My night is going too fluidly to throw in any sort of scallywag behavior. (Although, I do like the word “scallywag”.)
Admittedly, I do think the weed I puffed earlier was relatively fuerte, because I was pretty amused and laughing at the way this Swedish cat kept on going bonkers about “Beaks!”
I excuse myself from the “Swedish Beeks” table, and then move to go join the girls outside for a jack.
As I roll through the doorway, one of the two fly girls rolls back inside leaving one fly girl smoking a grit.
Switch back to Spanish Game and introduce myself like the International Playboy of the Apocalypse that I am.
She says she her name is “Mariana”, which is a name I have a thing for. She says she grew up in Recoleta.
She says she likes this bar because it is in her neighborhood.
I feel the curious and prurient need to smoke two cigarettes at the same time.
I say I like this bar as well, because my hotel, the Alvear Palace Hotel is right nearby.
I hear the horns and percussion from a Curtis Mayfield song in my skull piece and I feel I am on top of Game’s Rushmore.
Mariana’s eyes start to dilate, she looks at me lasciviously, and I say, “
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA GFK, Jr.
AKA The Sly, Slick and the Wicked
AKA The Voodoo Child
The Guide to Getting More out of Life
http://www.thegmanifesto.com
Hope all is well. I dropped a guest manifesto in Q3 2009, but would cherish the opportunity to provide your readership with some additional insight into my lifestyle. For example, the itinerary below represents a typical night in the life of a certified, card-carrying G, and for that matter, a typical night for me.
8pm: Break bread at Don Peppe in Ozone Park. Table for one. Sleeves rolled up. Wearing my napkin like a bib. The linguini manichiatta can shut down Rao’s. Lead walls make the cell reception tough. Fed bugs in the walls make my cell phone unnecessary.
9:30pm: Push the Vantage into Manhattan. I’m driving 40 in the fast lane. They can wait. Bumping Built Only 4 Cuban Linx. I’m in no rush.
10:30pm: Throw down chips at Cips downtown. Upstairs getting dap from select clientele (sheiks, shoguns, heads of state, high-ranking NATO officials, others). Don’t think I’ve ever even been downstairs.
10:35pm: Pour out a little Screaming Eagle for my lost soldiers. We miss you, Giuseppe. Come home soon.
12am: Catch mad texts from club-going elite. Avenue is apparently the spot tonight. But Real G’s don’t do champagne sparklers. Flickering lights make me think of squad cars.
12:20pm: Ultra-luxury subterranean poker room/gentleman’s club/cigar lounge located at [UNDISCLOSED] with Russian oligarchs and other high net worth bauces. Negotiating/bartering with Chris and Nick Candy for their spot in the Monaco. I want to close before Grand Prix.
12:45am: Play some poker. Catch the homie Oleg (Deripaska) on the river. I have some shorting to do on Monday.
1:30am: Dip to a lower east side (authentic) hipster nightspot and efficiently scoop a fly Asian bartender that I have been casually twisting for a few days.
2:30am: Black car into Brooklyn. Catch dome on the way. Driver doesn’t mind. Park and wait outside the park at PS 117 at Franklin and Willoughby. Have the driver fetch a quarter water, while a Sotheby’s night watchman delivers blueprints and briefs me on various security measures.
4:30am: Black car back to my Tribeca trap. T-bone steak, cheese, eggs, and Welcher’s grape. Actually, more like something from Eric Ripert. Or that pistachio and rosemary shrimp from Shun Li. And no Slugger, you’re not gonna find that one on the menu.
5am: Burn Swisher Sweets with the oriental in the rooftop jacuzzi. She looks like Chun Li from Street Fighter.
6am: I be digging her out
6:15am: I be kickin her out
7am: Count both blessings and ten crack commandments before laying head on trillion count Egyptian cotton. Burner under the pillow. Sleep with one eye open.
“Those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.” - Benjamin Franklin
Obesity is now a bigger overall threat to people’s health than smoking, according to results of the longest ongoing health study of adults in the United States.
Obesity causes as much or more disease than tobacco, says the study, conducted by researchers from Columbia University and the City College of New York. It adds that while smoking rates are starting to decline, obesity now shortens as many or even more healthy lifespans than tobacco use.
“Health impacts of obesity are, in many ways, much larger, than the health impacts of smoking,” said Dr. Arya Sharma, chairman for obesity research and management at the University of Alberta.
While we are at it, since the “passage of time” is the No.1 killer, shouldn’t we ban the passage of time?
