I drove today

as it started to get dark. As Fletch puts it, 'la hora de crepusculo,' past the flock of lambs (if lambs make flocks). Past the tarnishing vintage truck that's been parked in the same spot for the past three months - still for sale. Past the goats that a fellow citizen loans to the city to clean out leftover foliage from the dry, summer months (to prevent wildfires). Through the winding roads of Lakeville Highway; past the military wasteland that is Mare Island abandoned military base, into the town of American Canyon. I surveyed the aquatic center, which is basically a pool covered by a giant balloon-like tarp that looks like it belongs in an X-files episode. Kids were practicing basketball on a new basketball court with electronic scoreboards that I could read from the street. The houses were dark and their lawns were mowed. People were coming home from work.

The thing that caught my ear on the radio was some solo cello accompanied by a symphony. I never listen to classical radio even having been a classical musician for most of my life. The DJ said, "Here's another one to end your long day at work!"

Suddenly, I realized he was talking to me. And that thought was, in combination with the suburban landscape that was comforting after a long day, unnerving. I felt like David Byrnes saying, "How did I get here? This is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife." But, then again, my favorite thing that I've read in the past couple of months is, "The Case For God."

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I know this woman who is just ... amazing. And I love her. And she lives in cow-town Vacaville. And she has an adopted daughter. And she's the 'get things done' kinda lady who heads out to make copies for me to the only copy machine in town without directions. Turns out, the copy machine is broken.

As she retells me this story, she says, "So I decided to go to the bathroom."

And I ask, "Wait, was there a copy machine in the bathroom?!"

"No," she says. "I just had to pee."

When she came out of the bathroom, she asked the pharmacy if they would please, please, please make the copies. They did. And she saved the day.

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Moreover, the other day I saw a construction truck with a bumper sticker that read, "I love Gay Porn" ... in the middle of cow-country! Apparently, gay fags can get work in construction in the middle of suburbia during a recession. Now that's what I want to hear!

Maybe I'm just totally becoming suburban brainwashed, but when I hear new country radio sing, "These are my people! This is where I come from!" with this Americana pride ... the message doesn't sound too different from hearing hip-hop brag about Compton in the 90s or the dirty south singing love for their 'hood. Which is to say, we all sing story-songs - with pride - about the crappy places where we live. And they are all so wonderful. Each and every one of them.

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My mom's best friend has a lump in her breast. She was holding off on telling her two teenage daughters until after the oldest finished her SATs. She didn't use the word cancer. Instead she said that she had to have a lump removed ... "lots of tests ... lots of doctors ... probably some recovery ... and a little rest."

The way my mom tells it, the both girls respond in character.

The first listens silently to her mother explain the situation. She asks, "Is it malignant?" Mom responds, "Yes." Then she asks, "What stage is it in?" "Mom responds, "Stage two." "You'll be fine," she replies.

The second daughter responds with, "Well, I saw on TV - there was this mom who had breast cancer - and she was fine. So ... you'll be fine."

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All of these stories made me smile today.