On Friday evening we found ourselves at the Double Down Saloon in the East Village (for journalism) when something unusual happened. A woman walked into the bar, but she was from The Future. You wouldn't know it from her normal jeans (they were NOT Space Jeans) or normal shirt (NOT Uniqlo's Space Heat Garment) but the weird contraption wrapped around her face was a dead giveaway. We let her and her friend sit for a few minutes to let them think, however briefly, that tonight would be the one night all month that no one harasses them about the Thing On Her Face, before composing ourselves and approaching their table. Yes, she worked for Google, and yes, those are Google Glasses, and no we could not touch them. Here is our conversation (to the best of our recollection) with the Cyborg from the year 2014.

Gothamist: How long have you been using them?

Cyborg: A few weeks now. They're pretty awesome.

Gothamist: I don't understand exactly what they do. Can you see my organs? Or my sins?

Cyborg: They basically do everything that a smartphone can do, but faster and without having to pull out your phone.

Gothamist: [To friend] How can you tell she's paying attention to you and not watching cat videos right now?

Friend: Actually, we were talking about that—it's feels way more intrusive for me to have to pull my phone out and play with it than it is for her to look at what's on her screen.

Cyborg: Yeah and your eyes still have to look at the screen too.

Gothamist: So you can't just stare straight ahead and feign interest, you have to actually—

Cyborg: Right. And if I were on Facebook or something, I'd be doing this *Makes scrolling motion with finger on side of eyeglasses that will later be ubiquitous & cause of new devastating ailment diagnosed as Scrolling Finger*

Gothamist: How many people have come up to you and asked you about them?

Cyborg: It happens at least once a week.

Gothamist: This isn't exactly the place where you'd expect to find people testing expensive, precious-looking, cutting-edge technology. I mean, they sell Ass Juice here.

Cyborg: Well, that's kind of the point. You want to be able to use them everywhere.

Gothamist: Can I take your photo?

Cyborg: No, please. I'd get in trouble. There really aren't many of us. And I can't really tell you a whole lot about them. Sorry.

Gothamist: Fair enough.

*Tension builds palpably as the reporter barely resists urge to yank them off Cyborg's face, sell them to Gizmodo and flee to Monaco*

Gothamist: One last thing. Would you honestly use these even if your job wasn't to test them?

Cyborg: Absolutely.

Gothamist: OK, I apologize for my intrusion, and I'll leave you to your Ass Juice.