Did I tell you that GB and I are taking a road trip on Sunday? We’re driving to my hometown–not San Francisco, though I try to claim that as my hometown too. I mean my actual hometown–the one where I grew up, went to college, learned to drink, learned all about rock & roll, developed my identity as the Surliest Hippie.

I’m excited about this trip. We’ll be gone all week–a day to drive there and a day back, and three days hanging out there. All my college friends are still there, and there are two great 4th of July-related parties happening, and–best of all–we’re staying with crse!

I love my hometown, and I’m ridiculously proud of being from there in a goofy way that only people who’ve spent time there can understand. And I don’t think I can tell you where it is, because I’d rather if people couldn’t Google it and find me, but I can show you what was–at least until recently–its most distinguishing landmark:

I went “back home” every year that I lived in San Francisco, and GB started going back with me the second summer we were together (and was quickly dubbed an honorary native, since he just fit in there *way* too well). It’s been four years, now, since we’ve been there–the longest time between visits ever. Our goddess-daughter, who was eight the last time we saw her, is now twelve (and is one of my friends on Myspace, which is so weird I can’t even tell you), and there are four kids of friends of ours that we haven’t even met. My friends that come from there, and that live there now, are hard-assed and sweet and sarcastic and honest (and hot), pretty much to a person. And they know me, and tell me the truth about myself, in ways that very few other people can. (Or do. Or dare to.) Maybe that’s what makes it “home,” huh?

Anyway–I’m excited about the road trip with GB (which is always fun, and overdue), and seeing everyone, and spending a couple days with people who knew me Way Back When, and still like me anyway.