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.

Probably

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...

so begins my adventures in astigmatism...

i have decided to relieve my eyes of the addiction that is perscription. 

my theory, based off of fragmented thoughts bounced around while staring out the train window, is that; my eyes, having spent most of their life behind the iron curtain of medically altered glass, have been weakened if not numbed by their lack of exposure to a world uncensored by foculation. with every passing framed year my eyes have undergone a slow moleification; i give myself five to ten more years before i am utterly dependent on ecolocation or my legendary sense of smell (i've could find five grains of salt in a bag of sugar on olfactory power alone).

this simply won't do.

some serious optical training is required.

and i figure the first hurdle to topple is to rip the greatest crutch from the bridge of my nose.

my Glasses.


however my ocular addiction is much too far advanced for cold turkey methods.  i will, for the time being, need to keep a pair of the loathsome lorgnettes on my persons at all times to avoid Mr.Magoo-esque mishaps (which i'm most certain would run amock in my daily; though this could be a plus).

sans-spectaculs, my eyesight is a Monet painting.  it is worst at night, where traffic lights and street lamps turn my surroundings into a pond if water lilies.  beautiful, until you walk face first into a tree.  Delilification happens at about a yards distance from the target; naturally the smaller or brighter the object is the closer the range need be before the image crisps.  everything else in the background is a two-year old's fingerpainting.  without the paintstained child's explanation you wouldn't know if it was grandpa or an airplane (finger's crossed that it's a mix of both).

Still, despite the overexaggerated dangers, i beleive this to be a worthy venture.

so begins my adventures in astigmatism...