Here is a new move from the most recent Chambers of The G Manifesto:
First things first, take some lessons and get your Salsa Game up to Par. The beauty of The Salsa Swoop Move is you don’t have to get great at Salsa, you just need to be better than a typical gringo, which isn’t saying much.
Now it doesn’t matter if in is Cali, Cartagena, Barcelona, Miami Beach, Medellin, Republica Dominicana , San Juan or Bayamon, just roll in the salsa spot like the Don Juan behind the Don.
Approach a fly girl or group of fly girls like you normally would rolling Dolo, like Tony without Manolo.
Being an American, sooner or later, the conversation will come around and she will ask you “What kind of music do you like?”
Always respond, “Música Latina, Salsa”.
She will then inevitably ask you if you dance Salsa.
Say, “No, I never have, but I think I can pick it up pretty quick, can you show me?”
She will always say “Of course”.
The trap is now set.
Once you start dancing, you “pick it up pretty quick” and start busting some ill Salsa. Any mistakes only give more authenticity to the move of just “learning it on the spot”.
Once she sees your Salsa Game, she will be amazed, her eyes will dilate, and falling for you, she will have an “A-ha” moment of sorts.
From here, it’s your Game to lose, Oh my Brothers.
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
It’s Middle of May and it is 105 degrees in the shade. I wake up wrapped in 1500 thread count sheets and a 5’10 dancer, a nice southern girl, of course. Went a bit too far last night, but damn, what does it even matter. You know I went out suited up and ran the strip from one end to the other. When I’m stepping out of the club with the hottest girl that was there on the way back to my room at the Bellagio, I see you looking. I’m in Vegas and I feel like Tony right after he gets back to his crib… “I gotta get organized”. Montana, not Soprano, minus the blow (for the most part). The suites at Bellagio, Caesars, and Wynn are so huge you can have a 12 person after party without the slightest bit of problem. The suites are equipped with elite furniture that is usually littered with those fly LA girls that I met last night, other bodies, Rose champagne bottles, some other girls tall ass Cavalli shoes, underwear, room service, and other products of a successful sunrise party. I never throw after-parties in my room though; the last time resulted in ejection from a 5-star in Atlanta at 6 in the morning. That’s how I do things.
Anyways, from my perspective, your body begins to shut down by your fourth day out here. You’ve got to pace yourself. I start every morning by sweating out the toxins, i.e. whatever vices I consumed the night before with a 30-45 minute workout at the hotel gym, and I make no excuses. The gym is always the most luxurious I have ever frequented and full of fly models and foreign girls; I really see no problem. There are attendants that bring me water replenishment, which is another key to defeating whatever hit me about the time I walked out of the Spearmint Rhino after strippers had been sweating me all night. And I wouldn’t pay them any attention, they hate that. If they are going to hustle someone for money they really wish it would be me instead of your lameass group of you and your bro friends. Maybe next time I tell them. They still love me. Las Vegas. This place is so electrifying…so sense-heightening…and so fucking addictive.
I always stock up on cloves/cigars before I get into town and everything else I need is always provided for me. I just hit my girl up at the Mirage and she sends me whatever I need (don’t even think I’ll reveal how I got that connect.) I always grab hotel matches and keep them sparking – everyone either uses these or diamond encrusted Dunhill lighters anytime they need heat. Another thing to remember is there is no concept of time here. I watch the sun come up and watch it go down here but that is about as good as it gets for time perception. There are no clocks anywhere and everyday is mine for the taking. I ride in limos and walk a lot and of course my shoes are comfortable because only cheap shoes hurt your feet. The only thought on my mind after walking back from the club right before sunrise is how good the cigar I had with me was going to be and how good the girl I took’s ass looks as I follow her down Las Vegas Blvd.
You wouldn’t even believe the dayclub pool parties here. You probably can’t get in either. The best dayclubs are at Caesar’s, Mirage, and Venetian. You shouldn’t bother with any of the rest of them unless you like a bunch of frat boys with tribal tattoos and Ed Hardy shirts and Oklahoma prom queens with fake purses that think they are a lot hotter than they really are. The girls at my spots have been in movies, magazines, and have a public image to keep up so when they let go partying they don’t want a bunch of nobody’s around that will gossip to their friends and tabloids like a bunch of Midwestern farm hicks that have never tasted the life. The dudes here pull out baseball size wads of money and finance the decadence. No one knows how these guys got their money but their speaking about docking 200ft boats in the Caribbean and running up 5 figure bar tabs. I personally care less what they did to get the cash. Most important for me, I only wear my blacked out Prada shades because if you can’t see my eyes than you can’t see me. I get my pool workout on by using weights, the hotel furniture, and dancer girls I invite to accompany on my little adventures. The DJs are on point at my pools and the party is like a story line: It has a tense buildup, a climax of euphoric fervor, and an abrupt crime scene ending of Patron shot wreckage all set to a fire-orange and crimson-red sunset backdrop.
