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
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.
So you swoop a fly Las Vegas girl out of the Gentleman’s Club du jour or the most en vogue “Ultra Lounge”* back to your $1000 per night**, Down Economy priced, Salon Suite (1,890 square feet of decadence) at Wynn Las Vegas.
From my extensive, un-official case study, you will get one of two responses:
1. She will gasp in amazement from the splendor of the room and stunning views of the Las Vegas Strip. Her eyes will then stare back at you and her you will notice her heart skip a beat. And she will start to fall and euphoria takes over.
2. You will get a “business as usual” look that says, “I have been in a room like this a million times before”. She might even walk directly to the half-champagne bottle in the mini-bar and not even bother with the view of the Strip. Most likely, she will just casually toss her Judith Leiber Emerald-Cut Full Bead Minaudier on the multi-sectional sofa. There will be no delirium.
Response number one equals: a potentially “decent” girl, new to town, most likely younger.
Response number two equals: a potential “pro”, been in town too long, most likely older.
There is no surer way to tell what your girl is all about than The Las Vegas Litmus Test.
Post swoop, number two might also tell you a story about “how she is behind on rent”. Go Pure Game because you aren’t the one.
Either way, commence to swoop with either type of girl.
* I don’t know why these weesh nightlife directors in Las Vegas insist on coming up with names for things like “Ultra Lounges”. Relax, it is just a lounge.
** This is what the room will most likely cost you. I get upgraded pro-bono.
Other side note:
I haven’t completed my un-official case study on Encore Las Vegas. Not enough data yet. I will post when I have conclusive results.
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
The O’Jays perform “For The Love of Money” on Soul Train
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:
gave her a “two kisses” good bye and exit Prime 112 with solid plans to meet the fly Argentinan girl later that night. I step into the balmy South Beach night wearing a two button bespoke cobalt blue Ozwald Boateng suit with the Royal Blue interior like I was from Kansas City. Or Simon City.
Spark up a smoke with the Zippo and a limo driver asks me, “Are you Joe?”
In a heads up move, I respond “No, I am Joe’s boss (having no idea who “Joe” is). Joe is still inside. I need to get to the Gansevoort Hotel quick.”
The limo driver says “Hop in”.
I love pro-bono limo rides.
As I exit the limo, I spot two blond girls, from the West Coast no doubt, smoking cigarettes outside Philippe and 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
Wyclef Jean - We Trying To Stay Alive Featuring John Forte, Pras (Official Music Video)
Let’s make things nice and sparkling clear, I have said before that The G never uses drugs to inebriate girls, and considers doing so, a horrible crime. But since it has never been done before, and people keep on asking me, I put together an EZ reference sheet for the up and coming G to know which drugs are best to be on for Picking up Girls.
(Disclaimer: I am not admitting to any drug use, and this reference sheet is best read with the word “allegedly” in front of every sentence.)
Cocaine: On paper, seems like a great drug to be on while picking up girls. But it’s not. Even caine filled Kools suck. Beeks are the greatest trick the Devil ever pulled on the G (next to convincing the world he didn’t exist). You get way too tweeked out, it is highly addictive and it hurts sexual performance. Your Game goes up the dollar bill as well; you get more into the drug than you do girls. Plus, it makes you look older; like using cologne on your face. Careful with this one. I have lost many a droog from the mirror, the razorblade and the straw.
Extasy: Fly girls are always trying to get next to me, and I have had some beautiful experiences on Extasy. You can spit mad innovative Game flows on Beans. The man of the hour has an air of great power. Chemically, it makes you glow, so girls sweat you like a sparring session at The Wild Card in summertime. Beans also make your pupils dilate which makes girls fall in love with you. Downside: Makes your back feel like a wind up doll. And you think every fly girl is the greatest girl ever. Once you come back down to earth, you usually change your opinion. But what’s some spinal fluid between you and a fly girl?
Crack: Sure, Rick James swooped mad girls while puffing rocks and base. But this stuff gets you way too out of your mind to spit coherent Game. And it will send you on a downward spiral. You remember what happened to G Money, right?
Rick James - You and I
Heroin: Back when Mark Walhberg was Marky Mark, there was an era when lots of fly rich girls and models were on H. I avoided that scene, although I think I smoked that shit once. Gets you too dozy to swoop girls. Careful with this one too. I have lost many a droog to the spoon, the flame and the spike.
The Velvet Underground - Heroin
Marijuana: I have given my thoughts on Weed before. And already told The Greatest Pick up Line of All Time. You can definitely swoop girls while high on Chron. But you can get too high on heavy duty Chronic if you take huge rips out of glass bongs and your Game can suffer. Puff Jays instead.
Meth: Not really good for much except if you want to chill in crappy towns, heist crankster gangsters and go on a collision course with a jail cell. Or a desert grave. I have seen many a Southern California Prom Queen turn into a Southern California Prom Fiend on this stuff.
Special K: Back when Strike used to Clock and drink Chocolate Mousse, I always swooped mad girls on Special K in NYC at NV and Match. But I think it had to do more with my tight Game than it did the drug. All in all, I don’t recommend. Too trippy.
