The group of collegiate Congressional interns that I was a part of lived in a corporate apartment complex in Alexandria that was down the street from the Van Dorn Street Metro stop, which one was the last stop on our line. “Just down the street” was at least a mile, however, and so a shuttle drove us between the complex and Metro stop.  The immediate area was somewhat lacking in recreation.  We had a strip mall across the street and a mall down the street.  There were only a few restaurants in the immediate area.  We were in a developing part of Alexandria, and we didn’t even know the rest of the city existed.

We didn’t spend much time in Alexandria during those brief months. That little city wasn’t the epicenter of our world in DC.  We went there to sleep.  We did shopping at the grocery store in the strip mall across the street.  I occasionally went to the mall down the street.  We worked every day of the week in our respective Congressional offices in DC, except for one of day of the week when we were required to take our “Architecture of the Capital” class.  My weekdays were spent commuting the relatively short distance from the apartment to the Rayburn Building on Capitol Hill and back, sometimes staying in the city late for dinner or work events that we were either invited to or crashed.  The weekends were also not Alexandria-centric for us.  Once in a while, I’d take a Saturday or Sunday to lie by the pool in our corporate apartment complex, but most of the time, our weekends would be spent elsewhere.  We took day trips to places like Williamsburg, VA, or took trips back to New York, or just headed into the city to explore all the parts of DC that we didn’t get to see during the week.  We didn’t spend our recreational time in Alexandria.

One Saturday, however, someone convinced me to venture to another part of Alexandria.  They told me that this little area called “Old Town” was beautiful.  I figured it would certainly be nice, but was used to all the hype that was attributed to these “old town” parts of many cities.  Almost every city with a rich history has an “old town.”  I grew up an hour from Montreal and having taken dozens of trips there throughout my life, I was very familiar with Old Montreal.  I had taken more trips there than I could possibly remember.  Though Old Montreal is a wonderfully beautiful place, I just figured it would be another one of those same experiences.

We took the short drive down to Old Town and had lunch outside at a cute restaurant that I can’t recall any other details about at this point.  We walked around and saw a little of the historic houses, preserved cobblestone streets, and waterfront.  It was beautiful, but to me, it was the same experience I had had in the “Old Town [enter city name here]” of many other cities.  I went back to Old Town one other time during my stay in Alexandria.  I never became acquainted with any other parts of the city, apart from the short trek to and from the Van Dorn Metro station.

That was 16 years ago.

Years later, I found myself back in Alexandria.

It was earlier this year, almost during the same months I had been there in 1995.  I met someone who lived there and we decided to do a long distance relationship.  On my first trip there, still during the winter months, I took the train into the Alexandria station.  I had never been to that station before, and the ride from the train station to my new girlfriend’s place was through a part of the city I didn’t remember having ever seen.

During those four months, I took several trips down to Alexandria.  Even though the small city sits right outside of DC, most of our time during my visits was spent in Alexandria.  I had experienced DC during both that semester in college and many visits back since.  Even though I had lived in Alexandria for those almost four months in 1995, this city was a completely new experience for me.  I hadn’t experienced it when I was first there.  And like me, the city had changed so completely in those 16 years.  During the months I took trips to Alexandria this year, a love for the city grew inside me.

Drives through the city took me to places I had not seen during my stay there years before.  Alexandria is beautiful, quiet, sweet, and set apart from the concrete structure of DC.  Beautiful houses and trees line many of the streets, and it is not a unique experience to drive or walk by a park when heading somewhere.  The park adjacent to my now ex-girlfriend’s building was unsuspecting.  Looking at it from the outside, it didn’t look like there would be much depth to it.  Then you walk inside, and the trails and places to see seem never ending.  The park was setting to many walks I took alone, with a puggle, and with a puggle and a lady. 

The history is also a part of what makes the city so beautiful.  Although I wasn’t ever given the historical tour of Alexandria that I had been promised, the feel of tradition integrated into a modern city is overwhelming.  I was only provided with factoids about the rich history of the city and do not have an overwhelming knowledge of the area’s history.  However, Alexandria was an important site for both the Civil War and War of 1812, and the North can still boast that it occupied the city for four years.  Mount Vernon is also down the street, as well as hundreds of other sites of historic significance.