Just to clue everyone in that believes all the crap that our culture and media feeds us, Smoking is not bad for you. I am a living and breathing example of that. So are the Greatest Athletes that have ever lived.
The whole “grass roots” Anti-smoking campaign is financed by Johnson and Johnson, GSK and everyone else who benefits from people quitting. “Smoke Free Kids”? Formed the same year Nicorette hit the market.
If there is one thing you should take away from The G Manifesto (besides How to Pick up Girls), it is to always question what Corporate America and our Government tells us. Especially when what they are telling you is a brainchild of Adolf Hitler.
On a positive note, it seems that NYC is pushing back on the smoking ban:
Six years after New York City passed a ban on smoking in bars and restaurants, it is easier than ever to find smokers partying indoors like it’s 1999, or at least 2002. In November, Eater.com called it “the worst kept secret in New York nightlife” that “smoking is now allowed in numerous nightspots, specifically just about any and every lounge and club with a doorman and a rope.” A few weeks later, GuestofaGuest.com, a blog about New York clubs and bars, posted a “smoker’s guide to N.Y.C. nightlife.”
“Everyone looks the other way,” said Billy Gray, 25, a reporter for Guest of a Guest, who says that he knows precisely which high-end bars and lounges, most of them in the meatpacking district or Lower East Side, will let him smoke inside. Far from deterring smoking indoors, the ban simply adds an allure to it, said Mr. Gray, a half-pack-a-day smoker.
Is it true that you smoke eight to ten cigars a day? That’s true.
Is it true that you drink five martinis a day? That’s true.
Is it true that you still surround yourself with beautiful young women? That’s true.
What does your doctor say about all of this? My doctor is dead.
- George Burns
The Rest is Up to You…
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA GFK, Jr.
AKA The Sly, Slick and the Wicked
AKA The Voodoo Child
The Guide to Getting More out of Life
http://www.thegmanifesto.com
Here are the 2nd G Manifesto Awards. The 1st G Manifesto Awards, are here: The G Manifesto Awards, The Best of 2007. I missed 2008 as I was busy swooping girls and had a little street War to contend with at the time. (Also check out the Outlook for 2008, where I was like the Nouriel Roubini of this Game s*it, of sorts).
Again, these Awards are places or things that I have been to or experienced in 2009. So don’t get itchy if your local nightclub in Cleveland doesn’t make the list.
Best Comeback City: New Orleans. My love affair with New Orleans is well documented. This year was the first year since Katrina where the swagger seemed to return. Do as a G does; visit often and drop CASH.
Best High-Action City: Tijuana, Mexico. I wouldn’t exactly call it a love affair with Tijuana, but I have spent mad time there and turned mad dollars there. The place is actually a lot safer now than the papers would lead you to believe.
Best Day Game City: Buenos Aires. The volume of fly girls for Street Game makes it hard to ignore.
Best Beach Locals: The Somali Pirates. These guys made the boys from The North Shore and The Bra Boys seem tame. They made mad dough, raged hard, protected their coast, swooped mad girls and even caused real estate bubbles in other countries. Hell, I have been seriously considering rolling down there and joining the fun. I wonder if there are some un-crowded points to be had to the brain?
Best International Restaurant: Restaurante Arzak in San Sebastian. Spain is really kicking out the best grinds right now. And Restaurante Arzak is top rank. I am frothing at the mouth thinking about it. Will be there again in May.
Best US Restaurant: Galatories. The best goddamn restaurant in America. I love how they even make President’s wait for a table.
Me?
I get top tier service.
Honorable Mention: Gramercy Tavern. I have to include this spot because of the first class treatment, pro-bono wine pours and the sweet breads. Nothing about it the meal was “so-so”, more like “fabuloso”. Additionally, I was politicking with this fly chick and digging her moves because she smooth and she choose to pay dues.
Best International Hotel: Four Seasons Hotel George V, Paris, France. Decadence since 1928. I really like the indoor pool surrounded by tromp l’oeil murals of the Versailles gardens.
Best US Hotel: The Waldorf Towers, New York. The one bedroom Grand suites with the separate entrance are style and elegance defined. They are not cheap (about 5k), but they really do pay for themselves.
Best Fight: Juan Manuel Marquez VS Juan Diaz. Marquez proves once again how he is The G in a come from behind devastating knockout of an 80’s baby.
Most Masterful Performance: Floyd Mayweather, Jr. VS Juan Manuel Marquez.
Best Blog: Roissy in DC. I would have said The G Manifesto, but that would have seemed rigged, right? In all seriousness, Roissy kicked out gem after gem almost every day of the year and truly transcended.
