“When you’re too hood to be in them Hollywood circles.
And you’re too rich to be in that hood that birthed you.” – Nas
A lot of young up and coming G’s on the rise stop me on the streets and ask me the secret to my success.
Truthfully, I am not exactly sure what it is. But I realized something in Montreal:
I rock The High-End and Low-End Theory. I think this separates me from most of the Trust Fund International Playboys that you see out there cutting it up.
What I mean by The High-End and Low-End Theory, is I pretty much always roll in really high end scenes or really low end scenes. You won’t catch me in the suburbs at Applebee’s ordering the filet well done. (I only eat steaks rare. Hell, I would eat them raw if they would serve them to me.)
In Montreal, I would work out, do pushups and shadow box in the parks with heroin addicts. And then at night, you would see me in the dopest clubs partying with fly girls and model girls.
I noticed, that the people you would see in the parks wouldn’t be at the club.
And the people at the club, wouldn’t be in the parks with the heroin addicts.
It was only your humble author that you would find in both.
Because, how do you know where you are going if you don’t look back?
(By the way, you want to learn Game? Then quit reading all those pick up artist jokers, and watch Roberto Duran. Now transpose that into your life. Now you have Game.)
When you are a young up and coming G on a Budget in Southern California Beach Towns you need to focus on four places to swoop fly girls:
1. House Parties (although the California Police State has cracked down on these heavily since the “bad old days”, rendering them almost insignificant.)
2. The Beach (Although, I am not talking Topless Beaches here.)
Swooping fly girls at the 7-11, is just like mountain climbing: you have to put your time in.
What my old school crew and I would do is park the drop top Cadillac at our local 7-11 and just post up. Thankfully, there was a bar next door to our local 7-11 so girls would always come out of the bar to buy smokes or some crap.
We were just like crocodiles in wait for zebras, girls would come up and we would bite like the crocs do in The Gremeti River, Serengeti, Tanzania. “Crocodile Game” if you will.
Chronic Smokes and 40oz Dreams
In between girls rolling up, my crew and I would just chill, take monster hits of Chronic and take huge pulls of well concealed 40 oz bottles.
You would be surprised how many fly rich beach girls would open us with, “Do you have any more weed?”
Game on. Then we would just transform into the Original Game Spitta.
It amazes me how you hardly ever see young G’s chilling out in the open smoking Chronic and Drinking Malt Liquor any more. I really don’t know what is wrong with kids these days. Maybe it’s the video games. Maybe it’s Facebook. Who really knows?
Either way, if I saw kids posting, smoking and drinking at a 7-11 today, I would probably throw them on the pay roll and mold them for the future.
We can always use more International Playboys of The Apocalypse.
Anyways, I am starting to confuse myself.
Before I get too off track, here is a little story from back in the day when fly girls hit me on the Pager like my name was Stojaković to explain how it’s done:
I was chilling with my clicka at our local 7-11 smoking Chronic and drinking St. Ides when we saw a super fly girl get into an argument with her boyfriend outside the bar next door. It got pretty heated and the guy walked away in a huff.
The girl was older (about 27-28 I am guessing) and a mad fly blonde girl. Dressed to the nines.
The super fly girl rolled up to the 7-11 and she walked right past us and ignored my advances.
My homeboys were heckling me because I blew it. Or so they thought.
I just leaned back against the Cadillac and re-sparked up another Chronic Roach.
I could tell she was pretty heated from the argument with the guy earlier, but she had a very seductive and enchanting look in her eyes.
As I killed my Chronic Jay, she asked me with dilated pupils, “Do you have any more weed, I could really use some right now”.
Although we were all holding Chron (as always), I replied half jokingly since she dissed me earlier, “I do, but it is at my crib close by.”.
I thought she was going to laugh and diss me again, (keep in mind this girl was hotter than Venice Beach asphalt in summertime in a long form fitting dress and high heels) but she said, “Let’s go. Your driving.” and threw me her keys.
I looked at the keys: Porsche
Smooth. (And not one of those lame ones. A legit one. Payed for by her boyfriend no doubt).
I grabbed her hand and I replied, “Let’s roll” and started walking away while giving a wink to my crew who all were flabbergasted.
We rolled to the G-Spot, for a smoke session and swoop session. Illmatic.
Still maybe the best blower of my life. (And not to sound cocky or anything, but she has long competition to be measured up against, so to speak).
She needed me to drop her and her ride off, so we split.
As we pulled out of my block, I passed my friends rolling back from the 7-11 and gave them a loud honk as they gave me the “jealousy finger”.
We rolled a few miles into the sickest houses in the hood by the beach. I am talking don’t even step unless you have $3 mill min. (And that was in those days, nowadays, some go for $25 mill an up, of course).
We pulled up to a super sick crib and she said, “This is it…”
Back before the Economic Crash (BEC), I was rolling down the street in Downtown San Diego going to say “what up” to one of my lawyers. He is also a good friend.
Anyways, I am rolling down the street, Custom Suited Down, smoking a grit, minding my own biz, when a cop car screeches and pulls up to the curb, hand on gun and yells, “Stop Right There!”.
I stop and think to myself, “What the hell is this about? I haven’t been on the Wessyde in 6 months.” Although it literally could be about a host of reasons.
So the cop, starts interrogating me:
“What is your name?” Michael Mason.
“Let me see your ID.” Hand it to him.
“What are you doing?” Going to see my attorney.
etc etc etc
Finally, after 15 minutes of this stuff, he says:
“Damn. I thought you were one of the Arellano Felix guys”, his voice drenched with disappointment.
Basically homeboy thought he had the collar of his career.
He finally let me go.
When I got to my attorney’s office, I relayed him the story.
My attorney friend says, “Really? Yeah, I have been meaning to tell you. Last time I was is Mexico surfing, there were tons of ‘Wanted Posters’ of this cat that looked exactly like you.”
It turns out that there was this young Arellano Felix lieutenant cat, know as “El Guapo” that was wanted by the authorities.
He was known as a reckless smuggler/killer that was dating some Miss Mexico or something.
I guess soon after, he was gunned down, and I haven’t had that “case of mistaken identity” thing happen since.