There were also the various trips back to Old Town Alexandria.  Almost every visit I made to Alexandria included at least one visit there, and I hold a special place in my heart for those many trips to Old Town.  Old Town seemed more lively and colorful than I remembered.  The buildings seemed more beautiful, the history felt richer, and there were many more places to explore.  Whether we were heading there for burgers or a spa day or just to run errands, a certain romance always filled the air in Old Town.  There is a magical mystery that fills those streets.

One night, my now ex-girlfriend and I drove down to the part of Alexandria where I lived 16 years ago.  I was curious to see if my building was still there.  The apartment complex and strip mall were not there anymore.  New buildings had been developed where I remembered only trees and open land.  And the Van Dorn Metro stop is no longer the last stop on that line.  I didn’t even recognize the area as we drove through.

I was told that Alexandria had changed quite a bit in the past years.  In 16 years, cities and people both change significantly.  Though I lived there during my first experience in Alexandria and only visited in my second, my experience with Alexandria the second time around was much warmer than my first.  It felt like a home.  I was sharing it with someone significant to me, which made me feel it in a different way.  I am a different person than I was at 19 and now appreciate the calm and quiet of a small, beautiful city, which I didn’t fully the first time around.  And, since my first stay in Alexandria, I’ve lived in England and Japan and traveled around various places in Europe and Asia.  Through my experiences seeing much of the world outside the US, I can now much better appreciate the rich beauty and history of everything we have here, both of which are omnipresent in Alexandria. 

It is truly amazing how the passing of time can change your experiences and perspectives with the same place.  I may have similar experiences with other places that I’ll visit again years after my initial journey to them.  Regardless of whether I ever take another trip to Alexandria, I’m thankful for both of my experiences with the city, and for the appreciation and love I now have for a mystical city that I completely overlooked the first time I was there 16 years ago.

In the couple of years that Glee has been on the air, I have yet to meet anyone who doesn’t like the show.  Most people I meet are in fact Glee fanatics, whether they are closeted in their adoration or very flagrantly open about their love for the show and everything that makes it wonderful.  But what makes us love Glee so much?

Just like determining the topic for this blog, for me the answer to this is simple: It’s about us.  All of us.  As kids.  But singing.  And dancing.  And often times to the same songs we’d want to be singing and dancing to on our own.  And that we probably actually do sing and dance to on our own in our apartments – or at least that I do.

I remember being in junior high glee club and chorus and the relief and joy we’d feel when we finally got a song right.  Things were simple back then.  We were just learning about love, but didn’t yet have the complexities of deeply involved relationships, and didn’t have to worry yet about what we wanted to be when we grew up.  We didn’t have any overwhelming responsibilities, so singing and dancing at whim was acceptable.

Though we should all feel free to sing and dance wherever and whenever we want, the constraints of adulthood keep us from unleashing ourselves at times.  Still, when we sit and watch Glee and all the absolutely lovable characters singing and dancing, it causes us to sit in a perpetual smile for the moments leading up to the show, during the show, and immediately following the show.  The next time you want to sing or dance, wherever you are, just do it – even if just for a few seconds.  The smile it will bring will be well worth it and everything will seem much simpler for those few moments.

The boy ginger kitty, that also happens to be the younger of the two, was recently sick.  My roommate took him to the vet, who gave her medicine to give to him a couple times a day for a couple weeks.  When you have something like a child, or a stubborn cat, giving that being anything they don’t want a couple times a day for a couple weeks is quite a difficult and frustrating process.  Since the sick cat isn’t mine, I didn’t have to partake in the process – not until my roommate went on vacation and left for a few days.

The medicine that this boy ginger kitty had to take was in liquid form and had to be fed to him with a syringe.  This seemed simple enough.  I figured when he was just sitting there, I’d put the syringe on the side of his mouth, he’d open up a bit, and I’d give him the medicine.  It seemed easy enough.  You think it’d be easy enough.

The first time, this boy ginger kitty was fairly unsuspecting of what was about to happen.  However, after I shot the medicine into his mouth, all hell broke loose.  All hell.

He tried to run away as quickly as possible, like a cartoon character trying to get away so fast that it’s running in place.  His clumsy demeanor made him crash a little into the chair and whatever else was in his way.  Then he hid under the bed where he couldn’t be reached.

But, he still needed his medicine.

For the coming days, twice a day, I had to retrieve him from under the bed or under the couch or under the chair or wherever he was hiding.  But, I did not try this without some sort of protection.  My protection…an every day oven mitt.

I knew the minute I approached him each time that he’d be trying to maneuver his way around me and get away, so I had to catch him quickly…and the oven mitt would save me from those impending scratches and bites.  Still, the process of catching him did not always go smoothly, and so I’d find myself for seconds or minutes, and once or twice even close to a half hour, chasing him around the apartment with an oven mitt and a syringe.  Yes, it was as ridiculous a scene as it sounds.

Over a month later, that cat still scurries away whenever he sees me coming, even though the medicine feeding days are over.  He’s warmed back up to me a bit and may even come as close to me now as to sit in the same room with me, but I’m sure he still sees me as that person who, may at any time, pull out the oven mitt and syringe and start chasing him around the apartment.

I’ve been playing sports my entire life.  I’ve played soccer, softball, basketball, and ice hockey and rowed crew and ran track on competitive teams, as well as played tennis and volleyball on club teams and briefly trained as a boxer.  And, I play a mean game of air hockey, too.  Needless to say, that’s a lot of teams and a lot of games and races.

I think my first uniform was a t-ball shirt and cap when I was five.  It was blue with white writing and simply said “T-BALL” across the front in fuzzy white letters.  They were fuzzy because that’s what t-shirt lettering was in the early 80s.  And that’s what I remember about my first year of t-ball in 1981 or 1982.  I don’t remember learning how to hit or field or run the bases or any of my great plays or horrible errors.  I only remember that uniform.  Even at five, that uniform was part of my ceremony of the sport – that and getting my first baseball glove.

Similarly, when I was a rower in college, much of our time was spent in a ceremonial process of preparation and not actually rowing.  We’d get up at 5:30am, get down to the boathouse by 6am, take our shell off the wall in the boathouse (and each rowing team of four or eight people had their own specific boat…and the more novice the team the heavier the boat, so that first year consisted of lifting quite a heavy boat off the wall), take out the oars and get them ready, and finally push out after 20 or 30 minutes of preparation.   Then we’d row for an hour or an hour and a half, and then we’d put the boat away at the end of practice using the same process in reverse.  Aside from all the breathtaking moments on the water at dawn and dusk calmly but briskly rowing our asses off, these are the moments I remember about crew.  They were the ceremony of the sport that set it aside from all other sports.

Getting all those new uniforms and new pieces of sports equipment through the years has always been ceremonial – like an induction into a new season or era.  Likewise, doing all those things before and after playing – putting equipment on and taking it off, rolling out and up the yoga mat, getting the boat ready and putting it away – all make the experience of each sport unique and ceremonial.  And it’s these moments that I always remember years later.

I walked out my door on some relatively insignificant day recently, and there it was  - my first BMW X3 viewing of the day right in front of me.  Before I had reached the end of my block, I had spotted two more.  Along my path through the neighborhood, I saw several others of the same model, as well as several of the larger model of the same make, the X5.  And, on that day, I also saw an X6, which is quite ugly and not one of BMW’s greatest creations.  Along the way, a myriad of other BMW models also appeared.

Since that day, the same pattern of events seems to happen to me on an almost daily basis.  I notice at least one, but usually two or three, of these BMW X3s on my block, followed by an onslaught of other BMWs throughout the course of the day.  And by onslaught, I do not exaggerate.  It’s like going to the beach expecting to get a little sand on your feet and falling into a sandtrap.

Before the relationship with this lady started, I had never seen this car before in my life.  Ever.  It was just another nondescript vehicle to me, blending in with all the other parked cars and traffic and craziness of NYC.  Now, I indeed declare that BMW is taking over the world.

