Moto Money

The air is like lightning, crackling with anticipation. It's race day at Monza. The most talented and fearless riders in the game have come together at Italy's fabled temple of speed to put their skill and courage to the test in what is undeniably the greatest two-wheeled challenge in the world. Purpose-built racing machines line the grid, their carbon-fiber bodywork gleaming under the sun like futuristic sculpture. Here, at this moment, in this place, man and machine are preparing to become one glistening, screaming, speeding blaze of glory. Before them stands the twisting, forest-lined tarmac beckoning them silently, like an ancient ghost guarding secrets from its storied past.

Throngs of fans fill the stands, a human kaleidoscope reflecting the blazing colors of their favorite riders and teams. Grid girls strut up and down the pit lane in stiletto heels and costumes so sheer and form-fitting that they seem to have been painted on to their bodies. The perfect storm of petrol, rubber and testosterone hangs in the air, revving up the crowd like a wolf catching the scent of its prey and fuelling the mounting tension on the track as riders perform pre-race rituals with their crews, not daring to deviate from their deeply-ingrained superstitions and routines.

The teams complete their final preparations. And suddenly, everything changes. In a second the frenetic bustle of activity stops - and there is silence. It's as if thousands of people inhale and hold their breath. And as they exhale, the engines explode to life one by one, shrieking with pent-up mechanical fury. The symphony of raw horsepower builds to a crescendo as the riders crank their throttles in staccato rhythm, mercilessly revving their 800 cc engines to their 18,000 rpm redlines. Mechanics and engineers scatter back to the pits. And twenty leather-clad gladiators settle into identical battle crouches, poised for battle.

Finally, the red circular starting lights illuminate above the start/finish line. Held back by the lightest of squeezes on their brake levers, the motorcycles strain forward in their grid boxes like thoroughbreds at the gate. And then, in the blink of an eye, the starting lights are extinguished, brakes are released, throttles twist wide open, and the riders surge forward on a rushing torrent of torque and adrenaline.

Like bullets unleashed, the pack screams past the roaring grandstand in a blur of color and smoke, and dives into the first corner, each bike aiming for the same apex. Commitment and bravery eclipse common sense as the riders hang from their handlebars, leaning through the curve, coming to within centimeters of touching each other as their knee sliders scrape the asphalt.

The leaders snake their way through a series of twists and chicanes, but there is trouble at the back of the group: two riders fighting for the same square centimeter of real estate have collided, igniting a chain reaction of calamities that sends machines and bodies flying in every direction.

Aware of the accident, yet transfixed on their goal for first place, riders blast forward, jockeying for position. Like supersonic rockets reaching near eye-blurring speeds of over 300 kilometers per hour, these heroic riders scorch up the track, resolute, indomitable, and invincible. No pit stops. No tire changes. No mercy.

From the grandstand, the blur of man and machine seems like high voltage charges flashing by in unison, seemingly defying gravity as they lean horizontally into and around the unforgiving corners, somehow hurtling out and into the straightaway like a cobra's lightning strike for its prey.

The careening, screaming blaze of motorcycles continue their hypnotic ballet around the track, delivering unnerving, unyielding action as the sprint from start to finish comes down to three riders vying for first place. The best of the best. Heroes, invincible in their minds, unyielding on their machines. In quest of the glory to be champion.

All the while, each rider knows, as they navigate hairpin turns and pass inches apart from each other, and at blinding speeds, that only one can be victorious. As they rip around the final corner and see the checkered flag raised, their adrenalin pounding, it all comes down to this one moment. Who will be the pride of their nation? Who will be in "The Winner's Circle". Who will stand alone as the victor?

Cotton Club

Prohibition in America, otherwise known as "The Noble Experiment", initiated in 1920 by President Woodrow Wilson's Congress, forbid the sale and distribution of alcohol throughout 36 states of the supposed "land of the free" for over a decade.

While Prohibition succeeded in reducing the amount of alcohol being consumed throughout the country, it did little to prevent the inevitable erosion of crime, and violence, as organized crime franchises embraced the opportunity to cash-in on the government's laxity to consider the "whole picture".

