I’m broke. They were suppose to give me a one week advance, but they didn’t. So I went down to payroll and met Fernando Ruiz. He’s the payroll guy. He’s also argentine – or is it argentinian – anyway he’s from argentina. He’s been with this company for over thirty years. “Can you believe it,” he said. No. I could not. Thirty years in that cramped little office doing pay roll shit. “I cannot Mr. Ruiz”. “Call me Fer,” he said. And then he got started, he said he escaped persecution from the military Junta in his country back in the seventies and he pointed to a picture in a frame on his desk. He talked about torture chambers and hyperinflation. Thousands disappeared, he said. But Fer, what about my advance. “Be patient; it will come. I worked my way up from the mailroom.” My advance, Fer, not my advancement. So I got that sorted out. They paid me, and last night I went out with Julien – we go for find ze gurls and ze smoke – a French guy from Briançon. I call him plan B ‘cause he’s never plan A. Brendan had a date with that German girl from queen’s night. I hate him. I hate his muscles. I hate the fact that his legs are too skinny for the rest of his body cause he's too busy loving his pecs (I have two words: Michael Douglas), I hate that when he goes out the whole friggin’ apartment smells like Armani Attitude. And I especially hate the fact that he’s from Portland and gets all these European “chicks”. My chicks. Whatever happened to that good old anti-american sentiment in the early days of Iraq. Hello! They’re still there with guns. Where'd it all go? I’m a full-breed European and when I go for find ze gurls I never do. I see a problem there.
