In 1986, I had only one thing on my agenda during a senior trip to London.  Get thee to Hard Rock Café and buy a sweatshirt.  Screw Buckingham Palace and the Queen.  Piss off, Big Ben.  I could not possibly care less about either of you.  Nearly 25 years later, I’m still obsessed with all things Hard Rock.  Some people collect figurines of owls.  Other people collect autographs.  I am a bona fide Hard Rock Café fanatic.  I have nearly 50 T-shirts from various locales and even more guitar pins.  I will drive hours out of my way if there’s a nearby Hard Rock I haven’t visited.  (They are few and far between.)

I once booked a cruise based solely on the fact that three ports of call featured Hard Rock Café’s of Caribbean or Mexican descent.  Like a petulant child with ADD, I’d stand at the door and wait for the rock shop to open their doors so I could buy my obligatory shirt and pin.  After that, I could start my day.

My poor Production crew has been drug from here to Timbuktu on my never-ending quest to reach all 44 of the U.S. locations.  The crewmembers usually don’t have a choice, as I’m the only one old enough to drive the rental van.  But they’ve learned (through trial and error) to keep their mouths shut.  We’re going whether they like it or not.

Do I ever EAT at a Hard Rock Café?  No.  Never.  The food is often horrid.  And the service is sketchy at best.  They hire cool-looking Goth guys and tattooed rock vixens to up the company’s street cred.  Most of my servers look like groupies who just rolled out of bed.   And while pleasant (in a heroin-chic sort of way), they can never seem to remember I prefer my bleu cheese dressing on the side.  Heck, 90% of the time, they can’t even remember what tables they have.

I made a deal with my crew.  You humor me by going to Hard Rock and I’ll buy each of you several rounds of drinks.  Free booze is always the ticket.  Plus, if there’s one thing Hard Rock knows how to do is pour liquor.  The servers can’t distinguish between ketchup and mustard, but the bartenders are spot-on.  They’ll Wallbang my Harvey’s without me even asking.  I ordered a Moscow Mule once … a rather obscure hot weather drink.  The bartender said, “F’ing A, man.  I’m making one for me too.”

Yesterday, while skipping around Philly I ran smack in to the local shop.   I did a little dance of glee.  Seems I had totally forgotten that Hard Rock had a store there.  I think 2011 may be the year I finally get to all the stateside Cafés.  (Maui be damned.)  Watch out, New Orleans and Niagra Falls and Seattle and Biloxi and Atlantic City.  You’re next and I’m not stopping until I’ve been snagged a pin and T-shirt.

I’m going to England next month … and I’m actually considering pond skipping over to Berlin just to visit my dear friend Brent.  Oh, who am I fooling … he lives less than two kilometers away from a Hard Rock Café’.  Can’t WAIT to check that one off my list.  I’ll probably have to bribe him with several rounds of Moscow Mules … or as they call them in Moscow …

“Mules”.