Whoever is in charge of making The Del Mar Racing Season only 6 weeks should be shot. It should go all year long. And allow smoking everywhere. And push back last call till 6am. And open up some Modeling agencies. And serve late night haute cuisine way past ten. And don’t allow Ed Hardy shirts.
We do all that, and San Diego would be close to paradise.
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The Rest is Up to You…
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA The G you should have Killed last year
AKA The King of Luck
The Guide to Getting More out of Life http://www.thegmanifesto.com
Smith Connection – I’ve Been In Love
Bing Crosby and Dorothy Lamour at Del Mar Race Track Opening Day, 1938
July only means one thing if you are in the US: The Del Mar Racetrack (or Saratoga Race Track, so I guess it means two things).
In case you don’t know your West Coast G History, The Del Mar Racetrack (AKA “Where The Turf Meets The Surf.”) has been taking place since 1937 in the sunny, seaside, ocean breezy village of Del Mar, California.
It was created by Bing Crosby, actor Pat O’brien, funnyman Jimmy Durante and Charles S. Howard (owner of Seabiscut). The attendees of the track read like a who’s who for G’s past and present. From Frank Sinatra on down.
So, as an up and coming International Playboy on the Rise, making it to the Track is paramount (Being in Monte Carlo, is of course an acceptable excuse.) And when I say paramount, I mean, you are a fool not to go.
Personally, I have been going to the track for years, as I developed a taste for exotic women and high living at an early age. And I will say it is more than certified.
I have already given some keys to victory in the past on Surf and Turf: The Race Track. (If you haven’t read it by now, this is a great time to check it. If you have read it before; re-read, and commit to memory. Use flashcards, make cheat sheets, do what you need to do.) Here are some updated tips:
“And…away they go!”
Workout
Always get a workout and Enter The Dragon before you go to the track. You need to be feeling your best. This is especially important on “Four O’clock Fridays” were the stakes are extremely high (and not just the betting). Regular working guy usually doesn’t have the time to get a workout in before the track, since he is slaving away at work. The International Playboy has the luxury where he doesn’t need to be in “the cube” (reason #4080 to be an International Playboy).
Shower beforehand
The Del Mar Racetrack (and Saratoga) run in summer and its mad hot out. It’s easy to get sweaty and sticky in you custom pinstriped Paul Smith suit. Again, your competition usually doesn’t have the loose schedule where they can get all crispy and clean like Yakatori and Candy Paint before the first post.
My Take on Opening Day
For the clowns. Just the thought of the spazzyness makes me sweat and blood starts coming out my nose.
Sure there are a lot of girls, but when you go to the Racetrack you need to be an “Ivan Boesky”. That is, look for situations of arbitrage. There is no arbitrage on Opening Day.
This is as important as ever. We talked about this in Surf and Turf: The Racetrack. The classic gear is still as important as ever. But I like going mad flash to the track. Last time I wore a light two button, side vents ETRO with chronic green interior and coco brown Gucci loafers, no socks. Slashed Carotid Artery bleeding, blood red Brioni pocket square. Girls were in a frenzy, like Hollywood fools when the Cane dealer arrives at the Mansion Party at 3am.
Bankroll
Bring a huge Bankroll to the track. And when I say huge, I mean obnoxious. The Track, like most dope places, is not plastic territory. Well, it is plastic surgery territory, but that is neither E-Tab Rave Honeys nor Coke Fiend Playboy Bunnies.
This is especially true since we are in a Down Economy. People aren’t too liquid right now. Flashing CASH works wonders (and I don’t mean early 90’s Ecstasy Wonder Gangs either…) on Southern California girls in today’s socio-economic atmosphere.
I remember once, a long time ago, when I was a younger proto-type G and I was hanging out with this Older G who we will call “Vincent”. The guy had juice. Fresh squeezed. Crib in Marbella. Sharp dresser. FARC as a client. Eastern Bloc Connects. Mad Passport Stamps. The kind of cat that owns $175,000 Samurai Swords. You know the type.
Anyways, I offered to buy Vincent a drink, to show respect to the older generation of G’s before us. I pulled out a decent sized Bankroll (but not too big) out of my pocket of my custom Isaia two-button Suit. Vincent shot me a look like, “What’s up with your bankroll?”