GHB: GHB can be similar to Beans if you take the right amount. If you don’t, you can end up more twisted than cornrows. Avoid.
Vicodin: I have swooped girls on Vikes, but generally speaking, they flip my head too bad and make me want to sleep. Like Amsterdam Nap style.
Hashish: I am a city slicker, I ain’t no townie, and right now I wish I had another hash brownie. But I always liked puffing it more. When I was a young prototype G, I put on some of the most dynamic Game performances high on Shish, swooping topless girls on French, Spanish and Portuguese beaches in summertime. I was mildly surprised that Time Magazine didn’t put me in “Most Influential” in those days (I would have respectfully declined) under the builders and the titans. With Rupert Murdoch, the Billionaire Boys and some dudes you never heard of.
Opium: ?
Acid: Acid is another drug I swooped fly girls on, but I don’t think it was because of the drug. These days, you are apt to say too many weird things and get too many strange visuals to properly chop up proper Game.
Mushrooms: I have met some “Shroom Gurus” in my day, and I can safely say I am not one of them. I had one friend that said he could “read girls minds” on Shrooms. Although he swooped mad girls on mushys, I tend to doubt he could tell what girls were thinking. All in all, peaking is too heavy duty and too confusing on shrums.
Peyote: I think I did that shit once. Just playing. Who knows? Ask Jim Morrison. Probably, good if you want to go on a Vision Quest though.
PCP: Good for drive-by’s with Latinos and Eses, rolling on Pico with Fredrico, not for swooping girls.
Rohypnol: Gets you way too faded. Menace II Sobriety like O-Dog and Caine to your Game.
I have said it before, and I will say it again, this decade’s Nightlife is in bad need of the new Ecstasy. And by “bad need”, I mean like a person who has been stabbed 20 times with a shank is in bad need of some pressure, some gauze and a blood transfusion.
Best to stick with The Holy Trinity: Cigarettes, Vino and Vodka if you want a long career in this Game.
And throw in Double Espressos if you missed out on your Vampire Nap.
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
It is no secret that your Birthday is one of the easiest days/nights to swoop girls out of the year. There is something about Birthdays that make Ladies go Gaga. Me? I don’t care about Birthdays. What am I? Six years old? Can’t wait to get a Rubik’s Cube? No. To me, it’s just another night to swoop fly girls.
For whatever reason, it doesn’t matter how long you have known a girl, Birthday’s are known to be an extremely strong aphrodisiac.
In fact, I think the only Birthday I didn’t swoop at least one girl was my 21st Birthday, when rolled with my old-school crew. I got completely faded, and ended up puking my guts out in front of crack house after getting haymaker’d 21 times on my shoulder by one of my best droogs.
Thankfully, these days, I play my Birthday a little more smooth.
Typically, I call over girls to my crib on my Birthday “day” for two hour intervals, and bang them out accordingly.
Birthday “night” is a whole different story.
Common Birthday Game Theory suggests going out with a bunch of friends for pro-bono dinners and clubs and wack Bottle Service.
And your “friends” leading every female conversation with “It’s his birthday!” pointing to you and putting you, intentionally or not, on blast. This is usually followed by a shot bloodbath and too many high fives and hugs for your own good. Possibly, some terrible “heart to heart” conversation with someone.
Not smooth.
As you know by now, The G Manifesto is not about “common theory”.
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
Another Manhattan summer is upon us. But I don’t dip for the Hamps.
There’s something about the concrete jungle that keeps me comfortable.
Red ribbon players give off a doubtful vibe. No worries. I know the competition is tapioca.
Been a busy summer at the High Line, thus far. I’m posted, naturally. Swagger drippin. Gettin that brie. Curb servin like American History X. Carryin the 8 like Jon and Kate. Sockless. Purple Label because Ralph’s a friend. Rubber band money clip keepin me grounded. My equity givin haters heartburn. And no, these aren’t Tums I’m bundlin. Brushing up on RICO precedent. The pre-paid cell keep the Feds panties in a bunch. Startac. I’m so retro. Shielding risk like a fideicomiso. Look it up. My LLC’s LLC’s got LLCs. They’ll send your lawyer back to undergrad. His public school undergrad.
(Here is my Facebook, New Twitter and The G Manifesto Facebook Page)
Ahhh…NYC summers. Humiliating wannabes who “heard Shake Shack burgers are sweet”, and “have boys who can get us into TenJune”. Meanwhile, I “have boys who know your PIN number”, and I “break bread with U.N. security personnel”. Twisting up lavender fauna on the hour. Puffin those Barney farts. I maneuver best when I’m over levered. Like Linens N’ Things. Summertime, so I keep things in the linen. Pulling fire alarms at Soho House. Bending flat brims on hipsters’ 90’s Starter caps. Bet they can’t name one Charlotte Hornet. Morimoto is a hack. Lunching down the block at Son Cubano with a third-stringer
that’ll make your Dad leave your Mom. And then tell her “keep the kids”.
Enjoy the sharehouse, Neil. I’m at the Core Club. Ask for me.
Fly,
King Jaffe
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