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RUSTEDFOX RANTS: TAMPA IS A MESS.
Mrs. Fox and I wanted to celebrate our 8th wedding anniversary, so we drove to Tampa and got a table at a restaurant that Mrs. Fox says "is sure to win a Michelin star in the coming year". The food was really great, but the trip was marred by Tampa's increasingly liberal bent, which is just ruining the city experience and turning it into "The New Portland".
Here was the plan: Drive to hotel, check in, have early snack at good Mexican restaurant, head to a pinball arcade that we have been to about 8 or so times in the recent past, play pinball, drive back to hotel (not far), change into formal wear, drive to dinner, eat dinner, return to hotel, wake up in AM and hit up the highest-end breakfast joint that I have ever been to.
We checked in at hotel (new to us) and asked where we should park the car. Parking is in the lot on the adjacent block, which has been turned into a de-facto homeless camp. Mrs. Fox asked: "What is that lady doing; sitting indian-style facing a corner?" - She's cooking her heroin, dear. We had to circle the lot once or twice because "situational awareness" and then saw her totally napped out on the same spot. She was breathing. I could tell. Mrs. F said to me: "Don't you get involved like you did with that guy when we were in New Orleans." I didn't. Parked the car. Opened the door. The lovely smell of both fresh and day-old human excrement everywhere. I put Mrs. Fox back in the car, drove her to the hotel, dropped her off, and drove back to park the car myself. Grimes was still napping off last I drove by.
So we checked in, dropped our gear, and went for tacosnack and pinball. The arcade that we knew would have our favorite tables (Medieval Madness and Iron Maiden tables FTW) is now a hangout for freaks of all varieties, and the immistakable smell of weed is everywhere. IT SAYS SOMETHING WHEN THE CLEANEST AIR IS IN THE BATHROOMS. I go in to take a pee, and those :72 seconds were the cleanest-breathing seconds of that part of the trip.
I'm playing Attack from Mars on one end of a row of tables. Mrs. F is down at the other, trying her hand at Godzilla. I hear her whimper: "Russs-tyyy..." in a tone that I understand means: "Helllp. Me." I look up and see that StoneyMcLimpWrist is too wasted to realize that he's standing uncomfortably close to Mrs. F; actually pitched OVER the playfield, hands-on-cabinet, watching the table, caught in a terminal stare, chewing on the metal posts of his bottom-lip-piercings. Mrs. F is too polite to say - "Back up, smelly", so this was her way of calling me over to regulate.
Friendly: "Hey bro. You're over the playfield. Let the gal see so she can make her shots."
No response; he just continued staring and chewing metal.
Firm: "BRO! Pay attention, amigo. Back up; she can't see the playfield."
Slow look. Localizes stimuli.
Eff Around And Find Out: "HEY! FREAKSHOW! [*thud of my flat palm on the side of the display cabinet*] BACK UP." The metal of my wedding band made an extra loud snap on the cabinet; similar to that popping sound that a pinball table makes when you earn a replay with a good score.
"Aged Out of HotTopic" jumped up and crossed his arms over his chest, fingertips under his armpits before blinking twice, looking at me confusedly, and slinking away. MightyManager (he knows me from prior visits) came over to referee. I told him what was up. Mac sighed before saying: "Yeah, we've had a problem with these guys lately." Before anyone asks; I had the takedown drawn up in my head long before "Find Out"; grab the arm that came at me across the table with my opposite arm, and pull it towards me, pinning him against the cabinet and offering me an unobstructed shot at a confusing blow and a good hold.
We had planned on staying longer and popping more tokens into Cactus Canyon, but the weedstench and the comings-and-goings of malnourished SoyBoys became too much for us to tolerate.
Back to the hotel. Those stupid eScooters are just haphazardly thrown about the streets everywhere downtown, abandoned and looking forlorned. A quick Clark Kent and I'm looking like I belong in a Bond film, if I do say so myself. Dinner was fantastic. Four courses, but the arancini stole the show, if you ask me. Pay the tab, back to Parking Lot of Uncertainty. I circle the block once or twice, and hit a curb because SkinnyFlannel obliviously walked off of the curb and into traffic. *BAMF*. Parked the car. Hotel. Sleep.
Woke up and got out. Passenger-side-front tire is flat because I spared SkinnyFlannel from being a trauma alert last night. I exhaled and looked around; garbage blowing all around me. Faintly, a harmonica played in the distance.
"Let's go eat breakfast, Rus. We're not coming back here."
I have a spare and the know-how. Thanks, Dad. You did good. We're not coming back here.
