Fear and Loathing in San Francisco Int’l: Repertorial Miscellany
I was somewhere on the edge of that “museum” when the spam musubi began to take hold. It hit like contraband adrenaline, that sugar-slick rice and salt-fat meat. The unearthly intimacy of plastic wrap torn too fast. And suddenly there was a terrible roar, neural-networked boundaries announcing themselves and vanishing at once in the very same neoned bang: how I am tortured for my hauteur, my gall, as a


