(Again, I actually do this type of stuff periodically. I don’t talk about it much, because I am not looking for any “credit”, but I thought it would be a good idea to let the Younger G’s out there know how to get down.)
After helping out the homeless and the less fortunate I did some last minute errands to get ready for a trip – south of the border, which happens to be where I am at now.
Perfecto.
In other news, analysts at Deutsche Bank raised their view of Coeur d’Alene to buy from hold with a 12-month price target of $54 a share as they become more bullish about the stock amid rising silver and gold prices.
For anyone that knows me personally or has been reading The G Manifesto since the beginning, you will know that I have an uncanny ability to pick boxing matches. I also have a well documented history of breaking down almost to a T how the fight is going to go down before it takes place. (Search through the archives for a near Impeccable record).
However, since that time, I have watched the fight a few more times more closely, and I really think Bernard Hopkins won and have argued that way since. In fact, just the other day, I was with my Godfather and a couple of friends (Suited Down of course), enjoying a mid-day lunch in 80 degree weather (while much of the country is freezing) and I got in a big debate about the fight.
Side note about scoring boxing matches:
When I first watch a fight I don’t really “score” a fight. I watch it more for enjoyment. When I do that, I do sometimes get influenced by the cheer leading of announcers, specifically Jim Lampley and Larry Merchant. In fact, if there was a feature where you could mute out those two guys and just listen to Emmanuel Stewart, I would buy it. Lately, I have been watching fights in Spanish for this very reason.
Anyways, after our lunchtime debate, I wanted to watch Bernard Hopkins VS Joe Calzaghe again (also, I never get tired of learning from Bernard Hopkins).
While looking for it on Youtube, I stumbled upon a series of videos that really breaks down how Bernard Hopkins won. Watch these. Have some patience (and I don’t mean that Exotic Dancer I know from the Spearmint Rhino in Las Vegas named “Patience”, real name Jenny, either) as they are long, but well worth it. Hopkins is a true master of the art of Boxing. So crafty. So subtle. So effective.
The Joe Calzaghe Deception, the night Bernard Hopkins was robbed PART 1
The Joe Calzaghe Deception, the night Bernard Hopkins was robbed PART 2
The Joe Calzaghe Deception, the night Bernard Hopkins was robbed PART 3
The Joe Calzaghe Deception, the night Bernard Hopkins was robbed PART 4
The Joe Calzaghe Deception, the night Bernard Hopkins was robbed PART 5
The Joe Calzaghe Deception, the night Bernard Hopkins was robbed PART 6
It’s no secret that I enjoy reading Matt Taibbi’s Rolling Stone articles so I copped his new book Griftopia and just finished reading it, which is subtitled: Bubble Machines, Vampire Squids, and the Long Con That Is Breaking America.
Taibbi’s basic view is that regular American’s are “fighting over the same 5-10 percent swatch of undecided voters, blues versus reds. Instead, the parties should be broken down into haves and have-nots – a couple of obnoxious bankers on the Upper East Side running for office against 280 million pissed-off credit card and mortgage customers.” And: “When the Republicans win elections, their voters think they’ve struck a blow against big government. And when a Democratic hero like Barack Obama wins, his supporters think they’ve won a great victory for tolerance and diversity. Even I thought that.” (Even I thought that also) And this has created a paradise for high-class thieves.
He continues: “There are really two Americas, one for the grifter class and one for everyboy else. In everybody-else land, the world of small businesses and wage-earning employees, the government is something to be avoided…In the grifter world, however, government is a lavish lapdog that the financial companies that will be the major players…use as a tool for making money.”
In the first chapter, he ginsu’s Rick Santelli, Sarah Palin, Michele Bachman and Larry Kudlow among others. He saves the greatest disses for The Tea Party (which he actually gives a balanced critique of) and explains how they are simply a pawn for the elites (“A loose definition of the Tea Party might be fifteen million pissed-ff white people sent chasing after Mexicans on Medicaid by the small handful of banks and investment companies who advertise on Fox and CNBC.”). The elites have confused the Tea Party members and Taibbi drops this gem: “The insurmountable hurdle for so-called populist movements is having the nerve to attack the rich instead of the poor. Even after the rich almost destroyed the entire golobal economy through their sheer unrestrained greed and stupidity, we can’t shake the peasant mentality that says we should go easy on them…” which is an underlying theme in The G Manifesto.
