Two dope pieces of artwork by Pablo Picasso and Brazil’s Candido Portinari were heisted Thursday from the Sao Paulo Art Museum (MASP) where they were on exhibition.
The (what seems to be very professional) thieves stole Picasso’s “Portrait of Suzanne Bloch,” painted in 1904, comes from Picasso’s blue period and has to be one of the most valuable pieces in the museum.
“O Lavrador de Cafe,” by Portinari was also heisted which depicts a coffee picker, was painted in 1939 and is one of the most renowned works by one of Brazil’s most famous painters. Portinari, is known for his “neo-realism” painting steez.
According to police, it took only three minutes for thieves to steal the oil-on-canvas paintings, which were exhibited in two different locations at the museum. The crime took place from 5:09 a.m. to 5:12 a.m. local time, although three security guards were at the spot at that time. Security cameras recorded the theft which I am sure are of poor quality.
The thieves used a hydraulic car jack to pry their way past the pull-down metal gate that protects the museum’s front entrance. Then, they smashed through two glass doors, probably using a crowbar, to get to the paintings on the second floor.
International Heistmen have been targeting Brazil’s museums lately. In February, artwork by Picasso, Henri Matisse, Salvador Dali and Claude Monet were taken from Chacara do Ceu Museum in Riode Janeiro. I have mentioned this trend before in Criminality in The Luxury Sector.
These paintings are valued at an estimated $100 million.
This had to be a “heist to order” job for a art collector because the paintings were in different rooms and thieves have tried to steal them before.
No one was hurt and it appears to be a very professional job. The quickness that the men did the job is remarkable. All in all a great result.
Seems like everyone, as 2007 comes to a close, thinks that they are a “player”. Everyone thinks they have Game. That is, until, they run into a True G and they get sent back down to the minor leagues. Let me breakdown a little story…
I rolled with my droog Hugo, AKA The Viper, to an Art Gallery Opening and we were slicing the spot up like imported Prosciutto di San Daniele, at a little Italian Market. We got pretty hungry so we decided to head over to Nobu (of course, I like the slabs more at Masa, but that’s neither Ankimo nor Otoro).
We walked into Nobu, silky and flamboyant, like a modern day Earl the Pearl and Clyde Frazier, only in Custom Italian Suits. Choking the joint like Sprewell. I was in a 2 button ETRO with side vents, inverted interior and ticket pocket, Gucci shirt, Prada tie, Brioni pocket square, Chrome Desert Eagle and Gucci loafers. Hugo was busting a chalk stripped Dolce and Gabbana suit, Cornealli shirt, I think, Zegna tie, Versace pocket square, Glock 17 and Prada shoes. Both of us had Bankrolls thicker than fog and green like a baby Praying Mantis. We both had more bullets than Elvin Hayes or Wes Unseld. And we were coming in Peace but we both brought a piece.
Public Enemy-he got game
As we cruised in, I said “hello” to some older cat who knew my dad from my dad’s Studio 54 days, left this one pro baseball player “hanging” on a high five that I have issues with, said “Hey Carnal” to this East Los ex-gangbanger-now playboy I am friends with, and gave a hug and a pound to my droog “Ian” who was at the bar with some Model Bird (I mentioned Ian before in How to Swoop girls and Influence People). Ian was freshly in town from Australia and seemed to be doing well.
Hugo and I gave two kisses greetings to the Asian hostess girls and took a seat at the sushi bar. We said “what up and konichiwa” to all the chefs and finally settled in.
I then noticed first, two super fly wealthy Mexican girls eyeing us. You know the type; dark hair, rich, beautiful; the kind of girls that date cartel guys or politicos. Or the kind of girls that have hermanos in the cartels or in politica. Or the kind of girls that at some point dated guys killed in cartel wars or politico rivalries. Or…you get the point. One was in a Nina Ricci dress, the other in a Chloe silk dress. Both dripping with jewelry, holding, I think, Bamford Ombre Crocodile Totes, and wearing, Valentino evening sandals.
I noticed second, that las chicas were in between two young pseudo “hot shot” plastic surgeons. You know the type; the kind of plastic surgeons that advertise in “party mags”. Which, turns out, is where Hugo recognized the plastic surgeons from. The plastic surgeons were dressed in suburban mall-bought sport coats, t-shirts, jeans and square toed shoes, probably Kenneth Coles, I am guessing. The height of fashion for the plastic surgeon set.
