Leaving Las Vegas

If you ever feel like you've been reading too much meaning into things and everything you see fills you with nostalgia and/or regret, just find a large group of young gay men from Los Angeles and go walking up and down the Las Vegas strip.

How did you end up here anyway, sweetness?

I think she said she's a fugitive of love or some shit.

The fuck? A fugitive of what?

I don't know. I guess she's an asylum seeker or a refugee or something.

Oh, okay. Well, that's cool man, that's cool.

Vegas is everything they say it is in the movies, so if you've ever seen a movie then congratulations: you're excused from ever visiting. Out on Route 395 I check in to a small roadside motel by myself. It's good to be alone and I take a lukewarm motel shower, wonder what I'm going to do next, and then lie down on the synthetic motel pillows and check my phone for mail.

There's an email from Cathy (I kiss the screen), ten corporate messages about nothing (delete, delete, delete), and one proposition from a woman I know in London called Astrid. She's flying to San Francisco to make a music video for Cornershop: do I want to shoot some footage? She's going to film life in Oakland and she's attached references of people 'turfing' – a mixture of breakdancing and bodypopping. She has a Lumix GH2, one local guy called Desi to act as an escort, and she's arriving next week. Am I interested?

I write back and say yes to Astrid and goodbye to Las Vegas.