Singapore

Common sense would tell me to address mail sent to my new friends in the city/country Singapore as ‘Singapore, Singapore’. But I would be wrong. Singapore is like Prince or Madonna or Sting or Meatloaf. It’s so rockstar it needs no comma…no elaboration of its existence…like Moby, you should know who Singapore is. I would think New York would earn this same delineation, but some of the cool is taken away when you have to explain whether it’s NYC or NY state you’re referring to. For that matter…Monte Carlo, Monaco. I can admit my geography is not the greatest, but I know of no other city in the country of Monaco other than Monte Carlo. Like a big-mouth burger from Chili’s, this radical oversight is a monument to inefficiency. I think it must be one of those snooty polo club things that leans in the opposite direction from pop culture…like the difference between JT and Chauncey Goodbottom the Fourth…the illusion of complexity.

Leaving my gum on the ship, I toured downtown Singapore for about 5 hours in the morning. My overall impression was of a clean, but otherwise normal huge well-developed metropolitan city infused with back-alley Chinese streets reminiscent of Chinatown, with charming tropical flare, and the occasional mainstreet dojo or temple. Not knowing much about Singapore other than the American canings of the 90’s, I didn’t have much reference for what see of the city’s rich multicultural history. From what I understand, English is the most common casual language and Mandarin is the business language of choice, but there are many languages and dialects throughout.





Around midnight a piano player, band member, hairdresser and I took our second winds back to the downtown. I’m generally not one to be taken by the idea of club-hopping all night, but what ensued was the most successful and unexpected night of clubbing I may well ever experience (I hope to be proven wrong). There’s no sense in trying to recreate a night out in full, so the rundown is as follows:

Midnight: Taxi, “Take us wherever there is stuff”.
12:30am: Futuristic canopied strip of themed clubs and bars no less than a mile long.
12:45am: Enter a trendy club called Fashion, Abercrombiesque people overflowing outside its doors. Only serves drinks in pitchers. Apparently the after-party ‘it’ place for an international model festival (suddenly, I begin to acknowledge my need for a haircut). I meet a model from Kazakhstan and am astonished that Kazakhstan is a real country.
2am: Half mile down, we step into a riotous world of funk…I mean a real nasty packed house funk party getdown in progress…a community of slap-bassed big-band funk fronted by a extra large oriental woman in full kimono on the mic and saxophone. You might say the funk shui in the room was high (even better, you might decide never to actually say that). Local brews and dancing with the locals, along with a group of liberated engine room folk from the ship, most of whom I’ve never seen in open air before.
5am: We close the bar and seek out taxi, “take us wherever there is stuff”.
5:30am: Dropped off in a sketchy back alley, once again stuffed with people trying to get in the doors of the two clubs.
6am: Enter into a 80’s live band rave concert…a 3 story complex full of blue-lit neon and a massive sound and light display from the band onstage. It appears the night is just reaching its peak here. Everything sung in Mandarin (or something), so we go upstairs to karaoke. I hear Nelly and Chris Brown in 4 different languages. Make friends with a table of local hairdressers who don’t speak a lick of English. Amuse each other with attempts to communicate.
8am: Taxi to ship
8:30am: Room service and Family Guy
10am: Sleep

Singapore is rockstar. Singapore is like Meatloaf.