You want to know how I feel about Spies? Two words: Dream Job. Wear Lycra, do Kung Fu, balance exhilarating rumbles with Bad Guys with excruciatingly boring day job. Nothing wrong with that.
I actually might have made a reasonably good spy. Costume?
Check. Kung Fu skills? A little rough, perhaps, but I've got a good kick. Double life?
Sometimes. It's all relative.
In the very recent past, I had to channel my inner
Sydney Bristow as I worked on a super-top-secret new business pitch. Well, it's over now. And we lost. So, now I can finally break the
cone of silence.
It had all the makings of a good spy thriller: a crack team of highly talented, but possibly unstable operatives was assembled to complete a gargantuan task under an impossible deadline. Along the way there were clandestine meetings, strange people with dangerous accents, suspicious foods, and a whirlwind trip to a dingy little European town.
It was thrilling. The fate of the world (a.k.a. next year's forecast) was in our hands! The following images were pulled off an old Soviet satellite:
Radioactive snack-ums from the Crown Club. I brought home a sample to be analyzed in the lab.
Even super spies can supersize.
Our "target" is the guy in the red jacket.
Here we are posing as tourists. Hiding in plane sight. Genius, isn't it?
See, with the glasses, no one knows it's me!
Flesh Loaf. With salad.
I make this guy taste all my food to make sure it's not poisoned.
I caught this guy paying homage to Colonel Klink.
Those eastern Europeans are so superior. 
The trick to having an alias is getting the details right. Like having a "Hildegarde" name-mug on your desk.
Beer and pretzels. With cheese. And butter. They were out of salad.
Ah, we were young. Full of champangne and dreams!
I think this was a costume. I hope it was a costume.
