 |
|
Previous
Article • X-E
• Next
Article
 |
The Quest For Venusaur:
It's Put Up Or Shut Up Time!
Matt
- 7.09.01
|
   
It had to happen sooner or later. I wasn't born with many aspirations in life that don't involve eating as many Fruit Rollups as possible during the course of one episode of 7th Heaven, but if I do have a dream, it's catching Bulbasaur and his many evolutions. Over the course of the past year, X-E readers have seen these dreams slowly become realities on the largest socially incapacitating scales imaginable. We've been to Jersey and Chinatown, we've sung Madonna lyrics with 3P0, we've even stomped through the muddy snow banks of Shaolin...all in the name of Bulba. Despite the catch success rate, I've always only been able to be half-proud of what's been accomplished. Deep down I knew...the job wasn't finished. There's still one more Pokemon evolution out there for me to capture, and till I do, I'm about as worthless as complete VHS set of Three's A Crowd! episodes. Until I get that last evolution, I'll never be able to sleep with a smile. Unless I was in bed in between Jessica Biel and Corey Haim, but that's the lone exception.
VENUSAUR.
Those of you who've suffered through my past Pokerants know the drill -- but for those who don't, here it is: Bulbasaur, like almost all Pokemon, evolve into larger, more powerful monsters. To do this, they drink a ton of cranberry extract and workout hardcore. Bulbasaur is the first - we've caught him, and his distant cousin, Chinese Bulbasaur. Ivysaur is the second - we've caught him too. We've even caught him in the remote-controlled variety, but that's another story. Bottom line is, try as I might, I can't ignore Bulbasaur's final evolution: the mighty, ugly Venusaur. He might look like shit, but he's still Bulba shit, so until I catch him, I'm a useless louse.
I thought about where one might find the elusive Venusaur, but drew many, many blanks. It's not like there's guidebooks for these things, and even if there were, even someone as unacceptable as yours truly wouldn't suffer the indignity of walking to the register of Barnes & Nobles holding a Pokemon guidebook. Even I have my limits. Cutting my losses, I decided to start searching in the place where the phenomenon began....Wildwood, NJ.
The hotel we stayed at boasted some serious pros - Olympic sized swimming pool, M&M vending machine, and of course, dirty fake palm trees, but the buck stopped there with the amenities. We had compared our room bill and realized that we could've went to Bermuda cheaper. You've really got to wonder what drugs are in the air around the Jersey shore that drives people there despite the hotel cost. The best part was them explaining the heightened charges as a result of us choosing to go during the July 4th holiday week. Pfft. So, does the city morph into this magical paradise with streets paved of gold and an abundance of free candy for that week, or are they insinuating that rooms should cost more then because it's the only time of year when you're in no imminent danger of being stung by the Portuguese Man-of-war in the ocean? I really couldn't tell ya. All I know is that, for a room that cost this much, there were four things that really ticked me off about the setup:
 
The Phone: You know how hotel phones make you dial around 146 extra digits just to make local calls? Well, try making a long distance one then. Try making a long distance phone call from a hotel phone that doesn't have the instruction sheet, alongside of the fact that 50% of the buttons appear to have been chewed off, presumably by a giant bat. Then, try to swallow your braintrust when you notice the ten dollar phone charge on your room bill. Then disregard all of this, because the phone didn't have a dial tone in the first place. Strike one.
The Hangers: I didn't want to steal any of the hotel towels because god knows how many ounces of old man semen is encrusted within 'em, but I'll be damned if I'm not gonna take something. They didn't give us the usual suspects like travel shampoos or a bible, so I decided to steal the shirt hangers. But as you can see, they've even got those things on lockdown. We compensated by lining them with black ink before taking off, but it's just not as sweet as stealing. Strike two.
 
