Good. I was getting pretty sick of work, to tell you the truth

We've been home since early November, unless you count a quick trip to Los Angeles or that long Christmas weekend or that whole Turkey Day thing or that weekend at Nigel's in Lower Upper Middle Hillstonburgshire, which is to say: we haven't really been home all that long. But I miss the van. I miss the mid-afternoon pause at In-N-Out. I miss that feeling at a hotel when you pull back the comforter and you aren't quite sure if there's a gecko under the covers. I miss being completely destitute.

Well then, I'm in luck. Starting Friday, we're off on a California-only tour which takes us from San Jose to San Diego, Los Angeles, Fullerton, Long Beach, Bakersfield, Santa Rosa, Oakland, Sacramento, and, of course, home in San Francisco at the very end. Looking here at my handy-dandy schedule, I notice we've got a ton of days off, conveniently in places where we grew up, have friends, or know a really posh abandoned cottage where the owners paid up for a decades worth of premium cable before dying in the bathtub. Which is nice, of course, because those places are all free and at only one do you have to avoid the bathroom.

In other words, we'll be touring leisurely enough to not even need an oil change or grow one of those beards you think you're enjoying until you see pictures of it three months later and you suddenly realize you looked like some kind of lumberjack sociopath and you're wondering why nobody shaved you while you'd passed out drunk one night like the good Samaritan you hoped they were. I've posted the dates down and to the right for posterity's sake, down under all the links you've hopefully perused time and time again. Hope to see you there. I'll be wearing my state flag t-shirt, some jams, and screaming "Eureka" every thirty seconds. We can bond.