These guys probably thought they were on a major heist with these two fly Mexicana girls.
And they were, that is, at least until Hugo and I stepped into Nobu. These Plastic Surgeons might have been Board Certified by American Board of Plastic Surgery, but they were not Board Certified by The International Board of Game like your humble author and his loyal droog.
I then came up with a plan to get one of the girls outside, since they were sweating us like a sparring session at Gleason’s Gym. I put a cancer stick in my mouth and motioned to the exit so she could follow me outside. She smiled a pretty girl’s smile. And I haven’t seen a smile that pretty in a while.
I went outside and smoked my jack, shot a rack of “insurance policy” texts, but she never came.
When I re-entered Nobu, both girls were sitting down next to Hugo talking with him. My “come smoke outside move” didn’t work, but at least Hugo peeled the girls from the plastic surgeons. Peeled like a potato in Belfast. I sat in between las Chicas and the Plastico Surgeons, effectively “boxing” the Surgeons out. The top-shelf Spanish Game we were spitting didn’t hurt either.
The plastic surgeon guys paid their tab in defeat (which, I am sure was pretty hefty…run along and do some more breast augmentations, skippy). My friend Ian, at the bar, saw the whole swoop go down and was laughing hysterically.
The plastic surgeon guys then met up with a couple of buddies at the bar and were mad dogging Hugo and I for twisting their wigs back. I was praying they were not going to confront us, not because we couldn’t handle them (do me a favor), but because Ian has grown increasingly violent and is hyper-sensitive about disrespect.
Ian has even taken to shooting people inside nightclubs in Sydney and Melbourne (which, I reckon is the reason he is in America now, to let things cool out). I am God’s child, but sometimes I think Ian is employed by Satan. The last thing I needed was Ian to open up and spit abalone shells in Nobu, I have enough problems already. And swooping fly rich Latina girls isn’t one.
Thankfully, the plastic surgeons didn’t have the bottle to approach us and just left to lick their wounds. Smart move on their part (I guess they did learn something in medical school besides how to carve up women) as the night was still young. They don’t know how close they came.
Fat Joe ft. J Holiday – I Won’t Tell
Word of warning to plastic surgeon guy:
Don’t ever step to real G’s. Think about it, plastic surgeon guy, you have been spending your life studying, getting picked last on the basketball court as a kid, not in The Game, and not spitting Chess Pieces. Just because you now have a couple of C-notes to rub together, and an office staff of decent looking women idolizing you, doesn’t mean jack in the real world (this goes for “hot shot” lawyers too).
We (meaning G’s), on the other hand, have been out on the streets all our life, partying, dealing, heisting and come from long blood lines of cold hearted killers (Ian’s dad was friends with The Twins back in the day in Bethnal Green, Hugo comes from a long line of Latin politican/diplomat/killers, and your humble author, as I have mentioned before, is a child of an Irish and Spanish Revolutionaries.)
Those plastic surgeons need to take their Game around the corner to the Game Rehab.
Players Court Verdict: The plastic surgeons are Guilty on all counts of Faking the Funk.
I have said it before and I will say it again, that apart from Spanish wine, cigarettes, flash custom suits, and heisting drug dealers, what I love most is chopping apart plastic players (no pun intended) and heisting their girls.
Oh yeah, everything worked as planned with the rich Mexican girls…
The Rest is Up To You…
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA Your Doctor when in Need
The Guide to Getting More Out of Life http://www.thegmanifesto.com
(Want to see something in The G Manifesto? Send suggestions to thegmanifesto@yahoo.com)
We have written many times in The G Manifesto how to break down the Gentleman’s Club into atoms and molecules. But, I still see prototype G’s making the same mistakes over and over. So, today we will go over The Top Ten Strip Club Mistakes to avoid:
1. Using Credit Cards. You shouldn’t use credit cards period. This is how Big Brother and The Illuminati track our mind, soul and body. So, it shouldn’t be a surprise that you should never use credit cards in a Gentleman club. There are so many reasons we don’t need to go into them all here. Not the least, what are you going to do with $500 in “Beaver Bucks” when you leave?
2. Focusing on one Exotic Dancer. This is one of the most common mistakes you see guys make in a Gentleman’s Club. Don’t get spooled up over one girl. You lose all your leverage. Any semi-successful business dealmaker will tell you that the key is to have multiple deals cooking at once. That’s Leverage. Gentleman’s Clubs are no different.