Fabulous Artwork: I understand that the management likes to give the room a little bit of ambiance and character for the guests, and I respect that. I just really wonder where one can buy paintings so criminally hideous. Most of the artwork looked to be bathroom wallpaper carelessly glued onto discarded and often-broken canvases, but I would've overlooked that had they made even the slightest attempt to place it on a spot of the wall that was remotely unobtrusive. As it stands now, each of the room's paintings hung 2" directly above the beds and couches. So, when you lean back on a chair to soak in that famed Jersey smog and relax, you'll be doing it with your head pressed firmly against a glass-framed picture of a dandelion. Strike three.
Stupid Television: The television, which we figured out to cost around 35 dollars in fees per night, didn't have the capacity to change channels. Obviously, if we wanted tv buttons that worked, or a remote control, we should've opted for the presidential suite. As things stood, we were stuck on one channel that managed to play Never Been Kissed 64 times in three days. As some of you know, the people responsible for producing Never Been Kissed are wanted for their crime in 55 nations worldwide. Had the flick of the week been Clue, or even something remotely passable, I wouldn't be too upset. But Never Been Kissed? Come on.
I'm sure some of you are curious as to why we'd care what was on television anyway...after all, we were at a boardwalk/beach resort, right? Well...we were...kinda.
 
The first trimester of our little vacation/Pokemon adventure had to be spent in the room, because we didn't consult our Farmer's Almanac to notice that July 5th had warnings all over it stating that South Jersey was slated to face a combination of the world's worst hurricane and a tsunami simultaneously. This wasn't just bad weather - this was scary weather. Not scary because we thought cows would fly past our window or we'd be struck by lightning, but rather scary because it forced the bunch of us to attempt small talk for six consecutive hours. After two hours of contemplating philosophical issues and religious debates, we just buried our faces in pillows (dirty hotel pillows) and pretended we were really sick. Everyone knew the others were lying, but the falsehood was accepted to negate the risk of having to find something to talk about while Wildwood transformed into a modern-day Atlantis.
Luckily - there were two saving graces. Two things that can make any situation, no matter how dismal, all the better. Two things sent from the heavens above to make interpersonal suares go off without a hitch. Two things that, when combined, turn you into a raving monstrosity incapable of despondence.
 
Tequila...and over-the-counter crack! I've never been a big drinker of heavy liquor, but dire situations call for dire alcohol. By the end of the weekend we managed to top off five bottles of the shit, and I swear to you, even today, days later, I'm still not completely sure if I'm really a French chicken trapped in boy's body. Because the hotel didn't come equipped with a phone much less shot glasses, we used dixie cups for the measuring. That's asking for trouble when you're messing with tequila, as will later be evidenced in this article when you see five or six people having sex with a giant Pikachu doll.
Stackers are another beast entirely. Sold as a diet pill, almost nobody I know uses 'em as such. When a pill claims that it's going to speed up your metabolism, you should realize that the pill is going to do essentially what the more expensive illegal counterparts do: fuck you up and make you stutter a lot. I'm amazed that the things are still legal - they're obviously over-effective and do way too much for a pill that's sold in three-packs at delis across the globe. Not that I'm complaining though - the only difference between going to Wildwood now and going to Wildwood in 1998 is that now, if a cop stops me because I'm obviously tripping my face off, I can simply blame the local pharmacy rather than pointing him in the direction of a scary Mexican with connections and a really loud car stereo setup. It's a lot safer this way.
Nicci: So which one is this?
Matt: Bulbasaur...look at his tag.
Nicci: And the one you're holding is Venusaur, right?
Matt: No, this is Ivysaur. Remember? We caught him last year.
Nicci: Listen, if I bring any guys back tonight...could you like, hide these things?
Matt: Yeah, you're probably right. I don't want anyone to steal my Pokemon.
Nicci: Mmmm...okay, that works. Also - would you mind taking off too?
Matt: It's the hair, isn't it.
Nicci: I just don't want any incidents, okay?
Matt: I could dye it brown maybe?
Nicci: No, no...no need to do that. Just go away. Now who's Venusaur then?
Matt: I dunno. Kinda like a frog with a neon Triffid growing out of it's ass.
Nicci: Cute.
Matt: Rhymes with brute.
Nicci: Limes are mute.
Matt: Pines and newts.
Nicci: Stop it now.
And so, the Quest continues as we step foot onto Wildwood's main bread - the 2.5 mile boardwalk of terror...
Since last year, a lot of people from the Wildwood area have e-mailed me and asked why I'm so obsessed with the place. I guess it has a lot to do with the fact that I've been there every year since I was born...with family, friends, ex-friends, ex-girlfriends, even old dogs that've since been hit by cars. It's one of the only places I've been that hasn't really changed at all since I was a kid. There's something settling about that. It's kind of weird to go on the same rides I did with my brothers back when I was 5. Actually, it's weird to go on any rides that I went on when I was 5, since it means I was either an overly advanced kid or a real loser of an adult. Take your pick. Still, despite the nostalgic influence, even Wildwood isn't safe from broad social trends sweeping the nation...and their boardwalk.
  
