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.
Don’t be weesh. Sign up The G Manifesto Newsletter!