Best Forum: RooshV Forum. If you like traveling and swooping fly foreign girls, then this is your forum.
Best Hip-Hop Track: I Hate My Job, Cam’ron. Nothing captured 2009 better than Cam’s “recession rap” track when most American’s were coming out with a pitiful rookerful of money.
Funny too.
Ayo I’m lookin’ for a job, ain’t nobody hiring,
Then I ask the boss, “when y’all doin’ firing?”
Great sample from Barbara Mandrell’s “Sleeping Single In A Double Bed”.
Best Break out Hip-Hop Artist: No, not Asher Roth or Drake. It’s Black Milk. “Losing Out” was enough to do it.
Best Soul Track and Album: Maxwell - Pretty Wings and BLACKsummers’night. The cat was gone for eight years. No wonder this decade was terrible. Come to think of it, anyone seen D’Angelo?
Woman of The Year: Ashley Alexandra Dupré. It is truly amazing how this girl has kept her mouth shut (so to speak) for the entire year. She deserves all the props in the world, and a shining beacon of hope for her self-absorbed peers of her generation.
Honorable Mention: Sonia Sotomayor
G of the Year: Joaquín Guzmán Loera. No one did it bigger in 2009 than “El Chapo”. Untouchable like Elliot Ness. Hell, he even came in at #701 on Forbes’ list of richest people in the world with an estimated net worth of $2 billion. A low estimate if I have ever seen one.
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA GFK, Jr.
AKA The Sly, Slick and the Wicked
AKA The Voodoo Child
The Guide to Getting More out of Life
http://www.thegmanifesto.com
I went to the Playboy Mansion back in 2001. Legit.
Alas, all good things must come to an end.
I don’t know if I have spent too much time in Southern California and Las Vegas or what, but the “completely fake body, vapid, idiotic, pseudo-p0rn star” girl is holding less and less appeal for me, beyond a night.
Especially when at a civilian gig. Gentleman’s clubs still hold their appeal.
Better off picking up a girl out of the Venetian Ocular Bar or the Rhino.
Same result, less headache.
But the amazing thing is that Hef’s gig looked to have B and C grade “completely fake body, vapid, idiotic, pseudo-p0rn star” girls.
Let’s give the cat credit where credit is due. He has had an amazing career. A living Legend.
It’s not my style to disrespect our elders in The Game. And it certainly isn’t my style to take shots at an aging icon.
Even though I didn’t consciously bite his stilo, I do find myself in a smoking jacket while rolling around my own crib. So I do have to give him mad props.
For the record, I do have a “technical” win over Hefner. I know a guy who defeated him. And I went like 22-0 (22 KO’s) VS that guy.
And that is all I am going to say about that. I don’t want to get “blackballed”.
(Hef, if you want some help re-jump starting the brand, put word on the Street. I will get back to you.)
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA GFK, Jr.
AKA The Sly, Slick and the Wicked
AKA The Voodoo Child
The Guide to Getting More out of Life
http://www.thegmanifesto.com
Morrissey - Last of the Famous International Playboys
I try not to give these guys much thought, but being an active participant in Nightworld, I have these guys constantly messing up my visuals while I am swooping fly girls.
I just cannot comprehend how the American male has slid so far. Think about it. Guys actually wear glitter on their shirts (Douchebags). And Guys actually wear super tight jeans (Hipsters).
If you are keeping score, it is certainly a sign that The Apocalypse is coming.
Anyways, I finally figured out (kind of) what it is all about.
Hipsters and Douchebags are a Modern Day Mods and Rockers. (Keep in mind, the Mods and Rockers were way doper than the Hipsters and Douchebags)
Back in the day, “The Rockers considered Mods to be weedy, effeminate snobs, and Mods saw Rockers as out of touch, oafish and grubby.” Source
The great part about the Mods VS Rockers was that the constantly brawled each other. Hipsters and Douchebags don’t really seem to cross paths.
Somehow we need to get Hipsters and Douchebags going head to head (so to speak) and eliminate each other.
Come to think of it, Ill get to work on that.
(Once it breaks out, the smart money is on The Douchebags.)
In The Beatles’ 1964 film A Hard Day’s Night, a reporter asks Ringo Starr, “Are you a mod or a rocker?”, to which he replies, “No, I’m a mocker.”
The Rest is Up to You…
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA GFK, Jr.
AKA The Sly, Slick and the Wicked
AKA The Voodoo Child
The Guide to Getting More out of Life
http://www.thegmanifesto.com
Since I have no idea what Hipsters and Douchebags listen to:
