Once or twice a year, my friends and I decide that we've been responsible with our money long enough and drive down to Atlantic City on a random Friday night to spin the reels, make the deals and drink enough complimentary alcohol to justify, oh, .004% of our total losses. I look forward to these trips more as a mental reset button than a simple night out, as we generally take the plunge when we're so collectively sick of our jobs, lives, network television and iTunes disorders that it's either a trip to the casinos or a trip to a rooftop with a rifle and a prophecy.
I've written about our "adventures" in Atlantic City since the site first opened, and more or less, it's been the same group of friends on each trip. This helps me realize that we've been going to Atlantic City and doing the exact same damn things for over six years now, and while I think we're all consciously aware that the shit's played, none of us know how to dance and none of us know the secret handshakes that grant a person acceptance within sports bars. It's Bally's or bust.
And so, the Friday night before last, it was five of us in the same car driving down the same parkway to the same discount rate hotel for the same round of drinking, betting and throwing onions at each other. Fun times, but not notably fun -- nothing you haven't heard before, nothing you won't hear again. Though I would like to point out that dollar slots are an extremely terrible idea, and that if you order room service from Harrah's, try the turkey club, because the cooks damn the man by giving you enough bacon to practically reform the pig.
I'm here today, or tonight, or whenever this gets posted, to talk about our adventures the next morning, out on the boardwalk. Note that this article's format has been toned down and tiny-sized -- this is to compliment the fact that our adventures on the boardwalk were nothing in the realm of a major happening. Just trying to not get anyone's hopes up, y'know? We'd all spent ten times as much money as we should've, and we were all wandering the wooden planks just waiting for the first person with balls to admit that it was time to go home. That's how it goes every time.
Saturday was a beautiful day, especially for a day that happened in April. It was as summery as summer could be, and while I'm not a fan of hot weather, or sun, or beaches or shorts, I couldn't help falling in love with the idea that I was strolling down a fully armed and operational boardwalk community. Lemonade, funnel cakes, the whole smear. Shirtless white trash galloping with their crackhead mothers, might-have-been hip hop stars breakdancing for change, the whole smear. It was just enough to get me to stop kneeling by my bed at night and begging my dark lord Desgeega to make winter last forever. The sweaty season that doesn't let me wear sweaters is good for something, and it's hot, hot boardwalk action. Every boardwalk is my home away from home, and every boardwalk makes me feel like I'm a little bit taller and a baller.
The Atlantic City boardwalk ain't much. There are few legitimate "attractions." It serves mostly to get people to and from the different casino resorts, because while walking out on the streets is neat for the Monopoly connection, you're plum liable to get shot and/or forcibly initiated into a gang that makes its money pimping honeys. There's been a considerable effort to beef up the boardwalk with more passable forms of entertainment in recent years, including everything from a Ripley's "Believe It Or Not" museum to Greek restaurants that don't employ the use of posters depicting Spanish people with the word "GYRO" superimposed over their foreheads as a manner of advertising. Maybe you'd have to be there to understand that, but these efforts are for naught. The charm of the Atlantic City boardwalk lies in how sucky and seedy it is. That's what we want, and for the most part, that's what we get.
And then there's the stores.
The gift shops on the Atlantic City boardwalk are unlike gift shops anywhere else. They're a different breed, and for people like me, they're the real reason to make a two hour drive in deadlock traffic. As I've mentioned in earlier articles, probably with misspellings, I grew up in Atlantic City. Not in a 24/7 kinda way, but my parents were big time gamblers, and I, being young, was big time stuck going wherever they went. So began a childhood stuffed with room service and twenty-dollar bribes, with my parents paying me a lot of money to go play in the arcades and whatnot while they yanked slot machine arms. As I grew a bit older, braver and less likely to be kidnapped, I spent many of these lonely afternoons drifting across the boardwalk, stocking up on dollar store crap if for no other reason than being completely burnt out on Street Fighter II. (I kept picking Blanka, thinking, "How the fuck can anybody beat THAT guy?" More on this later.) What I saw in those dollar stores and souvenir shops fifteen years ago is 90% the same as what I saw in those dollar stores and souvenir shops the Saturday before last, and that's why they invented the heart emoticon. <3 <3 <3
You must remember one thing: Atlantic City isn't just a visitor's town. People live there. Poor people. People who buy bags of Ralph's Chez Bawls on the boardwalk to eat, and not just because there's a wacky picture of a cowboy roping a hunk of cheddar on the package. Within this, the stores are stuffed not only with tourist bric-a-brac (fuzzy dice and playing cards), but with everyday items for the city's citizens (Rocky & Bullwinkle brand douche and Afro-Nova Hair Defrizzy Fo' Shizzy).