Why now?  Why after my 35 years on this planet and never seeing this model before the last few months am I now seeing it everywhere I go?  Why is BMW trying to take over the world?

Because that’s just the way it happens.

Details.  It’s all in the details.

We’re human.  We soak up new details with every experience.  Some of these details spark happiness upon our recollection of them, some spark sadness or anger, and some just are…we just add them to our artillery of details we have locked up in our brains that we may or may not ever use again.  This whole BMW X3 fiasco is only an example of all three of these things happening.  On certain days, seeing one makes me happy because I remember the good things.  On other days, this inanimate object might bring me a momentary flash or sadness or anger.  And on other days, I simply feel slightly annoyed that I’m seeing yet another BMW…or I feel nothing at all.

Maybe I shouldn’t credit BMW with trying to take over the world NOW.  Perhaps they have always been trying to, and it simply didn’t matter to me until now.

Details.  It’s all in the details.

I had to make a trip home to JFK on Monday to head home for an aunt’s funeral service.  Granted these are never good circumstances to travel under, but I was looking forward to being out of NYC for a couple days and seeing my family.  I never mind flying, but I hate airports…and this disdain is only exacerbated when I encounter seemingly impossible ignorance in the security lines.

Maybe I’m a little too unforgiving in this area since I’ve spent far too much time in airports.  After living in England and Japan and being a consultant for 10 years, I’d like to think I can get through those security lines in record times.  But no matter that I wear flip flops to the airport, don’t wear a belt or my wallet chain, and have my laptop out and ready to go through the scanner, there are always those people who seem to be going through security for the first time in their life and know none of these rules.  And on Monday at JFK, all of these people seemed to be in front of me in the security line.  This security line dance was followed by what seemed like the longest walk to my gate….ever.  Who knew that there was a mile and a half of corridor in any terminal at JFK?  Now I do, because that how far I seemed to walk.

I finally got to my gate for my delayed flight, intensely annoyed by the entire experience.  But, that security experience and the walk were over.  I took out my book on the history of the world, took a few deep breaths, started to read, called my girlfriend, heard her beautiful voice, and felt so much more relaxed.  These little things started to make the annoying airport experience so much better.  Then we boarded.

The plane to Burlington held only 48 seats, so saying that we were in a small space is an understatement.  I found my seat (which took all of five seconds) next to a man somewhere in his 50s.  I asked him if I could get into my seat, and as he kindly moved and said “sure” in a warm voice, I knew it’d be a good trip.

We hadn’t even taken off and he started making small talk.  He had an accent that certainly was from nowhere in the Northeast, and I asked where he was from.  Baton Rouge, he replied, and he was heading up to Burlington for work.  I told him how my girlfriend was driving to Louisiana to see her family and friends as we spoke, and he told me that one of his closest friends at his previous job was a lesbian and how he had such a good time hanging out with her and her girlfriend.  Then he told me that he was in the power industry, and explained to me in detail what the technical problems were with the power plants in Japan after the earthquake and tsunami.  We chatted about his family, and how I love New York but that I think I’d be ready to move somewhere new soon, and after no time at all, we were descending into Burlington.

His name was Keith, and this non-descript older gentleman turned out to be such a wonderful person to have in the seat next to me on this flight.  I’ve had experiences like this before while traveling and have sometimes become friends with those people and sometimes never seen them again.  Regardless, for those brief moments, the great conversations with these very unlikely and very kind and interesting characters make these trips much better.  Those breaths, that book, that talk with my girlfriend, and a brief travel experience with Keith all helped to make that annoying airport experience much more bearable…and even pleasant.

My creative inertia can likely be attributed to two factors.  The first is that I haven’t felt inspired.  I’m trying to figure out what is responsible for my inspiration now.  Is it that it’s finally the perfect spring day today that we’ve all been waiting for?  Is it that I’m in love?  Is it that a wire in my brain has suddenly become recharged and the juices are flowing again?  Or perhaps it is a combination of all these things?  Whatever the source, I am thankful that my desire to craft words has recharged.

The second factor is that I’ve been searching for the perfect thing to write about.  In the last year, I’ve started various blogs, sometimes getting so far as to only get a sentence on the page and sometimes getting as far as a paragraph or two.  But somehow, I just couldn’t close the deal…because I was searching for that impossible perfection.  I was searching for perfection when all I really had to do was write…anything.

