I want a write a letter to my local commissioner over false advertising concerning the copper rocket bar.
The other day, while searching for something to do this weekend, I browsed through the Orlando weekly and saw the copper rocket was advertising a ‘scary piñata party’ with several bands, including one named ‘a go-go’. I had visions in my mind of the bar in a party atmosphere with some big freaky piñata hanging overhead and several gogo dancers livening the place up. So I hounded my friends to go there.
We arrived, paid five dollars for admissions (for what I have no idea) walked in and was instantly disappointed. There was no band, there was no creepy piñata, and there was only a meager scattering of patrons sullenly sipping their beer while canned country music was cranked through the speakers. I was embarrassed and my friends glared at me for leading them into this vortex of suck. We each had a single beer and then hightailed out of there.
We made a pit stop at betos for some of the most evil Mexican food on the planet. I ended up having to cross the street to use a bathroom at the gas station next door because the bathroom in betos was saturated with the horrid smell of a thousand Mexican asses dispelling partially digested Mexican food. Not that I have any really bad comments about betos, after a few beers their food is divine, it was just one of those nights.
So we finally made our way downtown. We first stopped in the Matador, which is really not my bar of choice, but it’s also nothing particularly bad. We sat out front with our beers next to a couple of Guido assholes. One of them was around forty with slicked hair, a shirt halfway unbuttoned, and a loud braying laugh that he hoped to include anyone within his earshot. He also had some pudgy slick friend who bought shallan a beer. I have comments to make on this guy, but when I posted them in Shallan’s blog she was so disgusted by it that she deleted it, so I wont repeat it here. Needless to say he kept shooting beams of love over to Shallan, and I was unwittingly in the crossfire. I really did not want to sit next to these Guido assholes for much longer.
I was also annoyed because a street magician wandered by and showed us a few tricks. I like street magicians. I was delighted. I’ll take a street magician over a dirty bum any day of the week. The Guido’s acted like assholes to him, which annoyed me further. I went in to get another beer and when I came out the magician was gone. Everyone told me he vanished in a cloud of smoke. I was disappointed to have missed it.
I kept poking shallan I wanted to go to Ibar and get away from the assholes and she finally agreed.
Ibar was fun. There was an elective mixture of people there, and there is nothing I find more fun than doing a little people watching. A girl at the bar said Hi to me when I was ordering my drink, but I could not hear squat and had no clue who it was. Turns out she was someone who was from my friends list who I have never actually met. I thought it was nice she said hi to me, although now I feel rather rude I did not say hi back because I had no idea who she was. Such is the life of the half deaf.
I was not nearly drunk enough to join in the dancing, but it was fun watching the people. Much to my delight, out in the dance floor, a pirate appeared. A good one, too. Dusty coat and tricorner hat and a beard. I think Alan snapped a pic of him. You know a party is rolling when a pirate shows up.
After a while my head was starting to buzz, and since I was driving home that night, I decided to call it quits, and we headed out of there. I polished the night off with an over priced hot dog from a street vendor. Those things only taste good when you are drunk. All in all it was a fun evening.
I think Allan has a few pics he may post later tonight.
2026 Update
I'm dialing the machine to February 2008, where a false piñata promise starts a night that ends with a pirate.
Eighteen years ago, this is how a Saturday night was assembled: an alt-weekly paper, a five-dollar cover, a rumor of a piñata, and blind faith in a bar's advertising. Now the piñata would be a sponsored Instagram activation, the go-go dancers would be a brand experience, and the pirate would be a content creator with a ring light. The whole ecosystem has been laminated and monetized. The alt-weekly stack by the door is a ghost; there is no mysterious stranger from your friends list to wave at because everyone is already tagged, located, and algorithmically fed to you. And the fact that Ed was driving home after his head started buzzing is treated like a parenthesis, not a confession. Even the evil Mexican food and gas-station bathroom have been replaced by delivery apps and Yelp photos of questionable chorizo. What remains eternal? Overpriced hot dogs, terrible bars, and the arrogance of a street magician who vanishes on his own schedule.
“2008 Ed, after the Copper Rocket left you staring at sullen people and canned country, why did you still trust the street magician's disappearance—and did you ever send that commissioner a letter, or did the gas-station bathroom become your actual review?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2008 Ed: Well, Beelzebubba, I reckon the magician was the one honest thing that night. The Copper Rocket lied to me, the Guidos were liars by nature, and even the piñata was a damn lie. But a street magician vanishing in a cloud of smoke? That’s a man doing exactly what he said he’d do. I’ll take that kind of honesty any day. As for the commissioner letter, no, I never sent it. I got about halfway through a draft, then Moxie walked across the keyboard and deleted two paragraphs, and I figured that was a sign. The gas station bathroom was the real review, though. I mean, I can complain about false advertising, but that porcelain throne, with its faint flicker of hope and industrial soap, told me everything I needed to know about the Copper Rocket’s neighborhood. So no letter. Just memories and a lingering regret about that five bucks.
