“That fake Al Capone sh*t we don’t condone. I am about to turn this whole Game into a funeral home”. – Keith Murray
We already know that America is on a heavy downslide.
It always amazes me when I get back to The States from my travels around the world is how many guys in America are walking little dogs.
It’s pathetic, from a Style standpoint, and annoying because, I am trying to get my roadwork in and get to my Boxing Gym. The little dogs are never trained and clog up the sidewalk.
If you think about it (which I try not to), it is either guys actually wanting little dogs as pets, or guys walking the little dogs of their girlfriends as a slave favor.
Both options are despicable.
Keep in mind, I don’t really condone the phoney goateed, sleeve tatted steez cat, thinking he is causing a crime wave with his pitbull either.
But honestly, I feel less nauseous after drinking 20 Goose and sodas and eating 3 quesadillas with extra guac than I do after seeing a guy walking a little dog.
Someone has to put a stop to this.
I am kind of surprised that The Chinese or The Russians don’t just make a move on US now while we are at our weakest.
However, like 6 or 7 years ago, one of my friends rolled over to my crib on New Years Eve and said, “We are rolling out tonight”.
I said, “You already know the only night I won’t go out during the year is New Years Eve. I have been out 12 of the last 14 nights swooping mad girls. Where were you? Don’t bring this weak sh*t to me”.
He responded, “You will want to go out tonight. Our friend XXXX has got this club locked down. Mad girls. We are rolling.”
I cracked a little, “No issues getting in?”
“None” he said.
“You sure you got it locked?”, I said.
“No doubt”, he said.
“Ok, let me call my driver. I am not f*cking around with catching cabs on New Years. Too many wack people out”.
Fast forward a few hours and we get to the club.
Full Mayhem. Fire Marshal there. I should have guess it.
“Call your boy, who has this place “on lock”. He should be able to get us in, right?” I told my friend.
Fast forward 10 min.
His buddy who supposedly had sh*t on lock came out of the club and said, “There is nothing I can do, I am really sorry Michael, Fire Marshall and all, I promise I will make it up to you.”.
I should have known. In fact, I did know, and I was almost frothing at the mouth.
“What should we do now?” my idiot friend said.
(Side note: my friend actually is smooth as f*ck. Real strong resume. Probably a top 50 player in all of America. Still, he was really throwing up airballs that night).
I take control of the night:
“We are going to my ‘Local Bar’ AKA The Gentleman’s Club that I have on lock. “I need a drink. Let me call my driver again.”
Fast forward 10 minutes.
We arrive at my Gentleman’s Club, slap five with the valets, say “what up” to the hostess girl (free entry of course) slap five with the bartender and settle in for a cocktail.
We both look around:
We are the only two customers in the place.
And about 18 dancers working.
9 girls to one. Solid ratio.
Let’s just say a we had better things on the agenda that night than a “New Year Kiss”.
Moral of the story:
If you absolutely have to go out on New Years Eve, go to a Gentleman’s Club.
There are literally zero guys around on that day. Guys are doing whatever guys do that day; watching team sports? Eating nachos? Playing video games? Buying skinny jeans? Buying Glittery T-shirts? Who knows what the hell “regular guy” does these days? And who cares?
But there are no guys out.
Only girls.
Make sure you hit up a high end shopping district (I don’t do malls unless I am in Colombia) and enjoy.
Hell, half the reason I write this site is so people wont waste my time with stupid questions.
But that is neither here nor there.
This year again, I skipped New Years Eve, and instead plotted and schemed while everyone else was partying.
I also like making moves when others are playing. And play when others are working.
On New Years Day, I woke up early, Entered The Dragon and Gave Back to The People in the form of food for the homeless.
On the Dolo Creep. Custom Suited Down, of course, Champion of The People Style.
The interesting thing was after hanging with the homeless for a few hours, on my way back home, I had to take a piss so I went into a decently fly boutique hotel near my crib.
The contrast was striking: People without a care, slapping on I-phones and I-pads like monkeys with no idea of the world around them.
I am not sure what this all means, but it did have an effect on me.
Giving back to The People always does.
