thinking about this la salon thing vis a vis the (now very "last year" I guess) sf potluck / potlach thing:

since I am, in fact, using Hadaly for this poem thing, identity is more than information, for example, I can imagine a very interesting female android potluck scene which would illustrate the utter futility of thinking you're fetishizing the "posthuman" when you're really fetishizing death (perhaps of the author). Ah, yes, mayonnaise's true applications, or, does everyone bring Baked Beans to potlucks in Stepford?


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