This year, the hot new trends included several 'psychics' that promised to tell you everything you ever needed to know based solely on how you scribble your name. Right. Another trend involves the 14 shops across the boardwalk devoted to selling punk rock clothes and fake magnet piercings. It's amazing that the market for this crap can be so centralized on the Jersey shore. Even more amazing is the fact that shops like this, obviously geared towards confused teenagers in search of an identity switch, are almost exclusively frequented by 40-year-old guys with mullets and anchor tattoos. It's things like this that totally throw marketing surveys off track.
The second pic above features the Nut Hut. I don't have much to offer on that particular topic, I just felt it'd be a shame to walk past a store that sold peanuts this boldly and not take a picture of it. Finally, we've got the Polish Water Ice vendor. Water Ice has replaced crank as Jersey's #1 vice, and on the boardwalk alone, there's at least 15 of these shops - varying from Polish Water Ice, to Italian Water Ice, to my personal favorite: Curly's Water Ice. Curly must have some good shit if he's willing to put himself up against the amalgamated water ices of entire nations like this. I wouldn't know - In my view, water ice ranks right up there with the ashtray I made in 7th grade Ceramics class on the edibility scale.
PS, we've barely even warmed up yet. I suggest grabbing a cup of coffee, or simply giving up on this article before you spend an entire day reading about my various idiocies. For the brave souls, here's some of what you have to look forward to: aquariums, zoos, and Olean chips.
 
The really hot item on the boardwalk carnival games this year was, surprisingly, Gizmo from the Gremlins movies. Words can't express how ecstatic I was to see mogwais every ten feet, but I'm not entirely sure how this came about. The last Gremlins movie came out in the early 90s, and definitely didn't corner any markets. Does this mean that there's secret plans for a third Gremlins movie? Food for thought. I'm pleased with the prospect, but certainly no more pleased than Zack Galligan, who's doomed to only star in movies that feature people walking around in Dracula suits and monsters singing Frank Sinatra songs. And yes, I did win him. Ain't nobody gonna beat me on the water gun horserace. That be my calling, yo.
Speaking of my calling....what's that inside the boardwalk comic shop window?
 
VENUSAUR! VENUSAUR FOR....15.99?! Fuuuuuck. I went down to Wildwood with the idea that the room wouldn't cost 14 thousand dollars. By the time I ran into my savior in blue, I was flat broke. What's worse? None of my friends saw the ultimate merits in buying it for me. Since Venusaur only comes in action figure form, there's no chance of winning him from the illustrious crane machines that've brought me so much Pokejoy in the past. So...is this the end? The end of my adventure? The end of...my life? Is the year of questing for Pokemon going to meet it's climax with the ultimate bittersweet ballcrunch? It just might - but you'll have to go on to Part II to find out for yourself.
All we can hope for is that somewhere out there in Wildwood, an angel lays in wait to save the day. Cross your fingers - bidness is about to pick up.
 
If you're a snob who won't click pictures, click here to continue!
-
Matt
matt@x-entertainment.com
Fark.
AIM: xecharchar
Back to X-Entertainment!
|
|
 |
|
|
