After a grueling day where I drove from New York to Boston, drove around Boston and somehow managed to find my way around despite the fact that they've changed half the roads in the city thanks to the Big Dig, then got on a plane and sat on the tarmac in Boston for three hours while being told my flight from Chicago to Los Angeles was cancelled, then getting to Chicago and managing to cram myself and my luggage onto the last flight to L.A., then being stuck on a hot plane for four hours two rows away from a baby who screamed the entire way home... I got through my front door at 3am last night. It was incredibly odd going back to Connecticut and seeing the house I grew up in having been sold to someone else and changed, the high school I went to having been remodeled and changed, and there I was, standing there like David Byrne of the Talking Heads, saying, "This is not my beautiful house... this is not my beautiful school..." As my old high school English teacher reaffirmed, Thomas Wolfe says you can't go home again. And damn, is he right. But you can go back to your new home. And once I was tired and worn out from my trip and wanting to go back to my home and my life, I knew... Los Angeles has become home.