Posthuman Blues

The other night I was sitting outside the coffeeshop listening to the weekend motorcyclists compare bikes when I realized that I was dressed quite similarly to the bikers sitting next to me: black leather jackets, blue jeans, black shoes. Even my hair was a little rebellious. It occurred to me that anyone passing by might -- for a moment at least -- assume I was one of the gang.

Then the biker nearest me, a guy with arcane patches sewn onto his midnight-leather jacket and an Australian accent, leaned over and asked if I'd kindly keep an eye on the silver helmet on the sidewalk while he and his friend went inside for lattes. Not having anything better to do, I took his place.

Suddenly the transformation was complete: I looked like a plausible owner of the chrome BMW cycle on the curb a few feet away. Cool. Very Brando. So I sat there for a minute until the Australian's friend reclaimed the chairs.

Sorry; that's the end of the story. No moral.