I can’t tell you how much I love this shot – it was sent to me today, after talking with the few friends still left in China.

Don Yap, photographer, named it ‘The Last Supper?’ and you can kind of see why.

this was every night.

of every day.

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there will be a time when I hope my nephew asks ‘what was it like?’ and I’ll show him this.

it was like this, nephew; drinks and smokes and sex surrounded by writers and producers and thinkers and cocktails… movie-makers and musicians that could talk backwards, artists and dancers with food piled high, high, high. we had no tomorrow, I can’t seem to remember one. late-nights were the nights, nephew, I didn’t see all that much of the a.m., and that probably is what kept us somewhat sane. there were no consequences, or so we all told ourselves, none there, at least – maybe later on. and there was love… maybe not the real kind, but it was there anyway. people were doing, people were doing – it’s something I think we all miss, the people who do. this magazine and that fashion line and this recipe – some failed, some didn’t, but that didn’t matter, because we were doing.

it might have all been too much, nephew – but this shot seems to sum it up.

we were there, before it all went crazy.

when they wanted us in.

and let us do what we wanted.

this was Shanghai, circa 2006.

and nephew-of-mine, someday I’ll tell you all a few of the stories.

’cause this, this…

was our sixties.