3. Long drawn out conversations. News just in, Exotic Dancers are hustlers. An argument could be made, that the best of the best are maybe even the female version of The G. A far-fetched argument, but an argument could be made none the less. The longer you get caught up in sob stories, or let them weave their magic (and I am not talking about that kind of Magic that I weave to turn two kilo’s into three, either), you are at a disadvantage. Stick and move (so to speak).
4. Calling it a “strip club”. Show some class. It’s a “Gentleman’s Club”. Marks go to strip clubs. G’s go to Gentleman’s Clubs.
Don’t be weesh. Sign up The G Manifesto Newsletter!
5. Not being suited down. And when I say, “suited down” I mean Suited properly, not some 9-5 suit that an accountant guy wears during some conference in Milwaukee. Wear something custom, flash and statement making. A 9-5 suit. (That is, 9pm to 5am). Let’s face it, most guys dress like buffoons these days. Old-school players are rolling over in their graves. (I don’t know if I have ever used the word “buffoon” before, but I can’t think of any other way to describe it.)
Styles P featuring Swizz Beatz “Blow Your Mind” (Uncensored)
6. Not bringing enough CASH or Bankroll. You never want to get involved in any maneuver undercapitalized, much less a Gentleman’s Club. Ever stepped into an illegal high stakes poker game with a small bankroll? Stepping into a Gentleman’s Club with a small bankroll is equally as stupid.
7. Spreading CASH around the wrong way. The wrong way is caring and showing emotion. Don’t be cheap and don’t act like you care. Exotic Dancers deserve a bottled water or some kind of weird, colorful shot when they get off stage. Some of those pole moves are tough. See if your civilian girlfriend can hang upside down on a pole and do a transfer into the splits.
8. Not locking bartenders, bouncers, waitresses and managers down. These people can be your allies or your enemies. Keep the wheels greased.
Side note: The female bartenders and waitresses can be some of the best leads in the joint.
9. Acting like every other guy. It’s a Gentleman’s Club, skippy, you didn’t sign something that says you have to tell the truth. You don’t have to use your real name either (it is not like her real name is Sapphire…right?). You don’t have to be yourself. Gentleman’s Clubs (and nightlife in general) are all about escapism. In fact, you are way better off not letting her know what you actually do for a living. If you want a girl to like you for your true Working Class Stiff self, find a civilian girl. Exotics like three types of guys: Losers, Gangsters, and International Playboy/Gs. Choose one.
Side note: Lower-end Exotics in weesh clubs like Bikers and Rockstars. (Thank goodness Rockstars haven’t really been a factor since The Beastie Boys destroyed them with “No Sleep Till Brooklyn”).
Beastie Boys- No Sleep till Brooklyn
10. No Dances. This kind of falls into #9. “Guy that gets dances, is guy that doesn’t get Exotic Dancers”- Famous International Playboy.
Four more. Top Ten Strip Club Mistakes made for a better title than Top Fourteen Strip Club Mistakes. You can appreciate that, right?
Smack that – Akon feat Eminem
11. No Gentleman’s Clubs in December. Unlike your humble author, most regular people in this world have weak immune systems for some reason (probably poor Genetic make-up) and in December germs are floating around like crazy. I don’t have Mysophobia or anything, but Nightclubs in general and Gentlemans Clubs in particular are incubators this time of year.
12. Rolling in a big group. Nothing says “mark” more than rolling to a Gentleman’s Club in a big group. Go for Dolo.
13. Not having a good reputation. And when I say “reputation” I mean sexual reputation. News that you regulated an Exotic spreads in the dressing room like Southern California Wildfires with Santa Ana Winds.
14. Not reading The G Manifesto. If you want to swoop Exotic Dancers read these:
Floyd Mayweather stops Manchester’s Ricky Hatton in the 10th round of their Welterweight Championship fight in Las Vegas. Mayweather first knocked down Hatton with a “check hook” that sent Hatton head first into the corner of the ring. Hatton beat the count, but referee Joe Cortez then halted the contest at 1:45 of the tenth round as Hatton crumpled to the canvas after a Mayweather barrage. Mayweather is now 39-0 with 25 KO’s.
Some thoughts:
Boxing is becoming way more popular in Europe than America. The English fans are crazy; they sang “Walking in a Hatton Wonderland” for hours.
