Sing, O goddess,
...of the land of flat blacktop, shimmering hot landscapes in telephone poles and rural mansions, of got faith? billboards and Jesus fish, the loneliness of rolling brush fields and oil wells, songs of the open road, swallows' nests under overpasses and jet contrails under endless dusty blue desert skies; guts, God and Harleys with high school football, where Hee Haw meets Planet Hollywood, and the car dealerships set their 4X4 trucks out to bake every morning. Many a soul did escape this desert Hades, land of Driller Pride, only to come back occasionally, years later, to comment in superior Homeric irony, O goddess, but feel some connection to the land, some connection to that hick-boy-made-good pile of crap that makes both stories and plants grow with time, that makes said hick boys come back to the local famed ice cream shop to 
fellate chocolate cones in front of their wives. Hick boys do come back, to visit adoring parents, to get sucked into tech support for the entire weekend, to be fed, to be promised gardening services for small Bay Area house gardens, because that's what blue-ribbon gardeners from Bakersfield do for their sons and beloved daughters-in-law, O goddess.
While not Cerberus guarding the river Styx, Pelota will have to do.
Sing, O goddess, of Hollywood scenery-chewing and old-fashioned spectacle, of Eric Bana's big guns and Brad's tight abs, of eye candy for the ladies and a distinct lack of female boobies for the trouble, of weird flaming balls of twine, of an emotional scene with Peter O'Toole, of Jewish goddesses discovering what the whole deal with Brad Pitt was about and being inspired to read The Iliad just from staring at his ass...
Sing, O goddess, of how good it is to be home.