We're wandering around the Mission near the 16th Street BART station when we discover a mysterious little sushi joint. We enter, and are immediately overwhelmed. It's too much to take in. Have we been drugged? The décor seems to be the fusion … no, the collision of a thousand different cultures and subcultures. Not a single thing matches anything else. Christmas lights, a Day of the Dead skeleton, stuffed animals, hundreds of Polaroids of random customers, track lighting, various religious relics, and a postmodern pastel drawing covering a framed Beverly Hills 90210 poster. The handwritten menu bears little drawings of food items — a smiling egg, a grinning fish. In a corner it reads, “No m.s.g. Yes l.o.v.e.” We deduce that Country Station's décor is done by the customers themselves. We search our wallet and find a glowing picture of the Virgin Mary, which we tack on the wall next to a flier for a band called “Guitar Wolf.” Eating and drinking, we're feeling a bit dizzy. We notice further peculiarities. There are no flat surfaces. Everything's uneven, off kilter. The room is almost moving. Maybe we're on a boat? The entire place seems to be held together with thumbtacks, clothespins, and string. It's one big beautiful fucked-up scene. In fact, dare we say, it's perfect.