Fifty years ago today, the USAF lost a nuclear bomb. Also eight years ago today, I moved into my present apartment somewhere in New Jersey. Over a long weekend of sore muscles, blisters and cold, I began settling into the new digs, Electra and Oedipus already clawing the walls.

To me, the second anniversary has more meaning; it is by far the longest I have resided at a single location. And it represents nearly 25 percent of my years. This date packs additional significance given my childhood experience.

Growing up, the parents had portable move-for-a-promotion type careers and covered a lot of territory pursuing advancement. Places like Missouri, Kansas, California, Utah, New York, Maryland and New Jersey. Sometimes different towns within the same state, and all by age 22.

This legacy of mobility provided a lot of perspective. For instance, despite the zip code, there’s almost always a mascot/jokester in the house. I can be almost one percent certain of such a presence; that’s me. And looking outward, if you peel away the names or fashion choices, and personality archetypes are amazingly similar across the country. People are different, of course, everyone has something unique about them, but some facets of humanity are just universal from 90210 to 10002.

Sometimes friends ask why I stay in New Jersey, especially now. The answer is simple: diners. Nowhere else are there so many boxcar shaped eating establishments which offer twelve thousand menu items, twenty-four hours a day.

When I’m looking for a heart attack on a plate disco fries at three AM, why make it complicated?