Posthuman Blues

Hell, maybe I could be the next James Bond. I'd be the perfect spy; no one ever notices me. Just the other day I walked up to the Starbucks cafe counter at Barnes & Noble and the teenage baristas just kept on talking. Like I was invisible. I could have looted the cash drawer and no one would have seen me.

I'd be an exceptionally useful James Bond if the mission required infiltrating a complex of beautiful women. Women, especially, never notice me . . .

You know, something's telling me this just isn't box-office material.