I've been to each of these stores dozens upon dozens of times, and it always looks like nothing inside ever moves. The crappy candy bars loosely based on Neapolitan ice cream are always in the same place, and the gamut of Antz five-piece jigsaw puzzles are right where I left them. Yet, every time I go, I find some new treasure to take home and adore.
"Peanut World" is one of my absolute favorite stores on the boardwalk, but in truth, it's more just indicative of all the establishments than a truly unique entity. In figurative terms, there's a hundred "Peanut Worlds" on the boardwalk, each more awesome than the last. Then again, this is the only store named after peanuts, and as such, it's the only store on the boardwalk that occasionally enlists the aid of Mr. Peanut himself, as seen in the picture at right, swiped from my earliest Atlantic City X-E article, from July of...holy shit...2000. I am OLD.
Anyway, that's what you see up above -- the inside of Peanut World, where dreams come true and every corner brings new and indescribable whiffs of vomit and rotting animals. You'll see it all in there. Everything from clicker pens that reveal NAKED WOMEN'S TITTIES to T-shirts ironically proclaiming that you "lost your shirt" in Atlantic City. They've got it all. Here are a few of the highlights from my latest love affair with Peanut World and some of Atlantic City's other Saks Fifth Avenue-level gift shops...
Atlantic City is always a memory-sparker for me, because I've been going throughout each and every "era" of my life. When I saw the "Coin Counter Set," I was thrust right back into one of the earliest "eras" I can remember. As I've mentioned, my parents were serious gamblers. I don't know if they were high rollers in the sense that you'd consider, but suffice to say, they'd have much more money to enjoy during their retirement now if they weren't convinced that "progressive jackpot" was an anagram for "guaranteed millions," which was really stupid of them considering how few letters the two phrases share. I was there many times a year, usually on Saturdays. One on hand, I loved going. Arcades, ambiance, giant hamburgers -- I couldn't get that shit at home. On the other hand, it got pretty tedious sometimes. I had nobody to carouse with, and bringing my mother to all the kid magnets was a surefire way to remain without brethren. To compensate, there were a hundred ways my parents bribed me, not the least including a little something called a "comp cash in."
"Comp cash in" isn't a real term, I just made it up because it's late and I'm less creative at 27 than I was at 13. I'm referring to my parents' cashing in on all of the complimentary services and gifts offered to them by the various casinos for wasting so much money there -- a lot of those sweet deals came my way. They had meal and in-room pay-per-view comps, so if I was left alone for a while, I could order 75 bucks worth of holy fried chicken and watch six new releases in a row, or porn if I wanted to, since nothing ever turned up on the bill. They also had weird comps that equated to stupid free gifts, ranging from poor quality kitchen gizmos to things like you see above: Plastic coin counters. Only the casino versions were fancier and branded with casino logos. I got all sorts of total crap like that, but since I saw casino players lining up for half a mile to pick the shit up, I could only assume that I was both privileged and lucky to own so many coin counters, casino hats and waterproof duffle bags. Until I got home, at least, because all the other kids were more than happy to set me straight.
Peanut World is renowned for its impressive video arcade, which isn't quite on par with the worst game room ever, but that's only because, technically, it's not a game room. The whole storefront is littered with arcade games and prize machines, including a depressing section of broken machines that, in retrospect, I really should've taken a few pictures of. We live, we learn. What's shown above is the meat of the arcade, consisting of a broken Ms. Pac-Man machine and Tournament Arkanoid, which both worked and ruled with equal amounts of thumbs uppage. Tournament Arkanoid arrived at Peanut World in 1987 and hasn't moved since, and from what I could tell from the few quarters I gave it, is almost exactly the same as Regular Not-A-Tournament Arkanoid. The boards are a little bit different, but there's still the same bunch of annoying, dancing blue hats that casually stroll down from a little hole up top to ruin everything.
Rounding out the selection was an Area 51 coin-op, which I very well might have played if the machine didn't get shafted by being stuck next to King Awesome Arkanoid.
I mentioned how the coin counters sparked memories -- so do arcade claw prize-grab machines, or as I've always called them, "cranes." I don't know why I call them cranes. Now that I inspect both the machines and the definition of the word "crane," I find that these entities are mutually exclusive and that I am a complete and total asshole. I could go on and on about my personal crane memories from battles held throughout the nation, but if we're sticking to Atlantic City, I'm going to go with the game room of the Trump Taj Mahal, where I kicked enough ass at cranes to notice that the staff was using heavier gravel in the machines on each of my subsequent visits. Newly a teenager at this point, the Taj Mahal was still the best show in town, and still new enough to not have the depressing grime and eternal stench of cigars most casino hotels in Atlantic City call their "charm."
