South Beach: Lion of Lincoln Road
South Beach: Lion of Lincoln Road
“If your trap is attractive enough, the turbulence of your enemies’ emotions and desires will blind them to reality.” – Robert Greene, The 48 Laws of Power
“Fortune pays you sometimes for the intensity of her favors by the shortness of their duration. She soon tires of carrying any one long on her shoulders.” – Baltasar Gracián (Spanish Jesuit and baroque prose writer), 1601-1658
After straight up detonating Fort Lauderdale with my friend who runs a Hedge Fund for a few days, I get dropped off in Miami Beach.
I feel lethal, manic, on the verge of frenzy. I am foaming at the mouth. My nose is starting to bleed. I think my mask of sanity is about to slip.
I throw down my luggage in my apartment, hang my Custom Suits and I get the call:
This Super Fly Argentinian girl, who I met at Mint and haven’t swooped yet, wants me to meet her at her clothing store. She is getting off work soon. And she and her Brazilian girlfriend want to roll out with me. There are innuendos of a Ménage à trois. The evening has promise.
I jump in my steam shower for a dose of aqua-therapy. When I step out, a Custom Suit literally appears on my body. I shadow box for a bit. I am ready.
I step out and roll into the CVS on Lincoln Road to grab some chicle. I roll in the line to pay, and a Fly Blonde Russian girl on her cell phone looks at me and mouths “Hi” to me. How often does that happen when a girl is talking on the phone?
I pay for my gum and step outside and light up a grit. I am feeling invincible. I have been sparring a lot. It tends to do that to me.
The Fly Blonde Russian walks out and continues up Lincoln. I quicken the pace, and open: “Do you know which way Sushi Samba is?”, I ask her. (Of course, I know where it is, but it was the first thing that came into my mind.)
“Hi. I do. It is just up there.”, the Russian girl says pointing up Lincoln.
“Wait, my name is Michael Mason.” I say and give her a “two-kisses” greeting. I spit some Street Game and Number Crunch, as I am supposed to meet the Argentinian and Brazilian girls.
Game is on though.
I keep heading up Lincoln and get a text from the Argentinian:
“Are you coming?”
I jump up on the planters of Lincoln Road with Undefeated Gucci Loafers on and yell to no one in particular, “I am Young, I’m Handsome, I’m Fast, I’m Pretty and Can’t possibly be beat!”
Most people ignore me, but some tourists look at me strange. I have a fleeting thought and quickly dismiss them as from Red States.
I need to settle down though and light another smoke. I am checking my phone and smoking, when a Fly Cubana Girl rolls up on a bicicletta. (She is 21 years old.)
She asks me for a cigarette.
Looking down at my phone, I ignore her for a few beats (real artistic), and say, “Sure.” Hand her one. Then say, “You need a light?”
“Yeah”, she says. I bust out a sick reverse Zippo trick for style points.
We start talking. She is fly. Mad fly. No make up on. But then again, I have a thing for Fly Cubanas.
I start walking with her as she rides her bike. She is kind of hipstered out. But still, stunningly fly. You know the type. Since it is kind of awkward talking to her while she is riding her bike, I say, “Let’s have a seat over here”.
I start rapping out in Spanish and English mixed with her and she tells me she is breaking up with her boyfriend.
Perfect.
I am still supposed to meet the Argentinian and the Brazilian (and I get another text), but I want to hedge my bets like only a true International Playboy does. I tell her to go home and change clothes and meet me at Sushi Samba as I have to go to a “business meeting” right now. She is down. When we part (two kisses salutation) I tell her, “Remember, high-heels and a skirt.” She replies, “I know, you don’t have to tell me.” with a pretty girl’s smile. And I haven’t seen a smile that pretty in a while. My nervous system goes haywire for a split second. A drag of nicotine sparks my synapses and mellows me.
My mind is the enigma filled with broken pictures. The spiritual International Playboy can see clearer now.
I move up Lincoln and get another text from the Argentinian. I respond back, “Almost there”.
I finally get to the Argentinian and Brazilian. They are looking dope. But everything is off. I can’t get the young Cubana out of my mind.
I split as they are both being too difficult.
I roll into Sushi Samba and lock the place down as per usual. I met a cool Argentinian kid from Cordoba at the bar and we both start spitting mad Game at all the fly girls rolling by.
I shoot a text to the Cubana:
“Buisness meeting went perfect. Come meet me at Sushi Samba to celebrate”. (Smooth text).
She responds back right away, “Yaa! Getting out of the shower. See you there soon.”
It’s on. Got to like a girl that loves your success. And Glad I hedged my bets like Kyle Bass.
When she arrives, she is a vision of youthful beauty. She looks like a Cubana Pin-Up Model (which actually happens to be her job). We enter through the side door, as I have the doorman on lock. Her her vibe goes from romantic expectation to dreamy absorption to erotic playfulness quicker than a Salsa dance in Havana.
She has shed the hipster clothes and looks stunning in high heels like all Miami girls do.
We hit it off in dope style. She digs the young-dashing-handsome-mysterious-false grinning-soft spoken-with a wild side-well dressed-millionaire-smuggler type vibe that I give off. Like all Miami girls do.
She knows the DJ and tells him to play this track, which just came out at the time:
She dances by herself for me as every guy in Sushi Samba is checking her out. I stand at the bar, smoking a grit, Custom Suited Down; the envy of every guy in Sushi Samba.
She can really dance.
We get a few more drinks and split. She gives a little resistance, but I come with the “Above is the black poison clouds, You only got one life so enjoy it now” type illmatic Futuristic Game that even top players will finally catch on to in 5-10 years. So I’m not really sweating it.
On my exit, I shake a bunch of hands; guys giving me props, and people I know.
