Any man who packs a big bore Sharps carbine could come in mighty handy, if we're attacked by buffalo... or elephants.

I sat at the bar, alone, waiting for my friends to arrive when she sat down next to me and proceeded to ruin my night. I wasn't looking for anything from anyone at that point as me pals had yet to arrive but she was. She was looking hard for trouble or fucking or some wretchedly stupid and drunk combination of the two. Fuck me, can't a guy get a goddamn drink in peace?

It started off the same way it always does. I'm alone and happy and some woman comes along and sees a situation that she can ruin. In mid swig of the ol' PBR she sat down and bumped into me which resulted in the first lame thing she did: she made me spill my beer. I attempted to ignore the obvious bump-and-ramble but she persisted in her entreaties by talking to me.

"Hey, sorry about that. I already had a drink at my friends house."

I sighed, looked at her sideways, and said, "Fascinating."

What some would call an uncomfortable silence, but I would call heaven, ensued. Sadly enough it quickly came to a torturous end when she asked me if I'd been here before. What? Who the fuck says shit like that? First of all, it's 2010 and that question is from, at the latest, the 80s so knock it off! Second, I'm sitting in the corner with a PBR and an empty shot glass and I'm not dressed up. I clearly don't care and am not looking to impress anyone.

"I'm waiting for someone," said to no one in particular but with the obvious intent of actually meaning "Fuck off."

"My boyfriend decided to leave me today. I've been drinking since lunch. Everyone has been really nice."

Fuck me. Really? This is happening right now? Who the hell did I piss off today?

"Ah, yes. Well, that'll probably stop soon."

"What?"

"Nothing. Listen, um, I'm waiting for someone and they usually sit where you were sitting so...," I wave Al over and since he's a mensch he gets both of us another round: PBR with a shot of Cazadores and she's drinking an appletini because my life sucks. Thanks Al, now she thinks I ordered us drinks. Remind me to tip you with a swift kick to the nuts.

"Thanks. See, it's easy to be nice, right?"

I pass on answering or explaining anything and decide to retreat into my fantasy world where I'm a Viking and no one is bothering me. Again, there's a wonderful silence for a few moments that is eventually shattered.

"So what's your name?"

"Marlowe."

"Marlowe? Is that your first name?"

"Phillip is my first name."

"Phillip Marlowe? What a nice name."

"What? Really? Jeez, OK, listen, I need to go."

"I'll be here. I'll watch your drink."

I make my way through the throng of rockabilly, punker, and emo kids and make it to the bathroom. Silence. Pissing. Ah, all is right in the world except what? Oh yes, my drink is being guarded by a drunk with a deep desire for conversation and a long night.

"Ha! I kind of missed you," she says, a lisp already developing and a dangerous smile contorting her face.

I'm not happy now, in fact I'm seriously annoyed. All I wanted was a drink with my friends in my favorite bar but now... She started pulling out a vial of what I assumed was blow and waggled it at me, trying to look sexy. This needed to stop.

So I left. I listened to classical music on the way home. I walked into my house, petted my dog, and kissed my hot wife.

You thought this was going somewhere, didn't you?

Peace out, bitches!

This is another fine mess you've gotten me into!

Victorville is not for the faint of heart or those with any whiff of urbane sophistication. It is far too hot for how dull it is. If a place is going to be this hot it must be exotic, interesting, alive, in short, all things Victorville is most certainly not. I am here for two days pursuing the all mighty if slightly worthless dollar, par for the course.

We are shooting a promo for the American version of Top Gear. This is apparently a big deal although you wouldn't know it from the utter lack of organization thus far on display. Everything is being handled at the last minute and with an oddly distinct lack of professionalism as if those involved were trying to show off how little they know about the process of filmmaking. Ah, the Digital Age! Buy a computer and a Red or a 5D and you to can start parading around as if you were the reincarnation of Cecil B. DeMille, minus an iota of talent or common sense.

At least it will be over soon.

At some point I will get out of this fireplace of a room.

At last, I will be in Arizona hunting elk for an all too brief time.

Peace out, bitches!