Since they were still shiny, they had a fucking AWESOME game room. Most of the prizes in the cranes (and there were only a few prizes in each machine, which as any crane connoisseur would know, made for easier victories) were held in large plastic "egg" containers, which served no other purpose than to make things like Norfin Trolls feel like something worth so much sweat and so many quarters. I'd grown more than accustomed with the Taj's specific brand of crane machine, and mastered it to the point where not winning something was the exception to the rule.
Cranes, planes, blah blah, but what I remember most about the Taj Mahal's game room is Street Fighter II, back when it meant something. I only played it during "off hours" when no one was really around, because this bitch attracted hardcore gamers with mad skillz who'd turned what I thought was "just playing video games" into a veritable art form. Most of the time, I just loomed behind and watched the masters at work. Crowds always gathered and slight tournaments were the norm, and this was as close to the action as a thirteen-year-old with nobody to play with could get without prostituting himself to the shitfucks on Baltic Avenue. When I consider how much I know about Street Fighter lore, I always attribute it to my old SNES game. Now that I think about it, most of the knowledge came from watching expert button-mashers use a radioactive Brazilian ape to zap the tits off some poor Asian lady in the Trump Taj Mahal arcade. Sooo much fun.
Though Street Fighter II was the joint's crown jewel, many of the other coin-ops brought forth a similar level of insanely awesome gamers that I was afraid to ever challenge. The only game I felt comfortable with all the time was Capcom Bowling, in part because nobody ever went near the thing besides me, but mostly because I felt like a hip DJ spinnin' his hot trax whenever I rolled its glorious trackball.
Anyway, for a place called "Peanut World" that has an entire shelving unit devoted to selling "FAIR -2- HAIR" shampoo, the prizes in their cranes arcade claw machines were pretty top notch. Everything from two different kinds of Ninja Turtle plush dolls, to the Rice Krispies dudes, to Woody, to Woodpecker. I gave them a shot, but the machines had one of those impossible claws that went through the motions of clawing but clearly had no ability to actually grab hold of anything. It takes a strong will and a lot of experience to know when to walk away from an arcade claw machine, but this is always a sign that you need to walk away. It doesn't matter how nice the prizes are. It doesn't matter how much I wanted to sleep my head upon a cotton-stuffed Crackel or Pop at night. If the claw don't grab, there ain't no happiness to be had. So walk away, son. Save a little money for a rainy day.
I really should've taken more pictures to help prove my words, but there was a section of Peanut World serving as a graveyard for all of the arcade games, vending machines and prize-grab cranes that no longer worked. Why they still felt the need to place them out on display in what would've otherwise been prime store space, I have no idea. Some of them were just busted internally, but others had broken glass walls, evidence of massive burns or other weird things that a store shouldn't put right next to the children's candy section. But, there it was, and just next to it, a working arcade claw machine so terrible that they mistook it for a broken one and made it live with the misfit toys. That's what you see above.
It was a lame-o old style crane, which allowed for very little precise claw movements, and didn't allow for any reconsideration on positioning. Once you went up once, and right once, you were done, and that bitch was going to claw bare gravel whether you liked it or not. Inside were a bunch of terribly old and rusty watches that, while extravagant by arcade claw machine standards, couldn't possibly be desired by anyone on the planet. Even people in sixth world nations who barter for goat's milk with scrap metal would look at you crazy if you gave them these watches for Christmas.
The level of suck continues even within the sign that tells you how much it costs to play, which looks like it was created with a dull Bic pen and a stencil given away by dentists to the children who refuse to cry.
Oh man, OH MAN -- it's Robert Viscera! Well, according to the package, he's just "Robert," but I know better. You may have heard snippets of this depending on how long you've been reading the site, but let's assume this is fresh content. Before I started X-E; hell, before I even knew that there was much of an Internet outside of AOL chat rooms, I was an eBayer. A hardcore eBayer. Most of my time online was spent in equal parts browsing/selling/buying on eBay and browsing/selling/buying on various action figure newsgroups. This was back in the late '90s, and during the age before eBay truly exploded, a less saturated market meant that people like me were able to make a lot more money on junk than I would today.
So, for a year or two, that's what I did: I eBayed. I eBayed left and right. I went to yard sales and thrift stores, toy store clearance aisles and everywhere else that profits could be found, and I had an absolute blast. The eBay business worked a lot like the X-E business: I'd go out, hunt down things that nobody else could find, and seek fame and fortune with those things. There was a period when I was banking a grand a week from eBay, and as a kid with no responsibilities, no bills and no concerns about the future, I gotta tell ya, life was this close to cool back then.
