Buenos Aires and Beeks
Buenos Aires and Beeks
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You are now about to witness the strength of street knowledge:
So, I roll around the lounge in Buenos Aires, Custom Suited down, Going for Dolo, working the “Transition Game” and spitting poison darts at fly Porteñas.
I am feeling sinister, kind of like a Donald Goines Novel. In short order, I have infiltrated a table of four fly Argentinean girls and two Argentinean cats. Two of the girls are beautiful, albeit they are too Hipster looking for my taste. If I want Hipster girls, I can just stay in New York City or Los Angeles.
The other two Porteñas are striking enough that I would contemplate dating either one for a month or two if we were America. But we are not in America.
Thankfully, the two non-Hipster girls are more into me, and they are so stunning that I feel my ears get pointy and my mouth starts salivating. But I remain calm and Tranquilo because I have been through this literally hundreds of times.
After a rapid fire pregunta y contesta session that I passed with flying colores, I go with a little of the old “absence makes the heart grow fonder” move and I get up and get another Goose and Soda. Which is really, kind of, an idiot move, since they are 10 times more expensive than a regular cocktail in BA. F*ck it though. I have been heisting a bunch lately, hit a trade on Wynn, and I need something stronger than Malbec, to levelize my dome piece after hitting a “street jay” hard with a couple of Porteñas and some guy they were with earlier.
After locking down the bartender, I head back to the table with the four girls but get intercepted by a Swedish cat that tells me to join his table. After seeing five fly Swedish Girls and just him and his Swedish buddy, I accept.
“Where are you from?” asks the second Swedish Cat in a thick Swedish Accent.
“Hollywood. Los Angeles.”, I answer.
I get the predictable, “Oh! Hollywood!”, “Los Angeles, I love LA!” type responses from everyone at the table.
And just like that, I am in. (Well, the Custom Suit might have had something to do with it, since it really did have an immaculate cut, and actually had an Elmo red interior. I also had the crimson Brioni Pocket square. Mad Flash and so much red you might have thought I was Brim or Piru.)
After peeting a bunch of cocktails in expeditious style, I could feel the buzz all through my gulliver.
The first Swedish cat then asks me, “Michael, how do you say “Cocaaine” in English?”
I kind of laugh and respond, “Umm…’Cocaine’ is how you say it.”
First Swedish guy then says, “No, I mean how do you say it in LA? The, how do you say, slang for ‘Cocaine’.”
I respond, “I guess…’Beeks’?”
“Beeks! Yes, Beeks. That is how you say it! Beeks!”, the Swedish guy kept yapping almost uncontrollably.
“That is what we need! We need Beeks! Beeks! Can you get Beaks?” he says in a frenzied manner that is all too familiar. (Although, I have never this sort of behavior from a Swedish cat in BA, so the whole thing was kind of novel.)
“Not sure.” I respond, laughing. I give him a “thumbs up” as well. (I always like to give foreign cats a “thumbs up” so they will think that’s how we do in America).
The Swedish guy then starts yelling, “Beeks! Beaks! Anyone have Beeks!?!” all across the lounge.
Gratefully, the music is so loud; no one can really hear the guy. And no one knows what “Beeks” are in BA.
Santa Maria (del Buen Ayre)
Either way, I spot two fly young Porteñas smoking jacks right outside the doorway of the lounge, and I have little faith that these Swedish guys will score any Beeks with their tactics.
Furthermore, I don’t think I even really want any Beeks. My night is going too fluidly to throw in any sort of scallywag behavior. (Although, I do like the word “scallywag”.)
Admittedly, I do think the weed I puffed earlier was relatively fuerte, because I was pretty amused and laughing at the way this Swedish cat kept on going bonkers about “Beaks!”
I excuse myself from the “Swedish Beeks” table, and then move to go join the girls outside for a jack.
As I roll through the doorway, one of the two fly girls rolls back inside leaving one fly girl smoking a grit.
Switch back to Spanish Game and introduce myself like the International Playboy of the Apocalypse that I am.
She says she her name is “Mariana”, which is a name I have a thing for. She says she grew up in Recoleta.
She says she likes this bar because it is in her neighborhood.
I feel the curious and prurient need to smoke two cigarettes at the same time.
I say I like this bar as well, because my hotel, the Alvear Palace Hotel is right nearby.
I hear the horns and percussion from a Curtis Mayfield song in my skull piece and I feel I am on top of Game’s Rushmore.
Mariana’s eyes start to dilate, she looks at me lasciviously, and I say, “
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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
Curtis Mayfield / Move On Up
