He kicks some pretty good knowledge on well, Girls, Travel, and Life. Written from the perspective of the traveling, long-haired, broke-artist style player. Which we all know, can be effective.
Brazilian: “Where are you from?”
Argentine: *Crickets*
American: “What do you do?”
Brazilian: Open toe slippers with some design
Argentine: Closed toe
American: Target brand flip flops
Brazilian: Takes off your jeans and boxers
Argentine: Takes off her big earrings
American: Takes off her shoes
Brazilian: She feels comfortable after sex
Argentine: She feels like she just carried out an important life decision after sex
American: She feels like a slut after sex
The Sex and the City movie is in theaters everywhere, and every girl in America is going “Carrie Crazy”.
(Proof to the Theorem: I have already done an unofficial case study of 400 or so fly girls in my phone aged 21-35 years old by sending out at text message asking if they were going to see the movie. I got a 99% positive response rate. Interestingly enough, this is the highest response rate I have ever got from a text message. Even higher percentage than the classic “I have some champagne and Beans, come over to my crib” text at 4am.)
You can roll up on any crew of girls, carte blanche, and ask them if they are going to see the movie.
Every girl will go bonkers and start yapping (door is open, which is really all you need right?) like crazy about the film. “Carrie fever”.
You can ask all kinds of follow up questions like:
“Which girl do you most relate to?”
Most girls will answer “Carrie”… Stay away.
If you get a “Samantha” (the slutty one)…go into full court press.
Side note I: Feign interest when the girls start yapping about their opinions of the show. It’s really not important. At all.
Side note II: A side benefit of this opener is that most guys are too homophobic to use it (keep in mind most homophobic guys are gay, deep down) because it’s a girl TV show. Hence, you will be able to use this one for a month or more.
Side note III: Because of “Side note II” above, I really think you can you use this opener and go on a 30 day run: Swoop 30 girls in 30 days.
Side note IV: Most girls will swoop you these days with the “promise” of going shopping the next day for some Manolo Blahniks. (Don’t go through with it.) Thank the Down Economy.
Side note V: Don’t do the above opener wearing designer jeans with rhinestones and T-Shirts with weesh designs on the like every guy wears these days. Go suited down. You will be better for it, the girls will be better for it, and the world will be better for it.
Several times I’ve stopped to think… why we do what we do?
I’ve lived an exquisite life… seen it all and done it all.
I’ve been to every city, every club, every restaurant, broke bread with made men, negotiated street mergers between rival sets, counted piles of cash that would make your accountant gasp and got deeper between more girl’s legs than Tampax.
But truth be told, not everything in my life has been peachy and glamorous.
I’ve seen some horrific things and persevered through tragedy.
Its strange to look back on the moments that have sculpted me as a man and as a G. To the layman, typically, tragedy makes you rethink your future course of life. However, for Gs and the like, that’s not the case.
I often ponder retirement and vacating the life after enormous scores. Am I wrong? Shouldn’t tragedy make me rethink my life???
For some strange reason, catastrophes inspire me. I don’t shed tears, I seize opportunities. I may be cold hearted but success is to blame.
I’ve ruined so many opportunities to court and wife up filthy rich princesses but when I look back, I don’t have regrets.
It would be extremely un-G for a female to tame me.
This is the life we chose and I’m engrained with that mentality. For a G, the goal of the game is constantly trade up.
Nothing is ever too much or too good. I’ve earned everything I have, never asked for help and kept everything in the air for so long that letting things fall into place seems preposterous.
Maybe my line of reasoning is out of whack but quitting The Life is akin to losing your senses…
No longer would I need to secure 3 exit routes before I check into a hotel or sit down at a restaurant. I certainly wouldn’t need to check if the bouncer is strapped before I enter a nightclub either. Quitting could ultimately change the way I socialize; I could talk more freely, use a cell phone, a credit card and maybe even my real name.
But even as I type these words, it’s hard for me to imagine life without thrills, the sensation of being envied and the feeling of cocking a chromed 4-4.
There is no question that time has made me more mature, confident and practical. But I don’t foresee myself shaking off the attributes that define me as a man and as a G. When I was younger, I was much more hot headed, had a short fuse, and would tussle with anyone. I had no reservations about strapping up with the eagles and throwing bullets like McNabb.
And although I’ve acquired more experience, understanding and appreciation for the life we lead, I know there is only one exit.
So while it would have been nice to settle down somewhere far away, gotten chubby and had kids… I’d rather know the end for certain than be plagued with what if’s forever.
Recently, I went to Osteria Del Teatro in South Beach with a couple associates, as a launching pad. Cruised in, suited down; Prada Suit, Charcoal-Acai colored Prada shirt, murderous Gucci tie, Luger nina (and I don’t mean that fly South Beach hostess/ model I swooped on recently named Nina either) and Gucci loafers no socks. My pockets exploding like an Irish pipe bomb and green like photosynthesis. More shells than Frutti Di Mare. My associates were wearing…I think Corneliani suits.
So we rolled in, I was greeted like The Prince of G’s by the Maître’d (who really is a class act, and I am on a first name basis with most of the staff) and we slid into the best table in the house. Girls clocking me, because I have more Mack than Craig in the bed (and I don’t mean club B.E.D Miami, either) and Screwface the Dred. I ordered up a 10 year old Barolo and walked outside with my associates and my glass of wine to clack my Dunhill Lighter and smoke a jack.
