My friend “Hugo” AKA The Viper just told me about a new spot in Miami Beach called Bella Rose. (I typically don’t go to South Beach until winter).
Hugo told me that the spot was dope and he was peeling girls like bananas at a jungle hideout in Panama. Seems like this place is a return to South Beach before the corporatization.
The good part, is Alfred Spellman disses Bottle Service:
“I think Bottle Service has pretty much destroyed night life but, luckily, I think the pendulum is finally swinging away from the models-and-bottles era that’s basically dominated night life since the turn of the century,” Spellman, said. “It creates a one-dimensional atmosphere and we want diversity.”
Bottle Service Update: Half-bottle service in Las Vegas
One of my droogs just sent me an article about Bottle Service in Las Vegas.
New York-New York Hotel & Casino’s new nightclub — ROK Vegas — will offer half-bottle service when it opens to the public Labor Day Weekend. It’s billed as a Vegas first. Half bottles start at $175, plus tax and gratuity.
The idea is to “enhance the VIP experience by offering guests more choices for their tables,” according to press materials, plus give nightlife lovers a more budget-friendly club option.
With the Market getting pummeled like Tommy “The Hit Man” Hearns in the third round with Marvelous Marvin Hagler I have been getting tons of emails about how to save Money in a Down Economy.
Here is a great tip:
If you are anything like me, you will have fly girls that you swooped out of Nightclubs, Gentleman’s Clubs, off the street, and from bars at your crib, five nights a week, kicking off their heels and enjoying a few drinks.
The drink of choice, typically, is to make up a Grey Goose (or some other clean vodka) and Soda for yourself and something vodka related for the fly girl. Or pop a bottle of Champagne. But we all know, top shelf liquors and French Champagne can eat into your Bankroll, especially in a Down Economy.
So for a Down Economy Hedge, save your empty Ketel and Goose bottles and funnel in some low grade vodka. Also, go down to the little Italian Market down the street and pick up some low cost Italian Proseccos or Spanish Cavas. Show me a girl who can tell the difference, and I will show you someone with a more stylish Jab than a young Muhammad Ali. (Even Sophistos can’t really tell the difference, and I have done the unofficial case studies to prove it.)
Word on the street is that Wesley Snipes, the star of “New Jack City” and an actor in “King of New York” is going on trial for being on the wrong side of The Internal Revenue Service. I really don’t have much of an opinion on the intricacies of the trial (although the venue of Ocala, Florida has got to hurt). But I do have an opinion on the man.
Here is a little story:
I had just got back to Los Angeles from a prolonged working vacation in the South of France. My good friend “Callahan” was throwing this dope gig in LA at the El Rey Theatre. Black Eyed Peas were performing. Think Black Eyed Peas before they added that girl with mad plastic surgery. You know, the one that all girls put on their ringtones nowadays. Behind the Front days. “That’s the joint, that’s the jam” days.
Anyways, it was a pretty celeb-heavy underground type-gig. That guy who was the main star of “Basketball Diaries” table was right next to our crew’s table. Mad fly LA Nightlife Princesses also.
My friend Callahan and I were chillin at the front bar talking French heists and strategy, slightly on Beans. Sipping cocktails.
Black Eyed Peas – Joints & Jam
As a young G on the rise, I was suited down of course, in a custom Italian number by…I can’t really remember. But I probably had a Glock 17 in those days as they were pretty hot then. Shirt blown open. Pocket Square. My friend was wearing whatever was the height of fashion for those days in LA. I don’t have to tell you that I was dressed doper than him. But that’s neither Sugar Hill nor E-tab Pill.
Up walks Wesley Snipes to the bar, solo, no Entourage, suited down kind of Nino Brown Style. This was not “Blade II” era Snipes, it was more “Roemello Skuggs” era Snipes.
Callahan (obviously feeling it): “Yo Wesley, I was Passenger 58!”
All three of us: Laughter. (I didn’t really get the joke at the time, but I was feeling good so I played along).
Introductions all around.
Then two mad fly girls, taller than Snipes and myself, if I remember correctly, came up to Snipes and gave him very enthusiastic hugs and kisses.
Then one of the two girls in a shitty LA attitude kind of way, says, “Who are these two guys?” meaning us. (You don’t really see this kind of attitude today as much as you saw in the good old days.) As if, I wasn’t just heisting on the Côte d’Azur and chilling with topless girls; named things like, Florence and Marie, on the beach two days prior.
Snipes then says after a slight pause for greater effect, “Callahan and Michael are my two best friends in the world” with an opened arms gesture. The two girl’s expressions changed from “over us” to “into us” immediately. After some more small talk, Snipes exited stage left and left us with the two girls, who by now, were down for whatever.
Not like we needed any help, but I have never forgotten Snipes’ gesture of Class. In my book, he has always been the coolest cat in Hollywood.
“I am not guilty, you’re the one that’s guilty. The lawmakers, the politicians, the Columbian drug lords, all you who lobby against making drugs legal. Just like you did with alcohol during the prohibition. You’re the one who’s guilty. I mean, c’mon, let’s kick the ballistics here: Ain’t no Uzi’s made in Harlem. Not one of us in here owns a poppy field. This thing is bigger than Nino Brown. This is big business. This is the American way.”- Nino Brown
I hope Snipes isn’t found guilty either.
Oh yeah, we ended up swooping the girls. Assist by Snipes.
The Rest is Up to You…
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA The Seventh Letter
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)
Love is a Battle Field (Papoose / Pat Benatar) New Jack City
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)