In the second chapter “The Biggest Asshole in the Universe”, Taibbi rips apart Alan Greenspan and Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged (which I have never read). He then proceeds to break down the Mortgage Scam, The Commodities Bubble, an amazing chapter on Sovereign Wealth funds and the selling off of America, the Health Care reform bait-and-switch and the American Bubble Machine.
Taibbi is a little shaky on his explanation of the commodities markets, but his conclusions are always dead on.
This is a pretty amazing and humorous book that explains what has been happening in America written by one of the best writers of our generation.
At the end of the 19th century, the bluebloods took over the bare-knuckle prize ring, put gloves on the contestants and laid claim to the fights. It was the best and worst thing that had ever happened to boxing: Now civilized, the sport grew in popularity but compromised its savage soul. In the 1950s, televisions arrived in American living rooms and fans tuned in to watch the Friday-night fights. It was the best and worst thing that had ever happened to the sport: Though immensely profitable, boxing lost a primal connection with its most avid fans, the spectators in the arena.
Between these eras, during the so-called golden years, the best and worst thing that happened to boxing was the mob.
This was a period in which a fighter had to be “connected” to compete in the fights at Madison Square Garden—the fights that mattered. The mobsters—Frankie Carbo, Frank Costello, “Blinky” Palermo, Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel and countless figures associated with the Genovese, Lucchese and Gotti crime families— controlled every aspect of boxing management and promotion, the fights and fighters. Yet the same era spawned such champions as “Cinderella Man” James J. Braddock, Joe Louis, Rocky Marciano and the self-proclaimed “Greatest of All Time,” Muhammad Ali.
Kevin Mitchell, the chief sports writer for the London Observer, unravels the helix of the mafia and the fight game in “Jacobs Beach,” his second book on the sweet science. (“Jacobs Beach” was a nickname for the corner of Broadway and Eighth Ave. in Manhattan, where fight fans would crowd for tickets at the offices of promoter Mike Jacobs.) Less about the sport than about the business intrigue surrounding it, Mr. Mitchell’s account brings to life the fight world of that era, often drawing on his own interviews with athletes and notables, such as writer Budd Schulberg, boxer Joe Miceli and trainer Lou Duva.
“Let your greatest cunning lie in covering up what looks like cunning”– Baltasar Gracián (Spanish Jesuit and baroque prose writer), 1601-1658
“Winning comes down to two things: Taking advantage of your opponents mistakes and perfect timing” – Michael John Mason VI (Father to son boxing advise when I was a young amateur)
This year, when I haven’t been traveling, I have been spending a bunch of time in Beverly Hills, working on some big “heists”, so to speak. So after Entering The Dragon at The Wildcard and a beautiful day at the Getty, I find myself at a Private Club in West Hollywood for dinner and drinks.
Here are the attendees at the dinner:
• Entertainment CEO, who I have never met
• Oscar nominated Producer, who I have met
• My friend in the Horse world and girlfriend
• My friend who works at big corporation putting it all together
• Some young Hollywood Actor, who I don’t know
• Hollywood stylist guy (British), who I don’t know
• Two Brazilian model girls, who came with Producer guy
• And Your humble author, AKA Your favorite International Playboy’s favorite International Playboy
It promises to be a pretty vague affair, and I have no real purpose being at the dinner, I was just invited by my friend, the corporate cat. It’s a meet and greet with a little biz on the agenda. You know, your typical Tableaux de mode turning into a Fête galante with potential to be a Bacchanale.
It should be noted that I feel slightly un-centered, possibly because of the fact that I completely out-gunned (so to speak) at this dinner, as almost everyone, save the girls, are more accomplished than I am (at least in a mainstream sense) and have longer dough. And it doesn’t exactly comfort me when I start having flashbacks of knuckle-ups “on the cobbles” with big Russian guys with bald heads and leather jackets, from a few weeks prior, either. It also should be noted that I have been increasingly been finding myself in these types of situations as I move up The Layer Cake of life.
