kickin it live at ho-jo
Spent the day tearing through the boxes that haven’t gotten unpacked yet from the move for our camping supplies. We leave this week for the Tulsa Bear’s Halloween-theme camping run.
Our posse will get there two days early so we can have the campground to ourselves.
Today is xenohomo‘s birthday. He’s chosen to keep this year’s existence anniversary minimal and only invited “the folks who mean the most to me here in St. Louis”. I’ve done the small-scale, contemplative birthday thing before, so I understand his headspace. Our invitation to share his with him deeply honors me.
One the guest list:
Jon, my first “industry” boss back when I was a staff designer for The Art Museum, my mentor, and dear friend. Jon, who still works for the museum and regularly has art-shows around the country, has figured out how to keep that childlike sense of “wonder” in his life. He’s inspires the shit out of me.
Dr. Drew, a witty, articulate, young pediatrician who closely resembles a svelte version of Quentin Tarantino.
Jon, who’s notoriously and (welcomely strange), has picked out our venue for Neel’s birthday feast. INDIA PALACE. A restaurant tucked in the top floor of the airport Ho-Jo. The hotel itself is terribly shoddy – the halls and elevators resemble a run down medical building that hasn’t seen a remodel since the early 80’s. (it even had that medical office “smell”).
I was a little sheepish on the elevator ride up, but kept reminding myself that Jon’s never been off on a single restaurant. 
The elevator doors opened on the 11th floor to reveal one of the more surreal interior environments I’ve ever been in. Apparently at one time before becoming an Indian Restaurant, the 11th floor was a Tekkie-themed bar and restaurant. Polystyrene rocks covered the walls, bamboo section dividers, waterfalls, and vinyl pant life. The new restaurant proprietors felt they gave it an indian “feel” by hanging Indian art sporadically through the space. Every available nook had a Hindu deity stuffed in it. The lighting, carnivalesque.
It was all delightfully weird. Jon’s batting average remains flawless.
We devoured nahn and each-other’s company and damn near closed the joint.
They bet me I’d probably not-blog the event.