Recently, I was at a Charity Gig during the Summer Blitz and separated a fly Mexican Girl dip with pretty lips and hips from her amigas as we were walking to the next venue. I popped my head into this dope lounge bar that I have on lockdown and saw one of my friends spinning that ill old-school soul and hip-hop sh*t on vinyl and suggested we stop by for a drink.
This move was two-fold: 1) We could hear some dope beats and enjoy some pro-bono cocktails and 2) I knew that the lounge had no cell phone service so when the friends of the fly Mexican girls were calling, they were going straight to voicemail.
This in turn, bought me a lot of time to spit Game and Swoop. Smooth.
Another benefit of knowing “no cell phone service” places is when you take a young American “text bonkers girl” to a restaurant, you can actually enjoy your Vino and apps (and I don’t mean Iphone apps either) in peace without the girls constantly Facebooking, Tweeting, BBMing or Texting.
There is a lot of talk out there today about Fame VS Game. Although, I exist in the shadows, shun the spotlight and value my privacy (especially in my line of work), and a huge proponent of Game, I have had some run-ins with Fame.
Let me drop a little freestyle:
MC in Newport Beach
Back when I was a puerile pro-type G, I was partying at a nightclub in Newport Beach. Most likely in those days, I was there all vato’d out, moving some beans like an accountant. It was a typical Newport Beach night; fly girls, wack guys, weesh nightspot. You know the pill.
Anyways, I think there was some wack band (a real tragedy, and I don’t mean Juice Crew, I mean what the word defines) performing or some crap, I can’t really remember, and thankfully, there was a lull in the action. During this “lull”, the DJ surprisingly enough, started spinning a pretty dope beat. My running partner at the time and I both had a light bulb go off at the exact same time.
We both jumped on stage, grabbed the Mic’s and started moving the crowd with lyrical flows, flavor loops like Toucan Sam, iller, and started catching wreck like Godliza:
“Now to the peeps in the back, if you’re not the wack, say
[don't stop with the body rock]
Now all the people in the front, if you’re ready to bump, say
[don't stop with the body rock] “
My running partner and I were busting freestyle raps, precious like artifacts.
We were putting “the hip” in “hop” and the “don’t” in “stop” and the clips in glocks
and rock boxing your block.
The mad matador of metaphor ripped the hard core for him and his, them and theirs, and you and yours.
We even dropped some lyrics about Taco Shops and Quesadillas with extra Guac.
Whenever I would run out of lyrics, I would just bust some old Big Daddy Kane:
“Rappers stepping to me,
they want to get some,
But I’m the G, so yo, you know the outcome, Another victory, They can’t get with me,
So pick a BC date cause you’re history”
And so on.
Keep in mind, this was Newport Beach; it was probably one of the first times people even heard Hip-Hop. There was minimal risk of anyone noticing I was biting lyrics.
At first there was stunned looks on the faces of the crowd, but as my running partner and I were flowing back and forth with style unseen since the days of a young Ad-Rock and Mike D, and interspersing shout outs to our crew, we started to move the crowd.
That is, until the club owner pulled the plug. (I guess the wack band coming on next was getting bitter that we cold served them.)
My running partner and I then jumped off the stage into the crowd and a curious thing happened: We were literally mobbed and I mean mobbed by girls. Introductions, hugs and kisses all around. It was kind of ill. We were Eminem before Em was Marshall Mathers.
Thinking back, I am surprised I didn’t forgo my budding Standover career for a career in Hip-Hop. Financially, with all the problems the music industry is having these days; I think I made the correct decision.
“Why, a visiting bishop asked Antoni Gaudí, did he trouble himself so much about the tops of the towers of The Sagrada Familia? After all, no one would ever see them. ‘Your Grace,’ Antoni Gaudí said, ‘the angels will see them.’ – Homage to Barcelona
This is a real valuable Data Sheet as this information is very hard to find on the internet, and almost everyone (one person came up aces) I asked prior to coming to Barcelona came up deuces.
This list is by no means definitive or exhaustive. Nor am I claiming. These are just some spots I was able to figure out that have mad fly girls; if you can get in.
Hotel Omm – great spot for a smooth cocktail to get your bearings straight. This was where I got stepped to by The Barcelona Nightlife Princess that was invaluable and introduced me to the fashion crowd, model dividends.
Solo Restaurant and Lounge – good on Friday nights and Saturday nights. 80% of the girls in here will be pretty fly. Near Hotel Omm. Closes at 3pm I think, but if you got juice, you can stay later. I had it.
Oshum – pretty sick club that stays open way late. Good on Fridays for sure. Scallywag behavior is possible here. Fly girls as well.
Broadbar – Want to see Spanish people dance salsa to hip-hop? Neither do I, but this place is pretty sick on Wed night. Tried to pull and “Inverse” Vicky Cristina on two fly 21 year old Catalan girls here, to no avail. But still ended up swooping one of them two nights later. Real solid spot, closes at 3pm.
Bikini – Crazy club open super late, good on Wed night. Probably other nights as well.
Sutton Club – Thursday night spot. Mad fly girls.
Hyde – Pretty wack, but being Barcelona, there are still fly girls there.
Dry Martini – ill spot for stiff cocktail before attacking Carrer d’Aribau area. Suited Down is a must when you bust.
Other spots to consider:
Nick Havana Apolo Tiffanys Ribelinos Seven Crowns (afterhours?) Luz de Gas Otto Zutz – haven’t been this time, but I used to chop up this spot as a 20 year old proto-type G. One of my old-school favorites.
As far as the Port Olimpic spots like CDLC, Shoko and Opium, I haven’t stepped. I am sure they are not too bad, but the Data Sheets I got was they are pretty touristy and International.
When I go to a place, I like to swoop the local girls. More difficult. And More Style Points.
Also, I heard The W Hotel is dope there, but I don’t do W Hotels.
Again, this list is by no means everything. I should know, I am keeping a few dope spots to myself for now. If you look hard enough, have some moves and understand the rhythms of the night, you will find them too.
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
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.”