David Whyte colorfully depicts this notion in “The Three Marriages: Reimagining Work, Self and Relationship.”  He states, “I once read a little book whose title I cannot recall or find, written by an editor, about her long experience trying to obtain manuscripts from her authors.  Finally tiring of the imaginative excuses for not finishing books over the years, she yearned for a brief, truthful explanatory note from at least one author that said simply: “The book is not finished because I have not written any words.””  Genius.  Pure genius.

So with this, I say farewell to inertia, and I thankfully praise spring, being in love, creative juices, a discontinuation for the search for impossible perfection, and for writing words…any words.

I was a bit of a comic book geek growing up, and I’ll still watch just about any movie that is a remake of a superhero story, like Superman, Batman, Fantastic Four, Watchmen, and dozens of others.  It’s a soft spot I have for fantasy.  There’s one interesting thing about superheroes, though, that can resonate with any of us.  Most of them were at one time just normal humans and became superheroes through some tragedy or an event that exposed them to some sort of mutant element.  Bruce Wayne became Batman after he witnessed the murder of his parents and vowed to help stop all evil.  Peter Parker gained super human powers after he was bitten by a mutant spider, but only became Spiderman after he witnessed his uncle’s death and felt responsible for it.  The Fantastic Four only became fantastic after they were exposed to some mutant elements while on a scientific mission, and used their superpowers to protect the world. 

Then there are the villains in the superhero world.  Villains are typically born out of these same types of tragedy or exposures to mutant elements as superheroes.  They experience a tragedy or they might be at the wrong place at the wrong time in some experiment-gone-wrong situation and turn into another being or acquire superhuman powers.  Unlike superheroes, however, these villians become filled with anger and hatred, and they quest to forever project that hatred onto the world and punish others for the tragedy they experienced. 

Superheroes and villains are both born out of similar circumstances, but simply choose to use their experiences…and newfound superhuman powers….in different ways.  Superheroes strive to make the world better.  Villains plot to destroy it.  For these reasons, it makes sense that superheroes and villains represent the good and evil of their fantasy worlds, and that we often use them as metaphors for good and evil in our every day constant “real life” world. 

Many of us love superheroes because they represent the wonderful and the sometimes invisible element of goodness in the world.  However, we “normal humans” might connect to these super humans because we have one important foundation in common- the human element.  Both normal humans and super humans are still human underneath everything else, which brings with it being vulnerable and fallible.  Superheroes are still born somehow, they can still be hurt, they can still experience triumph and exhilaration, they can still make mistakes, they can still fall in love, and they can still somehow die.

Tragedies, triumphs, and elements to which we are not typically exposed can transform us in the smallest of ways, without us realizing the process, or the biggest of ways, where maybe we can feel the overwhelming growth pains of muscles ripping or a heart breaking or some new energy running through our body at a critical single moment.  These things will happen to all of us.  It’s how we take those tragedies and exposure to elements and turn them into experiences that determine whether we become the superhero or the villain.  So through these experience, striving to have “superhero syndrome” and using those tragedies and exposure to elements in a quest for more goodness in the world and a better life- well, that’s certainly a pretty fabulous thing to be able to do, and something that’s not too “superhuman” for any of us.

Let’s take the commute to work, for example, if you are indeed one of my fellow subway-commuting New Yorkers.  During this time, we are relinquished to the fact that we need to be confined to the subway, and after a while, don’t even think about it anymore.  During rush hour, we might be lucky enough to get a seat, but also might also be holding onto a pole for some or all of the duration of the commute, perhaps squished into a packed car finding ourselves wedged between someone’s arm and another person’s bag.  At certain points during my nine years in NYC, I’ve even hated the subway so much that I’ve just resigned to writing this off as “lost time”, like a bad movie that you spend two hours watching and find yourself resentful about when it’s done since you’ll never be able to recover that time.  Then you begin to feel like you want to rebel against all that “lost time”, like this guy:

