Picture Miami with a little Chinatown every few blocks and lots of American stores. If you went to South Beach on a record hot summer day, walked up Lincoln St, ate bowls of Mee Hoon on Washington instead of Media Noche sandwiches, bought film and Banana Republic cashmere wife-beaters back on Lincoln, then down Ocean Drive to look at tan chicks in tiny skirts you will have experienced Singapore

The prohibitive cost of a Bud Light probably slows down the drunks. And the last thing you want to be is tanked in a hot, zitty and fat concert ho-down. Like this multiply-limbless dude who’d been bumming smokes and staggering around the lawn on bionic stilts. He was plastered. The chick who’d originally plopped down on the grass with him had vanished, leaving strangers to pick him up each time he face-planted on a hunt for yet another cigarette. The kid was chain-smoking, trying to find ways to hold two smoldering fags in the knuckle nubs of the one thing he had close to a hand. My pal Ralph & I were trying to assess what could have happened to him – war vet? Awful car accident? Ralph mused that it might’ve been genetic, “Something wrong with his DNA, you know, like it’s really DN-Ohhhhhh…”