the Comet (or Fuel, or Palomino, or wherever) “Rockstar Menu”

Fig.1: Taking Back Sunday. Would you trust these douches to hire a marketing firm to design your lunch?

Hola, amigos. How’s it going with you? I know it’s been a long time since I rapped at ya. I’d like to say that I’ve been putting off my first Third Coast Digest blog post because of something important, but I won’t hose you—I’ve been playing way too damn much Lexulous over on Facebook. If the internet is an opiate of masses, Lexulous is heroin—you sit down at your desk, think “all right goddamn it, this time I’m gonna finish that rant about the majesty of broasted chicken that’s sitting on my mac’s desktop,” and suddenly you’re all, “but first, I’m gonna see if I have any Lexulous moves to make” and before you know it you’re unconscious in front of your computer at 7 AM with three games up, a bottle of Jack and a Google search that reads “Meg White COME ON SHOW ME HER NAKED” that yields no results.

Anyway.

So Saturday night I was at the Denny’s in Waukesha—excuse me, Rockesha–after going to see some Great Lakes Championship Wrestling with some pals (the main event of which featured Scott “50-Year-Old Beer Gut Wrapped in an ICP T-Shirt” Hall and Kevin “Debateably Sexy” Nash of the long-irrelevant nWo vs. The Old Dog Jesse James and the “Dear God you’re in your 40s and you’re wearing pink wrestling trunks with lips on them and an obvious thong, holy shit you’re embarrassing to look at” Billy Gunn, aka 90s WWE tag team The New Age Outlaws. Man, there’s no better Saturday night than one spent watching creepy old drunk dudes pretend to hit each other—am I right, North Side? They called it “the match they didn’t want you to see,” referring to some apparent cease-and-desist order sent by the WWE, but I’m guessing they didn’t want us to see it because they knew it’d be a stinker and they were concerned about our wallets in these troubled economic times). Have you been to a Denny’s lately? I mean, even if it’s just to dine ironically, it’s not a bad thing to slum once in a while, and really, it’s no worse for you than anything at Palomino (although, ok, sure, fewer vegan options for those of you who have forgotten bacon is awesome. Fine).

Fig.2: Hall and Nash in happier, thinner, less Juggalo-infused times

So I’m paging through the menu and I stop across the “Allnighter Rockstar menu” and I immediately begin laughing. There in front of me for my ordering pleasure are the “Taking Back Burger Fries” “by” Taking Back Sunday, and the “Plain White Shake” “by” Plain White T’s (which at least is appropriate—something vanilla and bland). Apparently I’m not the first one in Blogsylvania who’s WTF’d at this, either:

I’m just not sure how to feel about this, and that’s what scares me. Should I feel guilty because it makes me hungry? Is it just biz as usual? Will I ever listen to the All-American Rejects without thinking of Denny’s? Actually, will I ever listen to All-American Rejects? These are questions one has to ask.

Ignoring the question “why would anyone ever listen to the All-American Rejects,” it’s amusing to me that every time I think that commercialism in rock music has reached its lowest point, someone finds a new way to lower the bar. But hey, maybe these guys are onto something. After all, Kuma’s Corner in Chicago has become a sensation by featuring a menu filled with gourmet hamburgers named after heavy metal bands (although it’s pretty much a given that Slayer, Darkthrone and Lair of the Minotaur aren’t getting paid anything for their placement on the menu, although a member of Bongzilla did get comped when he ordered his band’s namesake burger). If there’s gold in them thar rocker-menu hills, maybe the Scott Johnson and Leslie Montemurro tag team should blaze a trail that hipster Milwaukee could follow. Howsabout a menu built from local Milwaukee bands? I think it’d go…something like this:

Holy Shit! Tacos: Tacos so good (and so spicy) that not only will you be forced to exclaim the expletive the band took as their name, but you’ll also expel said expletive from your body with due force in record time.

John the Savage Slop Dish: We take whatever we find in the fridge left over from the day before, throw it in a pot, and add in some artificial flavoring to tie it all together with affectation! You’ll vaguely feel like you’ve tasted it all before, but you won’t care!

Quinn Scharber and the Daily Special: Like the band that can never decide what the hell their name is, our special changes from day to day. Ask the slightly drunk server who’s way too skinny to have ever actually eaten here what today’s special is, and chances are it’ll taste like Red Red Wine and More Cigarettes. Every time.

Half Gorilla: Exactly as advertised, except that it’s not advertised. Kept off the menu, the Half Gorilla must be ordered by whispering a secret code word to the hostess, who will lead you into a secluded basement dining area. Entrée provided via partnership with the Milwaukee County Zoo. $50,000. Call ahead. Like, three weeks ahead.

Holy Mary Motor Club Sandwich: Served with coffee, cigarettes, and malaise, with a side of IfIHadAFrenchFries. (sorry.)

Over on the drink menu, we have the Juiceboxxx, which despite the name one must be 21 to order. This blend of juice, alcohol, caffeine, ginseng and taurine won’t be on the menu for much longer thanks to a class-action suit against the makers of Sparks, so get it now before you need to go to Europe to chase it down!

Codebreaker Confections: Made with all artificial ingredients, these dessert confections are pure refined sugar with absolutely no nutritional value. May make your teeth hurt.

I’m tellin’ ya—gold.

Any suggestions of your own?