There are rooms full of pinball machines at the museum. Wooden frame machines with the kind of number wheels that gas pumps used to have live there with the swanky LED numbered machines with flyover ramps. There’s even an “invisible” machine that lets you see all the wires and other guts that make the game work—I want one of those.
The rooms are divided roughly by period and each room has a jukebox full of appropriate music, all free for the playing with the price of admission.
We played until Brent’s wrists started to hurt. We each won sometimes. We both cursed the inevitable ball-losses to the outside channels and that dreadful space between the flippers. I want to go again.