It is a real soulful expeirence and I recommend it for all the younger G’s out there getting into “The Life”
Roberts returned from Vietnam to New York with screws and a metal plate in his head — the aftermath of an explosion. By the time he was 20, he was one of New York’s biggest nightclub impresarios, rubbing shoulders with everyone from Jimi Hendrix to John Lennon.
But after a business partner turned up dead and an informant told the police Roberts was involved, he hightailed it to sunny Miami. The year was 1975.
“When I first came to Miami, I wasn’t smuggling: I was like all the other dealers on the street just trying to make a living, and it got to a point where I had so much business that these people just couldn’t supply me,” he says.
That’s when Roberts shifted from being a drug dealer to a drug importer for the Colombian Medellin cartel.
Importing paid well: By the end of 1976, Roberts says he was moving 50 kilos of cocaine worth $500,000 or more a month. Roberts was living it up: He had half a dozen servants, a Porsche, multiple houses, dozens of race horses and friends in high places, including the Colombian drug lord Pablo Escobar.
The U.S. government labeled Roberts the “American Representative” of the Medellin cartel; he became known as “the bearded gringo” on Miami’s streets.
Roberts and a few American partners created a highly advanced drug-smuggling system that included secret airfields, listening posts to eavesdrop on Coast Guard communications, and homing beacons for tracking cocaine shipped by sea.
“We ended up getting, up by Tampa, a 450-acre farm and it was all surrounded by trees and we put two runways in there and we put hangars in for the planes to go in,” Roberts says.
Their drug-smuggling schemes stymied the U.S. government for nearly a decade.
Death came for Jon Roberts, the infamous cocaine cowboy, on Dec. 28 at age 63, after a long battle with cancer. But his public career as a charming monster is just beginning
A true-crime memoir, “American Desperado” (Crown; $28), written with journalist Evan Wright, has just been published. In Hollywood, director Peter Berg and star Mark Wahlberg are developing a movie based on his exploits.
Dying at his ease in Fort Lauderdale in the company of a devoted younger spouse and his 11-year-old son Julian, product of an earlier marriage, was an improbable end for a man who never repudiated his lifelong philosophy that “evil is stronger than good.”
“How many times have I encountered a crooked politician who wants to establish he’s a nice guy, or a killer who wants you to think he’s a good guy at heart,” says Wright. “I was fascinated because here is a guy who has done monstrous things and he’s not trying to portray himself as a nice guy or a victim.”
As Roberts tells Wright in “American Desperado,” “I might be a sociopath. Most of the time I’ve been on this earth I’ve had no regard for human life. That’s been the key to my success.”
If “American Desperado” is to be believed, Jon Roberts beat people to death in New York, skinned enemy POWs alive in Vietnam, and helped a future CIA agent murder famed mobster Meyer Lansky’s stepson in Miami – with Lansky’s approval.
Roberts first came to national attention as one of the stars of “Cocaine Cowboys,” a Miami-produced documentary that was a surprise hit in 2006. The film details the early 1980s, when Miami became a nearly lawless place awash in cocaine, violence and corruption.
As an American representative of the Medellin Cartel, Roberts helped import some $2 billion worth of cocaine into South Florida, working with infamous figures like Albert San Pedro, Pablo Escobar, Bobby Seal, Max Mermelstein and Bobby Erra.
“He’s a killer,” says Wright, author of the acclaimed Iraq War book, “Generation Kill.” “The notion that Jon is a monster because he kills people doesn’t disqualify a person in my code of life. He’s a killer — let’s move on from there. Let’s find out more.”
Last night, I spoke to Roberts’ smuggling partner and costar in Cocaine Cowboys, the laid-back and quirky Mickey Munday, with whom he had epic disagreements. The last time Munday saw Roberts, he recalls, was at a Miami restaurant with Peter Berg — where the cancer-stricken old criminal vowed to kill Munday before he kicked the bucket: “Before I go, I’m going to get you.”
“I told him: ‘If I had a bucket list, I might put that blonde over there on it,'” Munday says. “‘But not whacking somebody who’s known me for 25 years.'”
“I always thought that he would beat this, I really did,” Munday told me. “If anybody could, it was him, because he’s the meanest son of a bitch I knew. If cancer could get to him it could get to anybody.”
Munday later texted me, referring to Roberts’ nemesis Mermelstein, who also died of cancer: “I hope Jon is kicking Max from one end of Hell to the other.”