It wasn't long before gangsters, mob families, bar owners, shipping rackets, and every outlaw north of the Mississippi jumped on, took over the reigns, and bulldozed their way to fast money – and lots of it.

In less than 5 years, New York City's underground produced well over 50,000 illegal drinking establishments. The booze was flowing, the good times re-ignited, and Gotham, America's newest playground for defiance against "the man", was the place to be.

From Adam to Eve, and on, we all want what we can't have – the intrigue of touching that burning stove is hard-wired in all of us. America was no exception in the era of the speakeasy, social rebellion, and uncompromised, insidious fun.

Where there's a will, there's a way... and there's always a way. "Always a way" - the mantra that not only bred the widespread defiance of a liquor-free America - it fueled the ambitions of every dedicated hustler, to push boundaries, and gain even stronger position in what soon became known as the "Roaring" Twenties.

With money, comes opportunity. Opportunity blows the world wide open to options. Options transform taste, often to a more discerning level – all the while playing lighter fluid to man's ego.

No gangster, almighty by virtue of his exceedingly, untouchable power, was going to accept socializing in a dark, seedy, underground watering hole, any longer. He was now lavishly rich – wealthy beyond all expectation. No way a don of dons was going to accept socializing in a back-door sewer – his social network evolved, pockets swelled, and he needed somewhere to spend it…and spend it in class!

"The Cotton Club", originally named "Club De Luxe", opened its doors in late 1920, on the corner of 142nd St. and Lenox Ave., in the heart of New York's Harlem. Backed by mob money and a heavyweight hero, The Cotton Club unanimously became the it spot, for seeing and being seen; for gorgeous dolls, and dashing dames; where the city's famous, and infamous merged to play….and play they did!

The true catalyst, however, to the "Club's" icon reputation, and its imprint on the times lied in its uncompromised, weekly offering of the finest collection of African-American jazz talent, ever assembled on stage, in a single location.

On any given night, big-band mega-stars of the era, would hit the stage, as headliners to Cab Calloway's mighty 10-piece orchestra. From Count Basie to Bessie Smith; from Billie Holiday to Ethel Walters; Fats Waters to Fletcher Henderson; to The Nicholas Brothers and everyone in between – The Cotton Club was a melting pot of immortal musical decadence.

The sound of Dizzie Gillespie's trumpet, Louis Armstrong's raspy bravado, the sultry, hypnotism of everything Ella Fitzgerald drew, in droves, A-list celebrities such as: Jimmy Durante, George Gershwin, Al Jolson, Mae West, Irving Berlin, Eddie Cantor, Moss Hart, as well as all other culture shaping luminaries of the 20's.

It was a glorious time to be alive, and The Cotton Club was cathedral to the city's divine. It's been nearly a century since its hey, and this, the closest you'll ever get to the glitz, the glam, the free-pour, and the soul of this corner of Harlem life during Prohibition in America.

Step up, and experience the thrill of stepping back to a time and place like none other. The black tie, precious jeweled, brass soaked spirit of the "Roaring Twenties", alive and well as you step under the canvas of lights towards the grand entrance.

"Hey Bartender, line 'em up – three finger pours all around....!"

Futbol Frenzy

The sun is blazing. The air crackles with excitement. The 100,000 capacity stadium explodes with cheers as the two soccer teams - the Demi-Gods - blast onto the pitch for what everyone is expecting to be a gritty and tough match. Fans standing proud, wrapped in flags, donned in the only colors that matter, singing and swaying in unison as anticipation builds, and erodes to a feverish pitch.

Playoff time in soccer country, as one team's season will continue forward - the other's, left to stew in the ashes of defeat.

Heading into the match, the Home Team is the clear favorite, with a 25-match unbeaten streak. They glide out on the pitch - bold, brash but cool, energized by their winning streak and ready to pummel the Opposition. The crowd roars with encouragement for their team as the start-whistle sounds.

Energy unshackled, the intensity is inexhaustible and breeds a cluster of glorious chances to open the match. But the Opposition is in fine form, up to the challenge, and show early, on their highly disciplined offenses.

