It was not like other Labor Day weekends; there were no cookouts, pool parties, or last minute fashion shows of white shoes. The weather was dreadful and the tourists seemed to have left early; my big worry is what replaces them in the coming months. Drinking--the official sport of South Beach--did, however, go on unabated; I never understood why the Olympic committee didn't enter it into competition. It is a dangerous sport which takes maximum strength of will and body to compete in. While decent and worldly competitors in the sport of drinking publicly acknowledge that it begins every day at 4 PM, insiders know it that the real players start at 1. Those of us who are those players arrive heavily veiled; as the afternoon goes on, layers come off. Here, Mr. Astor polishes off a bottle of bubbly that none other than that society magnificence, Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish, dropped off to us (there were five other bottles rolling around on the floor of her carriage that day). Now, all eyes will be on "season" and if it really does happen this year; there are no guarantees in this Bush-riddled economy. We have great hopes, but--whatever happens--there will be Happy Hour.