One more brew, this kanpai's for you

Frampton can't read kanji either.

We said goodbye to the rest of the group, Frampton and I, then boarded an all-night train northwest to Ishikawa prefecture, to pick up an old Findlay alumni friend and bring her back to Tokyo. 14 rather misguided and disheveled hours later, we arrived unshaven and unshowered on empty stomachs. Warm Japanese hospitality soon accommodated for all three. For the record though, I took care of my shaving and showering needs without any help. Kanazawa was every bit as beautiful and rainy as I remember it to be. Highlights included getting positively trashed with Mr. Tsuji--a straight-faced salaryman whose smile and kind word only break face when absolutely necessary. I sorta wish people would stop screwing with the settings on my camera. Bastards.
Anyway, two nights later, our little company, now three, headed back to the northern Tokyo area to meet up with two of the coolest people on the face of this planet, for what will most likely be the last chapter in my storied trip. We actually beat our timetable by two hours back to Oyama (Tochigi pref.) station where Dyki and Mayu whisked us away to their sweet apartment.
I didn't even have a chance to take my hat off before there was a beer in my hand. This house kicks ass because when we kanpai, we kanpai hard.

We've done well laying low during the day, shopping for souvenirs and DS games in the evenings, and then turning every weeknight into a Friday night--it's been a nice unwinding from the chaos that got us all here. Probably skate tomorrow. All good things. Ah, almost forgot to mention the oysters.
A little backstory if I may. I'm quite possibly the most thorough and prolific diner you'll ever meet. If it fits between my two jaws, it goes down the hatch. Even if it doesn't fit (wide load, overweight, unwieldy, etc.), I'll still eat it. Anyway, so in between the amazing edamame and the boiled golden-eyed snapper, there were these nama kaki--raw oysters. Now, I've had all sorts of weird and insane excuses for cuisine in my time here--including oysters and mussels in all manner of preparedness, but never raw. And never the size of a fat man's freaking fist. Everybody else at the table had the presence of mind to cut their respective oysters in half, but such cowardice is only for mortals with diminutive and cowardly mouths. It should also be noted that "presence of mind" is quickly forsaken with beer in the equation. Several large beers actually. Caution three sheets to the wind, I gave my chopsticks a good luck kiss...In all my years as a walking garbage disposal, I've never wanted to wretch and puke as bad as I wanted to in the 45 seconds it took to get the squishy, salty, bloated mass far enough to the back of my throat to dispose of it in a socially appropriate manner that would please the cheering locals. Holy ass, that was quite possibly the most disgusting excuse for food that has ever made it past my jaded gullet. I still win though. You wouldn't have had done it. Barkeep, one more beer, and give that bitch wings!