Shaken, not stirred

Moving is always strange, especially for me, since I have no sense of direction. In generally takes me a couple of weeks in a new office before I can reliably make it to the bathroom without getting lost.

The move to this blog has been particularly disorienting, however, because along with the office, I have a shiny new Macintosh. The Atlantic is a Mac shop, and now I'm enjoying the much-vaunted usability, which of course isn't very, since I've spent fifteen years getting extremely, extremely good at using a PC. Then there's fielding all the instant messages from my friends with Apples . . . "So you're using a Mac? Awesome! You should totally come to prayer group on Saturday! John's bringing his guitar!"

The worst part is the gnawing sense that a few weeks from now, when I've stopped Jonesing for a left mouse button, it'll be me with the suspiciously glassy eyes, saying "I never really lived until I got my MacBook . . . "