8/3/2003 Sunday

We packed up and left El Cerrito at a bright and shiney 5am in the morning. Very reminiscent of camping trips when I was a kid.

As we're headed down 580, speeding towards Castro Valley listening to some gawdawful radio station, Tiny Dancer begins to dribble out of the radio. And suddenly, frightfully, I am struck with a thunderbolt of absolute pure contentment, the kind that if we were to have smashed into a concrete wall at 65 mph at that very moment, I would have been happy to die. Really, really happy.

Of course this made me ball like a baby. Head said, "Oh no. Not 'Tiny Dancer'. Please." And pats my hand. He's the best.