scrape it off my shoe with a stick...

The aftermath of the house party is always found first by the barefoot, as the eyes are too squinted and sore to notice anything beyond the immediate target.  At the moment, the remains that remain across my room and kitchen floor are chunks of chopped cabbage and the occasional potato chip.

This weeks house-party-style of choice was the tradational japanese Nabe. Nabe, a most general nomeclaturing that is not rare within japanese fooderies, means "pot"; which is probably the only requirement needed to make the food.  What's left is a hodgpodge of veggies, meats, and specialized soups that are all dumped into the pot for a boil.  To make it more social; the pot, usually clay, is heated on a portable gas burner within the room where the fun fun is going down.  Once everything has been thoroughly doused, said bonneyclabber is passed around to be pecked from at the will of the partyguests.
 However the transportation of veggies from kitchen to living room usually leaves a leafy trail to return by.

I'll clean it up today.


House parties are, much to my chagrin, a rarity in this land of the rising sun.  Rather, they prefere to gather at vast restaurants in gargantuan groups; usually directly after work dressed in the labor garb of suit and tie.  This salvo of salarymen first strikes at 7, mushrooms around 9 before fizzlingout around last train.  In their wake; feilds of empty beer glasses, crags of cigarette butts, and the more than occasional street-riden office-worker too tuckered out to make the trek home.

These homebound hobos are a particular delight in Japan. A photosession of fun, these kids wouldn't wake for a pulled nose hair or a kick in the crotch.  Thouroughly saturated in sake they bare rain or shiny sprawled across the sidewalks and shrubberies of Osaka.  I stepped in one the other day and spent thirty minutes trying to scrape it off my shoe with a stick...

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