My associates were talking about some crazy new-school shit, like using Google Earth to help plan heist moves and some standard old-school shit, like comparing the quality of Burmese Sapphires VS Sri Lankan Sapphires. Hardly listening to them, I noticed an older guy, probably on the north side of 70 years old sitting in a chair, smoking a cigarette, drinking a glass of red. He was dressed pretty sharp; smooth sweater, plaid slacks and loafers no socks. The height of fashion for the Grandpa G set. There was something about this guy that I noticed right away. Game recognizes Game type situation. “Player Recognition” is what we call it in the industry.
I paid my respects right away and introduced myself. He said his name was “Donald” and gave me a pat on the back and said to me, “keep doing what you are doing young G, and don’t let the rival factions and Haters get you south” (well, he didn’t really say that exactly, but something to that effect). He got up, flicked his cigarette with swagger, really close to one of my associates and walked back in Osteria Del Teatro. Dope move. Style all the way.
As we re-entered the restaurant, I noticed that Donald was sitting by himself next to the window. I started really getting into the bottle of red as it was opening up. Real Inky.
Then, like a comet across the night sky in Cartagena, Colombia, the most beautiful girl I have seen on this stay in South Beach (and that is saying a lot) walks in to Osteria Del Teatro. Narciso Rodriguez dress, I think, Christian Louboutin shoes with the red bottoms, spinning a Dolce & Gabbana tote. This girl was so beautiful everyone in the place stopped. I think my heart even skipped a beat like a scratched Special Ed record. Guess who she sat down next to?
Michael Mason?
No, not me…Donald!
After she gave him a kiss on the lips, I gave up all hope that she was Donald’s grandflydaughter. My Game is butter, I got bread and rivals want to toast me. So, as a natural reaction, I thought for a split second of trying to peel Donald for his girl and front paging her, but I was then ashamed I even thought that.
The Impressions – I’m So Proud
Here was a old-school G, who probably chilled with Lansky at Wolfie’s, who has obviously been in the Game forever and deserves his respect from young International Playboys on the Rise like your humble author.
Scoreboard: Grandpa G- 1, Michael Mason- 0
Cam’ron – Your Girl
I raised my glass to Donald, took a huge glup of my Barolo and smiled to myself. In South Beach you can be a G into your 70’s!
Safe to say, I am not getting married anytime soon…
Sure, I am not naïve enough to think that money might have had something to do with it, but then again what doesn’t?
Charge it to The Game. You can keep the change, but I kept my receipt.
Admit it, SUV’s are pretty obnoxious. They guzzle gas and perpetuate wars in the Middle East. Sports Utility Vehicles are also horrible for the environment. And you are not doing yourself any favors as far as style points are concerned, especially compared to vintage muscle cars, vintage Cadillacs and hell, even brand new Lacs.
Sure, SUV’s are necessary if you want to drive from Diego to Cabo San Lucas or if you need to shoot down to a Panamanian beach for a few low profile months. Or if you are rolling around a Cartel controlled Latin American city, bulletproofed down. But, if you all you do, is drive around the Suburbs, go to work and Starbucks, you are pretty much a jerkoff. Fair enough?
Tupac – Holla If Ya Hear Me (G Manifesto Certified Classic)
Here is another reason not to drive an SUV:
My little cousin, Mark Pablo Mason, is an up and coming baby G who lives in Washington DC, was recently was out west visiting colleges. He gave me a call and we met at Pink’s Hollywood for some Hot Dogs. We were both fresh on the scene, crispy and clean like Kentucky Fried Chicken and Irish Spring.
Like two Assassins in the height of fashion, we had young fly LA girls in SUV’s, peeping us as they rolled by. (Not really part of the story, but I just wanted to set the record straight in ‘08.)
As we ate Polish Pastrami swiss cheese dogs and choked down cigarettes (the lunch of champions), I asked him about what’s new on the baby G money making scheme front.
Mark had some pretty basic stuff to say, like bean flipping, standing over rival factions, making book, rigged dice games, swooping private school girls and socialites from a higher economic strata, arson for the Barons, small time heists etc. You know, typical baby G stuff. But then he got my attention with something, as it turns out, gave me some faith in the younger generation. Mad Innovative.
Mark went on to tell me he and his crew have been heisting catalytic converters from cars, primarily from SUV’s because of their height off the ground. He said he can heist a catalytic converter in with a socket wrench or cordless sawzall and be gone in 60 seconds. His crew is so quick, they can even wack them during the daylight. I knew immediately where he was going with this…
See, the commodity markets are very bullish these days. Metals prices have been on a sharp upswing. Catalytic converters (not to be sexist or anything, but for the girls out there, Catalytic converters are used to reduce the toxicity of emissions from your car’s engine) contain precious metals. Most importantly your Catalytic converter contains Rhodium, priced today at over $6000 an ounce. It also contains Platinum (and I don’t mean Platinum Diggers either), $1,200 an ounce and Palladium (and I don’t mean that 80’s Ian Schrager and Steve Rubell nightclub in NYC either) at $320 per ounce.
Mark and his crew would heist the catalytic converters and get paid up to $100 per, from the Barons upstairs. Cats also don’t have serial numbers on them, therefore, reducing the risk.
I thought this was interesting since I heard through the G grapevine about how some guys heisted an empty Fuel tanker and sold it for scrap. I also caught wind of Cats being heisted on the west coast, to be put on containers, headed for Japan.
Just one more reason not to drive your environmentally damaging, wack SUV.
Either way, since Mark is flush with CASH he paid for my Pink’s. I can’t remember the last time someone paid for my meal.
Kid has got some class. And the world’s future is safe, at least for the next generation of G’s.
After Pink’s we ran into a couple of the fly girls in a SUV at Fred Segal. They followed us to Chateau Marmont for some late afternoon Champagne. Worked out well into the night. We were driving a ’64 Lac. In case you wanted to know the data.
