Monday, April 26, 2004
Rockin’ in the USA
I supposed I’d better just come right out and say it. I went to the Hard Rock Café this weekend. (Or the “HRC,” as those of us trendsters who frequently get past the velveteen rope there call it.) Now you might legitimately ask what inspires a person to pay twice too much for poorly-made HRC nachos now that the Hard Rock t-shirt craze of 1992 has come and gone. And I answer you that it is, in fact, that basic sociological inquiry that led us to brave the fanny-pack-wearing throngs and stake out a table for two near a bass signed by someone authorized to sign Sting’s signature. Okay, well, the sociological inquiry and alcohol, but let’s not get technical.
We began, of course, with a trip to the gift shop while we waited the five minutes necessary to get a table without reservations at 7 PM on a Saturday night. I was delighted to discover that they still have purple-logo-embroidered jean jackets for sale (in much the same style that lit up the 7th grade Spring Rec Night), but they weren’t quite acid-washed enough for my tastes. I did almost buy a black leather HRC jacket, which I knew would make me look intense and dangerous, but I decided I would wait and register there for my wedding.
Our actual meal was a whirlwind of culinary delights, from macaroni and cheese to a bun completely overcome by sprouts but ostensibly a sandwich, accented by the service staff’s gratuitous use of the word “super.” For ambience, we enjoyed a fine blend of music videos, which could only be described as “MTV minus ‘the edge.’” But the essence of the HRC demographic fully eluded us until we were exiting and I overheard a gentleman in the lobby proudly proclaim: “If I ain’t at work, I’m wearing a hat.” If that isn’t a Hard Rock attitude, I don’t know what is.
I supposed I’d better just come right out and say it. I went to the Hard Rock Café this weekend. (Or the “HRC,” as those of us trendsters who frequently get past the velveteen rope there call it.) Now you might legitimately ask what inspires a person to pay twice too much for poorly-made HRC nachos now that the Hard Rock t-shirt craze of 1992 has come and gone. And I answer you that it is, in fact, that basic sociological inquiry that led us to brave the fanny-pack-wearing throngs and stake out a table for two near a bass signed by someone authorized to sign Sting’s signature. Okay, well, the sociological inquiry and alcohol, but let’s not get technical.
We began, of course, with a trip to the gift shop while we waited the five minutes necessary to get a table without reservations at 7 PM on a Saturday night. I was delighted to discover that they still have purple-logo-embroidered jean jackets for sale (in much the same style that lit up the 7th grade Spring Rec Night), but they weren’t quite acid-washed enough for my tastes. I did almost buy a black leather HRC jacket, which I knew would make me look intense and dangerous, but I decided I would wait and register there for my wedding.
Our actual meal was a whirlwind of culinary delights, from macaroni and cheese to a bun completely overcome by sprouts but ostensibly a sandwich, accented by the service staff’s gratuitous use of the word “super.” For ambience, we enjoyed a fine blend of music videos, which could only be described as “MTV minus ‘the edge.’” But the essence of the HRC demographic fully eluded us until we were exiting and I overheard a gentleman in the lobby proudly proclaim: “If I ain’t at work, I’m wearing a hat.” If that isn’t a Hard Rock attitude, I don’t know what is.
