Armapocalypse

The heat never stops, even when it rains the wind blows clumps of dampness that re wet things, laminating them like a gladwrapped dish.

I don't know where I am. but it's bright.
Sylvia smiles and I tell her that I sometimes find living here like being in a foreign film (creepy). She tells me that Paris is boring, and rather crap. I smell smoke, eat cheese parata and share a piece of deep fried chicken with her. Her friend John shows us photos of his family car, explaining how he photographs all the 'junk' in the car, so that when his dad drives it he can use the photos to re-composite the mess.

At work I'm sitting on a desk breifing in a gizmo-dalik thing to be built from a Coke bottle . An old man who reminds me a little of my grandfather is waving it around while slinging a seamstress' measuring tape around it. Weng (who I thought was called 'Wayne' for a long time ) is on the other end of the desk, brows furrowed, a little man is pacing quick frantic circles around his head. This is 'production' - a bunch of middle to post-middle aged guys, who come up with ways to make and cost the more bizzare stuff. They kind of remindme of Mulder's Lone Gunmen in the X-files.

Dad returned from Shen Zeng last Thursday with some new clothes and a telescope. I brought it to My neighbour's place where we had some brandy as the night manager lock up theball room floor in the Shangrila hotel. We talk about hypothetical businesses, and I tell him how impressed I was by the Lexus GS300 when it outran the Devil in 'the Omen', "though, they really should have showcased the keyless entry and ignition."