Within a few minutes of the game, the Opposing Team makes their first attempt at goal - a long range shot from their center-forward, missing the goal post by inches. Several Home Team players, amid the crowd's rousing chants, rally together to slow the tempo, bringing a sense of order and control to what they know is going to be unrelenting warfare to the bitter end.

Unforgiving, back and forth action, as the Home Team begins to charge, and work the offensive zone. The Opposition's defense shows signs of dismay as the Home Team builds position, and like a well-conditioned platoon – patient, tactical – set up to flaunt evidence of their unbeatable reputation. One pass, two pass, a no-look re-directed chip onto the foot of the "Chosen One" (as the media describes their cherished captain), and "blaaaaaasst"…..! Top shelf - gooooaalll! 1-0.

The crowd wails as one, a deafening chorus of cheers, as the Home Club scrums, almost arrogantly, in revelry. Synchronized mayhem as ferocious exuberance overtakes the grandstands; fan fists pumping, flags flailing - straight pandemonium!

The game continues in lightning bursts of heroic action – a barrage of action on both sides of the pitch. But the Home Team holds on to their first half lead despite, what has turned out to be their most defiant, hard-nosed challenge to date.

The second half cracks into life with a flurry of action, and an early push by the Opposition. Inspired to make amends for their first-half shortcomings, the Visitors introduce a grittier side to their strategy, which leads to a three-pass break, up the midfield, into threatening territory. With the pace of a thoroughbred, and without hesitation - striiiiiiike – goooaalll!! A blazing twister that finds the net from inside the edge of the penalty box, 10 meters out. 1-1.

Optimism, however, does not waver from the stands. Confident, unified spectators, unconditional in their adoration of their hometown heroes. The energy – still in maximum overdrive, as the ensuing kickoff, once again, initiates play. Back and forth, one end to the other – no one is backing off, no one letting up. That is until, the momentum, starts again, to the sway in favor of the Home Team.

Visibly frustrated, the Opposition begins to weaken under unyielding pressure from the competition. The Home Team, although capable, struggles against a solid defense and masterful goalkeeping, to no avail. Play eventually, moves the other way, as the Visitors build back their offensive luster, and start peppering the net with long-range bombs. Goaltending is rock-solid, to say the least, at both ends of the pitch, on this particular afternoon.

The Opposition's efforts are not completely in vain as they draw a corner kick, after a gritty goal mouth-scrum. The "corner" is lofted in from the left side – a manage of swinging elbows, and shirt tugging, transforms into a collection of synchronized, vaulting attempts at the ball. One bounce off a head, two boot swings, a bad deflection off the back of a Home defender, and in the net…..Own goal?!? 1-2.

Grateful for the lucky break, and overwhelmed with relief, the Opposition struts their way back to their end – now the leader.

It's sheer drive, persistence, perseverance - that breeds champions. Virtues embedded in every action, routine; in the stamina and in the tenacity of an unbeaten team. An iron will that refuses to accept losing. An iron will to win!

Within minutes, the Home Team begins, once again, to pour it on – grinding hard, dominating possession. With the crowd on its feet, they ascend down field. A defender initiates play from the back of his own end, orchestrating his teammates into position with a few flicks, and swirls of his finger. A strong run across, then down the left side of the field. The defender takes a brutal, two-footed challenge as he is tripped-up trying to transfer the ball to his striker, drawing a foul. A teammate's free kick whips in – a dangerous cross into the six-yard box. Everyone off their line to play the ball, as it ends up bouncing off a Opposing player's chest, down to the ground. As if purely destined for nothing less than defining moments, the spiraling ball ends up on: the Captain's foot.

Captain for a reason, he is the monolith – clutch, clinical – the ball gets blasted - hard, high but as if on a tight-rope, gliding straight towards the net, and finds its place just under the crossbar……

Gooooaaaallllll – tie game. 2-2.

Seven minutes left on the clock – the crowd invigorated – the Opposition still standing strong…

Who will win? Who will step one step closer to the fabled Frenzy Field, home of the annual Intercontinental World Futbol Championship. The home of legends, warriors, and the ultimate prize of: the Frenzy Cup.