The briefest of moments carry a weight that doesn’t follow empirically from their duration. I’ve lived here for a month now. I’ve slept and eaten here for 30 nights. But it takes a infinitesimally small moment to realize this is actually my home. I was riding my bike around the neighborhood and the barista from the local coffee shop said hello to me. That’s it. No fireworks or passionate romanticism. No deeply existential thoughtful nights. It took a barista with a memory for faces to bring home the concept of home.

Think of 10 songs. Do it. Really, now. I don’t have all day. Ok, good. Now go through the lyrics to those ten songs, and I’m willing to bet that they will include at least 3 references to finding, being at or leaving “home.” Hell, The Beatles built a carrier out of it. So what’s so important about where you lay your head or hang your varies hats? Why is it so prominent in art and culture to find home?

Well I propose the supposition that men(I mean that in the sense of mankind, not the hairy ones with the Y chromosome) seek, at there most core level, simple comfort. Whether you find comfort in wandering, staying in, buying lots of stuff, collecting records or whatever, it’s all the outward appearance of the inner need to go home. To find someplace that you can call your own: your den with your record collection, your beat-up hiking bag, your bike or run-down VW van. It’s all home. It’s why The Beatles wrote “On our way home” or “She’s leaving home”. It’s why Woody and Arlo wrote. It’s Dylan. It’s Kerouac sitting on that NJ Pier. Home. Any one wanna buy me a home warming gift of expensive scotch? Didn’t think so.

Oh, and here’s your link for the post: this disgusts me. The best part is the DNA swabs.