However, I am dressed in a sick Custom Suit: jet black, peaked lapels, one-button, side vents and interior so crimson that if we were in South Central you might have thought I was Brim or Piru. Pocket Square the color of Colombian Blow.
The conversation at the table starts off cordial and loosens up as vino consumption is increased. I stay in the cut, and only add comments where necessary and when I can add value as I am well versed in many subjects these days (not bragging, just keeping it solid gold like 1oz American Eagle coins for you). Doing this keeps an air of mystery around me, and the table really starts coming around. Entertainment CEO double takes after I drop a few gems and asks me, “What is it that you do again?”
The Brazilian model girls take notice, which, of course, is not lost on me. Also, what is not lost on me is that the weesh Young Hollywood actor guys starts hating on me. Which, of course, I ignore and continue to stay in the seam.
Surprisingly, it is actually shaping up to be a great dinner; Entertainment CEO guy is running the show and is actually super cool, Oscar nominated Producer guy spins some good tales, my horse world friend and his girlfriend drop dimes, Stylist guy busts some hilarious tales that everyone loves, the Brazilian Girls are having fun and my corporate friend is gluing it all together. It is one of those rare occurrences:The whole table is gelling.
Well, maybe not Actor guy, as he is trying to “close talk” one of the Brazilian model girls (which is a weak move) but I notice her “body languageing” him away as I am busting out a story. I spit out a little Portuguese which the Brazilian Model girls love and the actor boy hates as he does not speak any.
Feeling good now, I drop some good lines:
I use the phrase, “like that guy from Wikileaks” multiple times, and even drop this one: “Oh you mean, Rahm Emanuel’s brother?” to check everyone as the discussion topics are a little too Hollywood-centric for my liking.
Since there is a lot of name dropping (albeit legitimate name dropping) going on, I comtemplate busting out my Wesley Snipes Story, but decide against it.
When Entertainment CEO guy asks me what I think of his favorite wine, I reply, “It is rich and decadent with seamless overtones of violets and homemade country jam, and it really has a Harmonious finish…” which sends the crowd wild. (Little did everyone at the table know, save my corporate friend, is that I always use that response when asked about the wine at dinners such as these.)
Hollywood stylist guy, throws out, “Who made your suit? It’s phenomenal…”
Entertainment CEO even shoots out a, “OK, that’s it, this is the best dinner I have been to all year!” after Stylist guy, who is a true raconteur tells another hilarious story (and I am not talking about those cats that made that dope movie Cocaine Cowboys either, or maybe I am).
“Camilla” the flyer of the two models, a true Beauty of monumentality and vulnerability, follows me for a smoke when actor boy is in the bathroom.
It’s on.
She starts asking me questions as I tell tales of Mediterranean courtyards and terraces and her vibe goes from romantic expectation to dreamy absorption to erotic playfulness quicker than a Samba dance at Carnaval.
We roll back to the table and the dinner is still frolicking along at a decent pace. Some owner and GM type cats roll by as well as plenty of West Coast style Hipster/Douchebag fusion types that Los Angeles is leading the world in producing these days. They are probably actors if I am hard pressed to guess.
Actor guy, vanquished, leaves in discomfiture with a couple of Hipster/Douchebag fusion types, I am presuming in search of Beaks.
Entertainment CEO has to go home to the wife and kids and the extravagant meal kind of breaks up. Some go to smoke weed, some merge with other tables, Camilla and I split for a drink.
Back at my dope hotel (which my horse world friend hooked me up at a discounted rate, I may add), Camilla plays the part of a young girl defending herself against Eros.
I play the part of Mischief and Repose.
Camilla and I sip a glass of wine and admire the sensuous textures of my suite: marble, fur, tile, silk, flesh…
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
Disclaimer: Some of the above characters are merged and/or changed to protect the innocent. And the guilty. But then again, if you have a brain, you knew that already.