Mrs. Fox and I wanted to celebrate our 8th wedding anniversary, so we drove to Tampa and got a table at a restaurant that Mrs. Fox says "is sure to win a Michelin star in the coming year". The food was really great, but the trip was marred by Tampa's increasingly liberal bent, which is just ruining the city experience and turning it into "The New Portland".
Here was the plan: Drive to hotel, check in, have early snack at good Mexican restaurant, head to a pinball arcade that we have been to about 8 or so times in the recent past, play pinball, drive back to hotel (not far), change into formal wear, drive to dinner, eat dinner, return to hotel, wake up in AM and hit up the highest-end breakfast joint that I have ever been to.
We checked in at hotel (new to us) and asked where we should park the car. Parking is in the lot on the adjacent block, which has been turned into a de-facto homeless camp. Mrs. Fox asked: "What is that lady doing; sitting indian-style facing a corner?" - She's cooking her heroin, dear. We had to circle the lot once or twice because "situational awareness" and then saw her totally napped out on the same spot. She was breathing. I could tell. Mrs. F said to me: "Don't you get involved like you did with that guy when we were in New Orleans." I didn't. Parked the car. Opened the door. The lovely smell of both fresh and day-old human excrement everywhere. I put Mrs. Fox back in the car, drove her to the hotel, dropped her off, and drove back to park the car myself. Grimes was still napping off last I drove by.
So we checked in, dropped our gear, and went for tacosnack and pinball. The arcade that we knew would have our favorite tables (Medieval Madness and Iron Maiden tables FTW) is now a hangout for freaks of all varieties, and the immistakable smell of weed is everywhere. IT SAYS SOMETHING WHEN THE CLEANEST AIR IS IN THE BATHROOMS. I go in to take a pee, and those :72 seconds were the cleanest-breathing seconds of that part of the trip.
I'm playing Attack from Mars on one end of a row of tables. Mrs. F is down at the other, trying her hand at Godzilla. I hear her whimper: "Russs-tyyy..." in a tone that I understand means: "Helllp. Me." I look up and see that StoneyMcLimpWrist is too wasted to realize that he's standing uncomfortably close to Mrs. F; actually pitched OVER the playfield, hands-on-cabinet, watching the table, caught in a terminal stare, chewing on the metal posts of his bottom-lip-piercings. Mrs. F is too polite to say - "Back up, smelly", so this was her way of calling me over to regulate.
Friendly: "Hey bro. You're over the playfield. Let the gal see so she can make her shots."
No response; he just continued staring and chewing metal.
Firm: "BRO! Pay attention, amigo. Back up; she can't see the playfield."
Slow look. Localizes stimuli.
Eff Around And Find Out: "HEY! FREAKSHOW! [*thud of my flat palm on the side of the display cabinet*] BACK UP." The metal of my wedding band made an extra loud snap on the cabinet; similar to that popping sound that a pinball table makes when you earn a replay with a good score.
"Aged Out of HotTopic" jumped up and crossed his arms over his chest, fingertips under his armpits before blinking twice, looking at me confusedly, and slinking away. MightyManager (he knows me from prior visits) came over to referee. I told him what was up. Mac sighed before saying: "Yeah, we've had a problem with these guys lately." Before anyone asks; I had the takedown drawn up in my head long before "Find Out"; grab the arm that came at me across the table with my opposite arm, and pull it towards me, pinning him against the cabinet and offering me an unobstructed shot at a confusing blow and a good hold.
We had planned on staying longer and popping more tokens into Cactus Canyon, but the weedstench and the comings-and-goings of malnourished SoyBoys became too much for us to tolerate.
Back to the hotel. Those stupid eScooters are just haphazardly thrown about the streets everywhere downtown, abandoned and looking forlorned. A quick Clark Kent and I'm looking like I belong in a Bond film, if I do say so myself. Dinner was fantastic. Four courses, but the arancini stole the show, if you ask me. Pay the tab, back to Parking Lot of Uncertainty. I circle the block once or twice, and hit a curb because SkinnyFlannel obliviously walked off of the curb and into traffic. *BAMF*. Parked the car. Hotel. Sleep.
Woke up and got out. Passenger-side-front tire is flat because I spared SkinnyFlannel from being a trauma alert last night. I exhaled and looked around; garbage blowing all around me. Faintly, a harmonica played in the distance.
"Let's go eat breakfast, Rus. We're not coming back here."
I have a spare and the know-how. Thanks, Dad. You did good. We're not coming back here.
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