(This is the reason a lot of Floyd’s opponents “forget to use the jab” against him.)
However, I do it a little different, with a lead jab, pullback, then the right over top of the opponents jab. But that is neither high heels nor hacked up deals.
Since with The Salsa Swoop Move, you “pull back” when you act like you don’t know salsa and you “land” the right over the top when you “pick it up quick”.
After detonating Shore Club, I roll up to Mint in Miami Beach, slap five with the doorman (you know who I am talking about), who says with an accent, “Nice suit, Michael”, and I respond “thanks, merci“ as I enter the arena.
Mint is popping like corn as usual; tons of fly girls, and the energy is sick.
I roll around, give a “two kisses” greeting to a Chilanga I sort of know and settle in for a Goose and Soda. Sixteen bucks. Not bad.
I am feeling great, and I am Custom Suited Down, so I start ripping the spot off the cord.
Number Crunch a fly Ecuadorian girl, and Number Crunch and kiss a fly Cubana. It’s on.
I take a little break, spark up a smoke, and then I see her: the flyest girl I have seen in Miami Beach. Or at least the flyest girl I have seen in a few hours.
She is tall, thin, and dancing like pop rocks mixed with Classic Coke. I catch my breath and make a move.
It is loud as f*ck, but I get her attention and whisper in her ear. She smiles. Pauses. Then unfortunately, continues dancing.
I pull out some big guns as I whisper in her ear again. She smiles. Kisses me on the cheek. Then unfortunately, continues dancing by herself.
I pull out and grab another cocktail to regroup; I look back over, this girl is fire like hillsides in Southern California during Santa Anas.
It then hits me; this girl is one of my favorite p0rnstars.
I have pretty much lost, but I kind of fancy myself as “Arturo Gatti of nightlife“, of sorts (as in, I often pull out spectacular knockouts from the brink of defeat), so I go back in.
I throw a hailmary left hook, and…miss.
She goes on dancing by herself. Unreal.
I think of pulling out the huge Bankroll I have in my pocket and “pitching” her, but I wisely decide against.
Oh well, even Arturo Gatti took losses.
Come to think of it, I think she only does lesbian p0rn these days.
Postscript:
After the p0rnstar debacle, I saw the flyest Mexicana girl smoking at the closest booth to the door with her friends. I have two Zippos in my pocket but I use The Greatest Opener of All Time.
Bernard Hopkins defeats Jean Pascal in Rematch to Become Oldest Champion
Hopkins, who turned 46 in January, eclipsed the record set in 1994 by George Foreman, who knocked out Michael Moorer in the 10th round to win the heavyweight title at the age of 45 and 10 months.
The fighters started out slow, but their dislike for each other showed through as the fight wore on. Hopkins taunted Pascal repeatedly, sticking his tongue out at champion several times. He even came out before the seventh round and did about four or five pushups to prove he was not as tired as a 46-year-old man should be.
The tongue-wagging by Hopkins seemed to touch a nerve in Pascal, 28, who responded by charging like a bull at Hopkins, who was able to avoid most of the punches and appeared to enjoy doing it, as if he was teaching the kid a few lessons leanred in his 23-year career.
Judge Guido Cavaleri scored the fight 115-113, Danseco Reynante 116-112 and Anek Hongstongkam 115-114, all for Hopkins, who used his guile and years of experience to avoid some of Pascal’s wild swings, and to tie up Pascal whenever he needed a breather.
It was textbook Hopkins, and the stats proved it. Hopkins landed 131-of-409 punches (32%), while Pascal connected on just 70-of-377 (19%).
“First I want to thank God for the victory,” said Hopkins. “It all started with Smoky Wilson (his mentor in prison). I didn’t feel like I was 46 tonight. I felt more like 36.”
Another masterful performance by G Manifesto Hall of Fame Member, Bernard Hopkins.
I still remember when I used to roll in Hopkins’ entourage back in the day. (Watch the old tapes, I was the young, Custom Suited Down cat rolling. Or just look for the only, non-African-American cat in the entourage).
It will be interesting to see if he can dismantle Lucien Bute.
Writer and former graffiti tagger Roger Gastman has turned his love of the spray arts into a lifelong career. At 19, he sold graffiti supplies, later founded a boutique media agency that specializes in street culture, and as a 33-year-old, co-authored “The History of American Graffiti” with graffiti artist Caleb Neelon. The book chronicles the history of graffiti in more than 25 cities. Most recently, Gastman co-curated an exhibition at the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art (MoCA) entitled “Art in the Streets.” It’s the first major U.S. museum survey of graffiti and street art. Speakeasy spoke with Gastman about graffiti as art and his book.
The Wall Street Journal: I understand you have first-hand experience with graffiti. Where did you paint?
Roger Gastman: I ran around Washington D.C. area in the early 90s to the mid-2000s, which is how I met many of the people featured in the book. I did traditional letter-based graffiti, painting freight trains, subways and various spots around the city. Then I would travel a lot to meet other writers and paint in their spots. Go to see a concert in Milwaukee for a long weekend and paint some graffiti while I was there.
When you say “writers,” that’s what you call other graffiti artists, right?
Yeah, local graffiti artists.
How did you get your start as a “writer?”
I grew up listening to hardcore punk rock music. Everybody I met had a tag, and I thought, well, I guess I need to also. So I started writing graffiti. It was all related to the music and straight edge [subculture of hardcore punk that advocates abstinence from drugs and alcohol]. Little did I know it’s part of a much larger world. Lot of my friends got into trouble and got into something else. For whatever reason, I stuck with it.
Your co-author mentions loving the adrenaline rush. How much of graffiti is done for the thrill of it?
There’s all kinds of different adrenaline rushes attached to it. From doing a really sketchy spot and getting away from it to seeing the underpass where you did a piece of graffiti or getting a photo three months after you painted something on the side of a freight train from across the country, in the mail from a friend.
Have you ever worked in the “heavens?” I know taggers in Los Angeles will lower themselves from freeway overpasses so they can scrawl their names on freeway signs.
No, but the bigger the city, the more daredevil tactics and crazier people have to do to get noticed. Everybody is doing it for a different reason and they all have different skill sets. Some people are just taggers and not artists. Just scrawling their names across something is maybe their way to feel validated.
What’s the difference between taggers and street artists?
The name taggers is a derogatory word for graffiti writer. A tagger is typically a much younger and inexperienced person who doesn’t fully understand the entire culture and just wants to scribble their name.
So, tagging is basically how new street artists cut their teeth?
Absolutely, like A ball in baseball.
Your book is divided by city. Can you see the regional differences in the work?
The work is definitely different city by city. Especially up to the late 90s. Then, city styles become much more diluted due to magazines, digital photography and definitely due to the Internet.