I then reached in my other pocket and pulled out a second, even bigger Bankroll. Vincent bursted out laughing and almost spit out his scotch across the bar. This was followed up with backslaps and introductions to all the Track heavies – owners, trainers, gangsters, etc.
Vincent ended up throwing me a couple Jewelry heists too. Real lay ups. Worked out well.
So, bring a big Bankroll.
Always travel to the track in style
Roll up, AC blazing in a town car, limo or Cadillac. No exceptions. Use Turf Club Membership parking. Grease the valets for a good spot up close for quick getaways. And so they don’t heist you.
Turf Club
Get a Turf Club membership. Or meet someone who has one. If you have connects, this shouldn’t be a problem. The Turf Club gives you a better view of the track, shorter betting lines, hotter, more high-class girls, a great smoking patio and drinks served in glass instead of plastic. In short, the blimp reads: “The World is Yours”.
Put rounds in the Bank
When you first get to the track everyone is pretty sober. Girls can usually control themselves pretty well. They have more willpower at this point and they try and keep it cool (as opposed to later on in the day when you get propositioned by young and old Girl non-stop). But make eye contact and spark up as many meaningless conversations with girls as possible. (This shouldn’t be too difficult. At least the meaningless convo part…it is Southern California after all.) These connects will pay dividends later on as the track wears on. When the booze catches up with the girls they will try to swoop on you. You can count on it. Like you can count on getting wet if it’s raining outside.
Competition levels
Generally speaking, West Coast soft. Most guys are square like Tieneman. Coming weak, like FEMA on Katrina.
Although, you do get the International Playboy set. But, I know most of them by now and we work it like Makos. Still, bring more Game than the Serengeti and stay tooled up, for rival firms that might get jumpy. And I am not talking a throwback Michael Jordan jersey when I say I am wearing the four-five, either.
Old Cats
Always rap out with the older cats at the Track. Some of these guys are sharp dressers and were Playboys and G’s of their era. It’s always good to chop it up with these guys and cross reference data sheets. These Old Cats usually have tons of dough and can hook you up on some biz moves. I actually referred one of these guys to one of my friends in the disposal biz, and I got a healthy finder’s fee, so it was good all the way around.
Who doesn’t like healthy finder’s fees?
Old Kittens
Most people miss this angle, even top flight G’s. Always spend some time talking to the older kittens. Young kittens will see you talking with them and think you have tons of class. The old kittens also have some funny stories, and when you charm them they introduce you to their family and other young kittens.
Cigarettes
Bring two packs. Southern California is the land of people that don’t go out with smokes. It’s almost retarded. (People aren’t in that good shape here.) Young, fly, rich daughters will swarm you like Wu-Tang Killer Bees once they get a few cocktails and white in them. White Wine I mean…
And there you have it. I will be at the track almost every day. I will be the brutally handsome guy in the Turf club, dressed impeccably, smoking grits, swooping girls in summer dresses, chilling by the “large transaction” window in case you wanted to come by and give me a pound.
See you there. And don’t wish me “good luck”.
I don’t need it.
(More advanced techniques next year. I am sure by the time this year’s Del Mar Track Season ends, I will start another trend.)
Don’t be weesh. Sign up The G Manifesto Newsletter!
Michael Porfirio Mason
AKA The Peoples Champ
AKA The G you should have Killed last year
The Guide to Getting More out of Life http://www.thegmanifesto.com
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)
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)
It seems everywhere you turn today there is an attack on our liberty to smoke. Even the fools in Hollywood have jumped into the game. Talk about a blow to artistic integrity. The hypocrisy of it all doesn’t sit well with me. Everyone seems to ignore the Social, Psychological, and Aesthetic benefits to smoking. I am convinced that anyone that is anti-smoking has never sat in a booth of a top shelf restaurant drinking Vino and smoking cigarettes with a Parisian Model Girl. Look into it. You will be pro-smoking too.
If I look back on my young life, my finest moments have consisted of a Custom Italian suit, a full-bodied red, a key to a penthouse suite in my pocket, a bankroll thick like Beyonce and Vida Guerra, a booth in a Michelin starred restaurant, a beautiful girl looking at me, hypnotized and a lit cigarette dangling from my mouth. Moments like those, are to me, what Life is all about (and of course what happens succeeding). The rest is just bullshit.
