notes from a laptop

Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I have broken several cardinal vows to never own a cell phone... to never own a laptop... and to never, ever be seen in the public square furiously typing away on said laptop. Yet here I sit at Flightpath Coffehouse in the middle of a freak snowstorm, confessing my sins to God, the internet, and Homeland Security.
I expect the Creator to text me at any minute and summon me to his waiting room.
This was no easy decision to cut the ethernet apron strings, mind you. After years of decisive indecision, I was compelled to join the portable computer revolution last Thursday, although as I understand, that train left the station the previous Tuesday. Alternately, I found myself attracted and repelled by the mysteries of WiFi; sneaking furtive glances at the denizens of fixed and glazed eyeballs all about me reflecting back their glowing computer screens.
What was this mysterious draw? The strangely whirring siren song of hard drives that beckoned wary sailors to their deaths, strewn about on the rocks of disney.com, irs.gov, and barnyardsex.net alike.
I needed to fulfill a proclivity to connect with friends in Cleveland or Shanghai at any given moment. I was desperate to feed my addiction, and Dell was more than happy to feed the monkey on my back for a small stipend (and handling charge.)
Upon powering up my laptop for the first time, it was as if Pharos had gently taken my hand and was guiding my ship to safe harbor. No lighthouse in Alexandria had ever shone brighter nor provided as much comfort as that LCD screen before me.
I know what you are thinking. The thought crossed my mind several times as well. "Won't his writing suffer, what with all the distractions of cappuccino machines, Stravinsky, and frat boys?" I was most certainly faced with the same dilemma. Like any sensible person, I pondered, "what would Dorothy Parker do?" I began to recall that once, when faced with an impending deadline that couldn't possibly be met, she simply filled an entire page of the New York Times theater review with empty space and two words.... "Pencil broke."
Somehow, "Access Denied," or "Forbidden Error 403," just wouldn't do. I was flappably undeterred.
So there you have it in an eggshell. Or handbasket, or what have you. Now you have all been brought up to speed (54Mbps, mind you), and my shameful lapse in self control has been exposed for the ridicule and condemnation that it deserves.
Feel free to cast stones and ask questions later. Just a small reminder that before you log off of your own iBook, but be sure to alert me of any hotspots in the 78723 zipcode that may have somehow eluded me.
Meet me there at 9pm, and we'll sit side-by-side in silence, blissfully surfing reality away.