In X-E's early days, I reprinted some of my strangest eBay auction listings, which predate the site by about a year or so. Before ghosts-in-jars and Cheetos shaped like presidents got their own press releases when put on the eBay auction block, there I was, finding out the then little-known fact that people could and would buy anything. I sold sticks and dirt by calling them a "magic kit." I sold Green Bamboo Mystery Peanuts. And I sold Robert Viscera, one of the lesser members of my eBay Viscera family.
You know those articles I do with action figures talking to each other and sometimes making Jiffy Pop together? The auctions looked a lot like that. I'd grab really shitty action figures and dolls (bootleg Barbies and the like), make inane little stories that seemed funny at the time, and run 'em on eBay. I'm not even sure if people knew what they were bidding on, but that didn't keep them from bidding fast and furiously. I originally picked up the "Robert" doll in Wildwood, New Jersey in 1999. And there he was again, this past weekend. I'm tempted to try my luck with an old school eBay auction, but I think the era of selling things like "Robert" dolls just because you know how to write auction descriptions cheekily has passed us by. God dammit.
Yes, I bought him. Yes, the cashier looked at me funny. Yes, it hurt deep down inside.
These cans of Pokemon Pasta are from another shop just a few doors down from Peanut World. I visited that store well over a year ago, and the same cans were on sale. Spaghetti Pokemon in gross sauce would be enough of a problem if it was just a year old, but the cans are actually from 1999. Only now, they're on sale. In January 2005, Pokemon Pasta could be had for 99 cents a can. In April 2006, 99 cents gets you two cans. This was enough to get my bills and change out in the open, because despite any misgivings about letting the world know that I buy old cans of food as a lark, pieces of pasta shaped like Squirtle make me too happy to ignore.
As longtime readers know, I spent a few years bucking the system by being a Pokemon fan. I called myself "Pokeman" and threw tennis balls at the feet of my oppressors, swearing that they would explode into Dragonites and Dugtrios at any moment. What most of you don't know is that, somewhere on my body, somewhere I will never reveal...there is a Bulbasaur tattoo. I should have kept this to myself.
Most of the souvenir shops have postcard stands. Total crap postcards from years ago, usually of women in skimpy, outdated swimwear with text slogans like, "The Real Jackpot's ...On The Beach!" Similarly, every souvenir shop on the Atlantic City boardwalk sells playing cards with naked women in places of the Jacks and Queens. I loved all this shit as a kid, because the people working the registers were rarely even legally in the country, and had bigger things to worry about than monitoring whatever I wanted to buy. Nudie playing cards, knives, seven-year-old cans of pasta, whatever. As the racks have mostly sat still and untouched since 1986, the postcards are correspondingly old, dusty and ridiculous. Some are just complimentary postcards lifted from casino lobbies. Some are complimentary postcards lifted from casino lobbies that belong to casinos that no longer exist. Others display hilarious pictures of fat women that just never get old.
I wrote this article for no specific reason other than the fact that I had my digital camera on me when we hit the boardwalk, but now that I'm done, I'm kind of glad I did this. I'm reminded of good times during bad times, and I'm reminded that I can write articles about the same gift shops pretty much every year without anyone calling me out on it. I love Atlantic City, and I hope everyone out there has their own Atlantic City, even if it's not this Atlantic City.
The best thing about this postcard is that it sooo wants you to believe it isn't a titty picture. This was of great use during my childhood. I could buy a thousand postcards like this and anyone with a view had to think twice to understand my filthy motivations.
This one's 100 years old, but they've still got the same fancy escalators there. Not that I would know; nobody under 70 goes to Trump Plaza unless Tony Danza's juggling live animals in the lounge.
I mailed this one to my grandmother and told her we'd talk about it when I got home.
See, this one's tricky, and you can learn a lot about a person by how they react to it. The postcard really isn't making fun of the woman, so if you're sitting their giggling and telling your cat to come look at the fatty fat fat, you're probably a terrible person. I think she's gorgeous. She has beautiful eyes. And, frankly, there's something to be said for being with a woman so monstrous that you can go right ahead and shit on her dining room table without worrying about reprimand. Lady ain't gonna trade you in. So go ahead. Go shit on her table, man.
I wonder what that guy is pointing to. Can there really be an even bigger party somewhere else on the beach? No frickin' WAY!
"Peanut World" is one of my absolute favorite stores on the boardwalk, but in truth, it's more just indicative of all the establishments than a truly unique entity. In figurative terms, there's a hundred "Peanut Worlds" on the boardwalk, each more awesome than the last. Then again, this is the only store named after peanuts, and as such, it's the only store on the boardwalk that occasionally enlists the aid of Mr. Peanut himself, as seen in the picture at right, swiped from my earliest Atlantic City X-E article, from July of...holy shit...2000. I am OLD.