If you are like me and have a weakness for the green and red felt tables, You really have to prearrange what you are going to do with your winnings or you will spend it on more gambling. I only take casinos money-they never take mine. This usually results in some brand new clothes, show tickets, VIP events, and an ABUNDANCE of drinking money. I don’t drink at tables. I hustle and politic every minute I gamble and I let the casinos thrive on you dumbass bitches that go there at lose $3Gs in a day and then laugh about it. I will never let anyone have my $3Gs. And I never laugh when I lose money. I instead use gambling time to replenish my body with water and save the drinking for pools and clubs. And even then, I don’t go overboard on the drinking because I converse with fly dancers, models, and moneymakers and game spitting requires a clear head. Contrary to advice from the Big Tymer’s, this isn’t the time to drink till you throw-up. She was smashed out of her mind but that wasn’t my problem. Whether I seal deals or not I have an image and a reputation to uphold and extremely expensive clothes. I’m not letting anyone ruin either.
I dress in the best clothes I own. Please try to hit up Tao in a polo or a t-shirt and expect to get any type of respect. You will see me flying past the line and getting the rope opened for me with a clique of people I brought and you will never get in. Which is good, I don’t really want you in there anyways-your game is obviously weak and everyone can see it. You control your destiny and the perception that you portray. Wear polo shirts, you’ll get treated that way. I’m not tempted by the style of all those LA d-bags that wear tees and lame jeans. I let them have that style all to themselves. I can’t begin to tell you how many times women commended me on how nice I looked. I was suited up all nights in a row (except when I just rocked my shirt I got in the French islands with a French cuff, can’t cover up those cuff links) Amongst a sea of print T’s adorned with sequins and whatever else the other side of the street is wearing, a well tailored suit and my blown open shirt really stands out.
Finally, I always eat good food. I don’t do crappy buffets, I only do the Bellagio buffet which looks like each continent put out the best food it has and sat it out for you to eat. I never eat any fast food or hot dogs or whatever else garbage people go for. I can get that stuff anytime back home, even though I don’t. Eat foods that you’ve never had, experience life. I usually hit up Ceasers’ or Bellagio’s spot at like 5:30am and the food and liquored up coffee drinks are unforgettable. It could have been my wonderful waitress Natasha…Or it could have been the fact that I chopped it up with Depp and almost knocked him for one of his lady friends. Unintentionally I might add. This is the time to be a grown-up and channel your inner Bourdain. People that really do things eat real food.
I supplement all this by only drinking champagne, Goose, and Patron; never beer. Once I let a few USC football players getting ready to go pro (athletes get the hookup in Vegas and I have nothing against them, I knew several pro athletes and a few prospects and they are fine people) go into the nightspots and order beer and clean up the Vegas sluts so that there were only quality drinks and women left for me to swoop. I’m automatically systematic like that. Never say “What happens in Vegas…” or “Vegas Baby!” I guess that works at the lameass Palms Hotel where everybody is wearing beanies and muscle shirts and is coked out of their mind but that don’t even try to pull that type of shit at the places I go. People will look at you weird and some owner or VIP will probably get your ass kicked out for showing ignorance at their parties. And don’t try to fight me. I know the girls that you like wherever we may be are sweating me like a coke bottle on a hot day, but fighting someone in Vegas is never something you want to do. Last fight that happened when I was there, one of the guys got lead poisoning. As in, 2 shells in the back of the head. And that was before he got thrown in the million dollars landscaping by a secret entryway in the back of Caesars. How impressed do you think the girls were with him after that? Watch yourself; you don’t know who you are dealing with.
Lastly, if you can’t do it big in Vegas, don’t do it. No one cares about your money problems there and you will end up across the street with the rest of the lames that are trying to ball on a budget. So here’s some advice if you don’t want to go all out in Vegas: stay drinking beer at your hometown 2-for-1 Chili’s night with your polo shirted frat brothers and talk about how great that keg stand was at your college party.