random pic...but hillariously disturbing

According to the U.S Census Bureau’s 2006 American Community Survey, 54.2% of New Yorkers take the subway to work every day.  While that number doesn’t include New Yorkers commuting by other forms of mass transportation, it is still vastly above the national average of people who commute via mass transportation, which is only 33%.  Okay, let’s be realistic.  We have 8.4 million people living in 304.8 square miles, which is a population density that does not make having all of its working population commuting by car during rush hour very attractive or even feasible.  However, the fact that 54.2% of the NYC population commutes by subway, and an additional amount of the population by bus as well, certainly has its advantages for New York City.  We can boast having a gas consumption rate equivalent to the national average in the 1920’s, according to Ben Jervey’s The Big Green Apple.

Let’s go one step beyond: of the City’s subway commuter population, the average New Yorker spends 39 minutes on the subway each way to and from work.  Let’s say that a person works 47 weeks out of the year, taking into account vacation days and national holidays, along with a few sick and personal days thrown in there.  If the person commutes five days a week 47 weeks of the year, that would mean that he/she spends 305.5 hours, or 12.73 days of the year on the subway, simply for the purpose of his/her commute to and from work.  And out of NYC’s population of 8.4 million, if 3 million of those people are spending 12.73 days per year commuting to and from work, then NYC is spending 38,190,000 days per year on their subway commutes.  That’s a little more than 104,630 years that New Yorkers collectively spend commuting on the subway each year.  How is that even possible?  And why is the MTA suffering such a horrible budget deficit with these commuter numbers?!  These numbers are also based on the figure of an average 39 minute commute each way.  I dare to say many of you out there have commutes that exceed the 39 minute average each way.  In addition, this is JUST the time we spend commuting.  We still spend days more on the subway each year in transit for other purposes.

TAKE THE POLL AND YOU CAN SEE THE ONGOING RESULTS:

Many people throughout other areas of the U.S. also have similarly long commutes, and maybe even longer than 39 minutes one way in some cases.  However, there’s a big difference- a lot of them are driving.  When we’re driving, we need to do things, like drive- pay attention to the road and be cognizant of our surroundings.  For me, this often makes a drive go quickly.  But, on the subway, we have the ability to space out.  For me, this can make the 39 minutes on the subway go much more slowly.

So we have all this time to use.  12.73 “found” days per year to be exact, and that’s if you’re the average NYC commuter.  This is actually an upside of the average New Yorker needing to spend 12.73 days annually on the subway in transit to and from work.  If you were driving a car, you wouldn’t be able to read while in transit, or catch-up on e-mails on your Blackberry, or get work done, or play games.  But New Yorkers have a whole 12.73 days more than the general driver commuting population to do all this stuff.  And that’s a lot of books, e-mails, reports, and Tetris.  What we do on our commute may differ earlier and later in the day.  On some days, I’m dying to read a book on my way to work.  Then, on the way home, all I want to do is not use my brain.

TAKE THE POLL AND YOU CAN SEE THE ONGOING RESULTS:

There is one additional benefit of spending so much time on the NYC subway- it’s possibly the greatest social experiment in the world in the greatest city in the world.  The subway is never boring.  There are always characters to amuse us, and sometimes we may even be one of those characters.  There might a handful of other things that we can do with those 12.73 days of our annual commute time, aside from all the reading, e-mailing, working, and gaming that the “normal” versions of ourselves typically indulge in on the subway.  (Keep in mind that these things are for rush hour commute times.  Certainly we could get a bit more “creative” with subway-fun ideas when the trains aren’t as crowded.)

1. Learn a new language.  Headphones are great for a lot of things.  And we’ve already proved that books are conducive to subway transit.  And, if you’re lucky, you might be able to put your newly acquired language skills into practice by eavesdropping on a conversation that is taking place in the language you’re studying on the subway.
2. Snap some pictures and make a subway story collage.  With your phone.  Inconspicuously.  But the random pics could be pretty funny.
3. Master Sudoku.  Okay, I don’t understand the draw, but 12.73 days would give you plenty of time to become an expert.
4. Clean up your contact list.  If you’re like me, you have a cluttered phone that can probably be organized a lot better.  And you probably have no clue who some of the people on your phone are.  At least a few hours out of those 12.73 days is as good as any to clean that mess up.
5. Draw.  It doesn’t matter how good you are at it.  Record your observations and draw people on the subway.  Cartoons.  Sketches.  Stick figures.  It doesn’t matter. 
6. Or, you  can dress up like Clark Kent.

