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…”