Am I Apostle or Beast? Either way, I am Colossal on Streets.
We get to my apartment. The key goes in the door and
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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
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02/03/2012 at 6:06 am Permalink
Perfect story. Inspires me.
Certainly does differ from my experience of south beach when I went there while travelling the US. We ended up going to all the big clubs like set, niki beach e.t.c. that were a little bit disappointing in terms of talent.
I would like to try to hit the winter music conference parties this month though. What’s your experience with that?
02/03/2012 at 6:08 am Permalink
P.S. any chance you could record your life on film? Cheers mate :]
02/03/2012 at 6:33 am Permalink
Classic. What if it were on with the Argentinian and the Cuban showed up. What’s your move?
Eric
02/03/2012 at 8:16 am Permalink
Turk –
“I would like to try to hit the winter music conference parties this month though. What’s your experience with that?”
Hit the breaks on that plan.
The only time I have ever had a weesh time in Miami was during Winter Music Conference.
Maybe I should bust that story out.
– MPM
02/03/2012 at 8:45 am Permalink
Dope Homey, dope. SUR 13.
03/03/2012 at 1:17 pm Permalink
Outstanding.
03/03/2012 at 7:18 pm Permalink
Ha Haa, the original.
“Forget the lottery. Bet on yourself instead.” – Brian Koslow
04/03/2012 at 11:01 am Permalink
“It’s on. Got to like a girl that loves your success. And Glad I hedged my bets like Kyle Bass.”
Kyle Bass is a genious, I can’t wait for the second leg down.
Cheers from Costa Mesa.
05/03/2012 at 2:53 pm Permalink
Amazing story G. Inspiring. G.
06/03/2012 at 10:40 am Permalink
Sushi Samba packs some smoke hot waitresses, and guests. I’ve locked down a few ceviche spots in Brickell and downtown that are perfect to law low before an all night blitz on the beach.
Biggest underrated power move in MIA? Jogging around Brickell Key at sunset. Its the March of Dimes.
06/03/2012 at 10:42 am Permalink
2 week South Beach trip punch list:
BLT Steak @ the Betsy Hotel
News Cafe
Scarpetta – Fountainebleu
STK – Gansey (Mon. pm., then Mokai)
Gansey roof (hit up roofdeck bar backs for beaks)
Ritz
Bianca at Delano
Delano pool bar
Prime 112
Prime Italian
W Hotel – dope
Dutch at W Hotel
Wall Lounge at W Hotel – sick
Pool bar at W hotel
Mr. Chows
Bar inside Mr. Chows
Joes Stone Crabs
Alverto Sagua (Cuban)
Heat games
Delano
Gansey
Scarletts (Ft. Lauderdale more so, incredibly easy to chop up. 3-0. May be best move in South Fl. Joint open till 9am on weekends, serving booze and underbelly mad into molly. Thank me later).
Tootsies
Mr. 305
06/03/2012 at 11:38 am Permalink
G,
Great story. Re: custom suits. For those with smaller bankrolls, what are your thoughts on companies like Tom James or the Custom Suit Shop? They’ll outsource a custom suit for about the same as I would pay for off-the-rack suits at a department store or Jos A Bank. Am I better off with a tailored off-the-rack suit or a lower-end custom? I’ve been going the custom route but I feel like the fabric quality is lower than the off-the-rack options at the same price point, and they have a more limited selection of fabrics.
06/03/2012 at 10:08 pm Permalink
Poetry in motion G.
I’m feeling good right now and this story kept me that way! Can’t wait to read more.
07/03/2012 at 2:37 am Permalink
I like your taste in music!
08/03/2012 at 3:14 pm Permalink
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gxkyoG3Jv6k&feature=related
08/03/2012 at 3:45 pm Permalink
“I always debate with old-school heavies about who would win between Mike Tyson and Muhammad Ali.
Answer:
Muhammad Ali would win.
-MPM”
The 1965-1967 Ali would win, and I don’t even think it’s a close call.
The 1971+ Ali would lose, and take a beating in the process.
For both of the above, I’m assuming he’s fighting against the 1987-1988 version of Tyson. The one that existed before he fired Kevin Rooney (after the Spinks fight), which allowed his amazing defensive skills — the pronounced ducking, bobbing, weaving, slipping, bending, rolling — to slowly deteriorate from lack of repetition of the type that was previously standard under the D’amato-established support system of Rooney, Cayton, Jacobs. The story of Tyson is sort of a bummer. He would have been historically great. But he’d have never been as good as pre-ban Ali. That guy was on a different level.
“I’m pretty”
“Hold up, you ain’t that pretty”
“I’m a baaad man”
08/03/2012 at 4:00 pm Permalink
I was just reading through this thread: https://heartiste.wordpress.com/2009/02/25/chronicles-of-a-21st-century-bachelor/
We could talk boxing. We’re on the same wavelength on that front. The Rumble in the Jungle is my favorite fight of all time. I’ve watched more times than I’ll even admit. What fascinates me about it is that Ali won every round despite laying against the ropes. The combinations that he was throwing from the ropes were vicious and deadly accurate. He was throwing for power in every round of that fight, and that’s the only fight of his where that’s the case. He wasn’t simply letting Foreman wear himself out. He was beating his ass.
And the Lennox Lewis question is very interesting indeed. A guy that size with skill to boot. It wouldn’t necessarily be a favorable matchup for Ali, but put a gun to my head and I’m picking Ali with intangibles — toughness — being the deciding factor.
Another interesting question is Jack Johnson if Jack Johnson had ever trained or shown more of a reluctance to carry lesser fighters in later rounds for no good reason.
21/03/2012 at 5:34 pm Permalink
And this is exactly why Miami is one of my favorite cities. Fly as hell latina women in heels. Great writing G.