I’ll be somewhere a bit more engaging.
Click Here for these G Manifesto Las Vegas Data Sheets:
The words I am about to express:
They now have their own crowned goddess. – Leandro Diaz
IT WAS INEVITABLE: the scent of Aguila and Aguardiente always reminded me of the fate of unrequited love; as I cold kicked back in a dope Tapas bar in Cartagena, Colombia with a fly Costeña named Lilia. We were grinding croquetas de pescado and Lomo Roquefort, while she was drinking Coco con Limon.
And yes, I always stay crispy clean; I got style, finesse, plus a nifty lean, whenever I hit the scene down here.
We were the last ones in the restaurant and it seemed like it was about to close; when in walked a party of nine. I made a mental note that the restaurant staff kind of jumped to attention. One of the ladies in the party, asked for a cenicero and sparked up. I noticed this as odd since smoking is mostly eradicated in Cartagena. I jumped on the opportunity and asked for a cenicero as well. And I also sparked up.
As I smell the aromatic fumes of gold cyanide, I notice something peculiar about the party of nine now seated in the restaurant. The table consists of one cat, dressed in white linen from head to toe and 8 women. The cat has mad presence.
He gets up to go to the restroom passes by me and gives me a smile. A “Game recognizes Game” type situation if you will.
It is only after he returns to his seat that our camarera informs us that the cat is none other than Gabriel García Márquez.
Truth be told, even though my girl was more fly than any girl at Gabriel García Márquez’s table, I have to give the victory to him.
Table with eight girls?
Camareras jumping to his every move?
Allowing smoking?
80 years old and straight rolling Playboy style?
Gabriel García Márquez unanimous decision over Michael Porfirio Mason.
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
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’.”
“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, “
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
Hope all is well. I dropped a guest manifesto in Q3 2009, but would cherish the opportunity to provide your readership with some additional insight into my lifestyle. For example, the itinerary below represents a typical night in the life of a certified, card-carrying G, and for that matter, a typical night for me.
8pm: Break bread at Don Peppe in Ozone Park. Table for one. Sleeves rolled up. Wearing my napkin like a bib. The linguini manichiatta can shut down Rao’s. Lead walls make the cell reception tough. Fed bugs in the walls make my cell phone unnecessary.
9:30pm: Push the Vantage into Manhattan. I’m driving 40 in the fast lane. They can wait. Bumping Built Only 4 Cuban Linx. I’m in no rush.
10:30pm: Throw down chips at Cips downtown. Upstairs getting dap from select clientele (sheiks, shoguns, heads of state, high-ranking NATO officials, others). Don’t think I’ve ever even been downstairs.
10:35pm: Pour out a little Screaming Eagle for my lost soldiers. We miss you, Giuseppe. Come home soon.
12am: Catch mad texts from club-going elite. Avenue is apparently the spot tonight. But Real G’s don’t do champagne sparklers. Flickering lights make me think of squad cars.
12:20pm: Ultra-luxury subterranean poker room/gentleman’s club/cigar lounge located at [UNDISCLOSED] with Russian oligarchs and other high net worth bauces. Negotiating/bartering with Chris and Nick Candy for their spot in the Monaco. I want to close before Grand Prix.
12:45am: Play some poker. Catch the homie Oleg (Deripaska) on the river. I have some shorting to do on Monday.
1:30am: Dip to a lower east side (authentic) hipster nightspot and efficiently scoop a fly Asian bartender that I have been casually twisting for a few days.
2:30am: Black car into Brooklyn. Catch dome on the way. Driver doesn’t mind. Park and wait outside the park at PS 117 at Franklin and Willoughby. Have the driver fetch a quarter water, while a Sotheby’s night watchman delivers blueprints and briefs me on various security measures.
4:30am: Black car back to my Tribeca trap. T-bone steak, cheese, eggs, and Welcher’s grape. Actually, more like something from Eric Ripert. Or that pistachio and rosemary shrimp from Shun Li. And no Slugger, you’re not gonna find that one on the menu.
5am: Burn Swisher Sweets with the oriental in the rooftop jacuzzi. She looks like Chun Li from Street Fighter.
6am: I be digging her out
6:15am: I be kickin her out
7am: Count both blessings and ten crack commandments before laying head on trillion count Egyptian cotton. Burner under the pillow. Sleep with one eye open.