“Those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.”
Benjamin Franklin
“There’s something luxurious about having a girl light your cigarette. In fact, I got married once on account of that.” ~Harold Robbins
“My rule of life prescribed as an absolutely sacred rite smoking cigars and also the drinking of alcohol before, after and if need be during all meals and in the intervals between them.” – Winston Churchill (Considered by many to be “The Greatest Man of the Twentieth Century”)
Monica Bellucci smoking
“A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want?” ~Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
Is it true that you smoke eight to ten cigars a day?
That’s true.
Is it true that you drink five martinis a day?
That’s true.
Is it true that you still surround yourself with beautiful young women?
That’s true.
What does your doctor say about all of this?
My doctor is dead.
– George Burns
“There’s nothing like tobacco; it is the passion of all decent men-a man who lives without tobacco does not deserve to live.”
Moliere
“The natural progress of things is for liberty to yield and government to gain ground.” – Thomas Jefferson
“The urge to save humanity is almost always a false front for the urge to rule.” – H.L. Mencken
Fly Model smokes
“There’s no way to rule innocent men. The only power any government has is the power to crack down on criminals. Well, when there aren’t enough criminals, one makes them. One declares so many things to be a crime that it becomes impossible to live without breaking laws.”
Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged
“I don’t know. Everything. Living. Smoking” – John Paul Sartre (answering the question “What is the most important thing in your life?”)
“When an opponent declares, ‘I will not come over to your side,’ I calmly say, ‘Your child belongs to us already… What are you? You will pass on. Your descendants, however, now stand in the new camp. In a short time they will know nothing else but this new community.’
– Adolf Hitler (The king of anti-smoking campaigns, about as bad as our current government)
“If alcohol is queen, then tobacco is her consort. It’s a fond companion for all occasions, a loyal friend through fair weather and foul. People smoke to celebrate a happy moment, or to hide a bitter regret. Whether you’re alone or with friends, it’s a joy for all the senses. What lovelier sight is there than that double row of white cigarettes, lined up like soldiers on parade and wrapped in silver paper? I love to touch the pack in my pocket, open it, savor the feel of the cigarette between my fingers, the paper on my lips, the taste of tobacco on my tongue. I love to watch the flame spurt up, love to watch it come closer and closer, filling me with its warmth.” luis bunuel
Model Smoking
Good food, good sex, good digestion, good sleep: to these basic animal pleasures, man has added nothing but the good cigarette. ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Second Neurotic’s Notebook, 1966
I used to smoke two packs a day and I just hate being a nonsmoker…. but I will never consider myself a nonsmoker because I always find smokers the most interesting people at the table. ~Michelle Pfeiffer
“Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe
When tipp’d with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe;
Like other charmers, wooing the caress
More dazzlingly when daring in full dress;
Yet thy true lovers more admire by far
Thy naked beauties—give me a cigar!”
Lord Byron The Island . Canto ii. Stanza 19.
Penelope Cruz smoking
‘FUCK off.’ Kate Moss responds to an attendant who asked her to extinguish her cigarette at the Mario Testino exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery,
2 February 2002
‘I’VE BEEN doing some sums following the recent medical assertion that every fag you smoke costs you eleven minutes of your life. Let’s take somebody who is aged 100 and has smoked a modest ten a day since the age of 15. That’s 310,250 cigarettes or a total of 3,412,750 minutes of lost time. In more understandable terms, that means this person would have lived an extra six and a half years if he-she hadn’t ever smoked. My question is: would that be much of a bonus?’ Columnist James Whitaker, The Mirror, January 2000
‘OH, I LIKE smoking, I do. I smoke for my health, my mental health. Tobacco gives you little pauses, a rest from life. I don’t suppose anyone smoking a pipe would have road rage, would they?’ Artist David Hockney, Daily Telegraph, July 1999
‘IF I CANNOT smoke in heaven, then I shall not go.’ Mark Twain (1835-1910)
After a truly good meal, an outstanding cigar is still the most satisfying after-dinner activity that doesn’t involve two human beings. ~ Brad Shaw
“If your wife doesn’t like the aroma of your cigar, change your wife.”
Zino Davidoff
