My car’s odometer turned 100,000 in a Target parking lot on Saturday. It got me thinking how parking lots are L.A.’s blank pages. A few weeks ago, nearby restaurant parking lots were filled with bands were blasting fuzzy guitar sounds as part of the Eagle Rock Music Festival. Sometimes, this parking lot is a farmer’s market with tomato and peach stands. This time, someone set up an inflatable slide, pony rides, pumpkin picking and a mini ATV course divided by bales of hay. A chain link fence separated this fantasia of rural life from cranky drivers. You need parking lots to write the American dream, I guess — to load up at a store full of low-priced plastic goods, you need a car and a place to park your SUV. If you don’t live close enough to the farm, the farm can come to an empty space close to you. My reverie came to an end when I saw my side view mirror lurching crookedly. (I didn’t recall hitting anything!) I had to drive home with my window rolled down, holding my mirror in place.