So New Yorkers, yes, we spend a lot of time on the subway.  But, this “found time” spent in the greatest social experiment in the world can prove at the very least, very interesting, and at the very best, interesting, creative, and productive.  You never know what to expect on the subway in any one of the minutes of the 12.73 days that the average New Yorker spends commuting each year.  Like Dave Letterman said, “Everyone has this sense of togetherness.  For example, one guy on the subway today, he wanted to share my pants.”

I thought this was fabulous, not only due to my obsession with random signs, but with the ingenious equation depicted.  When I asked him what it meant to him, he texted back, “Nothing’s better than home.”  Touché.  If The Wizard of Oz taught us nothing else than the message of “there’s no place like home”, and of course, that winged monkeys are freaking scary and evil witches can be killed by the simple acts of dropping a house on or throwing a bucket of water at said evil witch.

This brings into question, however: What is a universal definition of “home”?  Merriam-Webster defines home, among many other definitions as well, as, “one’s place of residence; the social unit formed by a family living together; a familiar or usual setting; congenial environment.”  Urban Dictionary defines home, also among many other definitions as well, as “A word that means something different to each person who uses it. A person’s home can be the place where they live, the place they grew up, or the place where the people they care about live. In the case of some people, home is a variable concept, changing dependant on the placement of another person or object, or a person may even consider his or her own body the only ‘true’ home.”

Just like the subject of love, the subject of home is the source of inspiration for many songs.  And songs, after all, remain timelessly one of the main forms of expression in a culture that is bombarded with new forms and mediums of expression every day.

First we have Daughtery’s “Home”.  Nice song.

And how can we not pay tribute to Lynyrd Skynyrd for their incorporation of this simple and yet inspirational, subject in “Sweet Home Alabama”.  (Note: I admit I may be exercising slight biases in choosing this as a “home” pick, having grown up with Lynyrd Skynyrd as one of the records on constant replay in my house.  I believe that many of my high school friends had the same Lynyrd Skynyrd issue in their houses, as well, since almost two decades after it was released, we chose “Freebird” as our prom song.  But, I digress.)

Finally, it is impossible to forget Motley Crue’s “Home Sweet Home”.  I was nine when this song came out, and it’s still one of my all time favorites.

Let’s go back to The Wizard of Oz scenario.  Setting of conversation: At brunch.  Description: Extremely random conversation with a friend of a friend, and somehow the subject of “being at home” comes up.  Bear with me.  We’ll circle back around to The Wizard of Oz in a second.

Friend of Friend (hereby referred to as “Mr. Wizard”…which I realize is not significantly shorter than “Friend of Friend”):  It’s important to feel at home and be comfortable.  That’s necessary.

Me (hereby referred to as “Me”):  Yes, then, however, we bring into question the definition of “home”.

Mr. Wizard (in slight banter, but slight seriousness):  You know, all anyone needs to do is click their heels together and wish to be home.

Me: I don’t wear ruby slippers.

Mr. Wizard: Any shoes will work.

Me: Dorothy had ruby slippers.

Mr. Wizard: Any shoes will work.  You don’t need ruby slippers.

Me: Fabulous.  I’m glad that I have the complete ability to wish myself to be home, even with my Chucks.

So this conversation won’t be a riveting component in any stories or screenplays anytime soon, but it does answer the question regarding Mr. Wizard’s perception of the definition of home.  It’s anywhere you feel completely comfortable and want to be at that moment.  And I completely agree with him.  And although I won’t be clicking the heels of any ruby slippers together anytime soon, that conversation, in all its profound absurdity, will certainly stick in my mind for a while.

Since I refuse to end this entry on such a cheesy note, I’ll just say this: Stay away from flying monkeys, as they can be mean and unpredictable and steal your belongings, and enjoy the videos.