Hatton fought nearly a perfect fight. He mauled and manhandled “Money” Mayweather very effectively for the first six rounds. The fight was pretty much even on the cards, but Hatton was fighting his fight.
Mayweather’s greatest asset is his vision. He sees punches coming earlier than I think anyone who has stepped in the ring. He is incredibly cool in the pocket and in a clinch.
Mayweather’s lead right is a thing of violent beauty. Maybe the best lead right since Muhammad Ali.
Mayweather’s punching power is very underrated. That was the reason that Arturo Gatti couldn’t open up on him. Hatton deserves a lot of credit for taking the fight to Mayweather.
Hatton deserves all the credit in the world. He also did a great job of executing his game plan. The only thing you can really knock him for is wearing an Affliction shirt into the ring.
Mayweather is a very special fighter. He has a knack for taking opponents into deep water and drowning them. That is pretty much what happened in Las Vegas. The knock against Mayweather is that he wins his fights too easily. Well, he won a tough one. He might not be “Sugar” Ray Robinson or “Sugar” Ray Leonard, but he deserves his props. The haters can shut up for a while. Anyway, Hate is the new Love.
Broken Language and Unisex Bathroom Nightclub Move
Here is an innovative move:
A little while back I was in a very dope New York City Nightclub (I can’t say the name of the Club, I have a current beef with the owner and I don’t want to give him any extra press) that was holding mad Model Girls every night. Unfortunately, it was also holding model guy as well. But I have said it before and I will say it again, if you let model guy get in your way, then your problems don’t end there.
So, I was chopping up the spot like DeMarcus Corley or Mark Brandon Read, Going for Dolo in the VIP room. I was suited down, Blue Dior Homme suit by Kris Van Assche, Shirt by Duncan Quinn, Blue Hollow flower Pocket Square by Duncan Quinn, tie by Duncan Quinn, heater by Ruger and Shoes by Prada. Cuffs, diamond crushed, and plush. Pockets anabolic, and green like environmentalism. I was like frosting, you know, sitting on cake. The competition couldn’t see me like Stevie. So, it was no Wonder, I was the sharpest dressed cat in the litter.
I needed to go to the bathroom, well, not in a conventional sense, but anyways, I got in the line. It was a unisex bathroom and the line was kind of long. There were a couple of Scandinavian (I am guessing) model guys in front of me. One of them says something to me, I don’t remember what, nor was I really paying any attention (I never pay model guys much attention anyway).
Then, a beeked up fly Slovenian Model Girl, who we will call “Marusa” got behind me in line. She tapped me on my fresh fabrics and in Broken English, whispered in my ear, “You frieend (nodding to the model guy), eese he gaay?” I didn’t know at first what she was talking about since the model guy was far from my friend.
I guess because she saw me talking with him, she thought we knew each other. I asked her, “Why do you want to know if he is gay?”, still not really picking up on the purpose of this odd topic of conversation for bathroom line chatter. Slovenian Model Girl then said, “You freend is reelly hot, so… I want understand if he lieked girls”.
Smoothe da Hustler ft. Trigger tha Gambler – Broken Language
I then picked up on what was going down, and in a heads-up play, whispered back to her, “Yes, Sven is gay.” (I made up a name for model guy to give my lie more realism. Or who knows? I might have been telling the truth.)
Marusa didn’t seem fully convinced. She then asked me, “Arre you sure? Is hee at leeast half-gaay?” I really didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, Broken English and all, but I went with the flow and said, “No, Sven is not ‘half-gay’ he is completely gay, he only likes guys.”
Marusa seemed a little disappointed.
Finally, with Sven out of the way, I then introduced myself and started spitting Death Adder type, Venomous Game. I quickly ethered and hypnotized our beautiful young Slovenian Model Girl. I couldn’t really blame her, I was really feeling good that night. And my cufflinks were gleaming like the Belt of Orion during a clear night on a remote Panamanian Beach hideout.
It now was my turn to enter the unisex bathroom. I asked Marusa, “Do you want to come with me?” She replied, “Ya” (which means “yes”) in her beautiful Eastern European voice. So, we entered the unisex bathroom together…
There is a million ways to swoop girls. Choose one.
Kanye West – A Million And One Questions Freestyle
The Rest is Up to You…
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA The Shovel, The Pit, and The Lye
The Guide to Getting More out of Life http://www.thegmanifesto.com
(Want to see something in The G Manifesto? Send suggestions to thegmanifesto@yahoo.com)
