What sort of homeland is
so consistently oblivious to the tranquil violence of oh-so-similar
orders following one another into merely wanting words? (July
14, 1996)
–Joe Wenderoth, Letters to Wendy’s
In his first work of fiction, Letters to Wendy's
(2000), Joe Wenderoth takes a comical look at American consumer
culture. With aphoristic prose poems the narrator has written
on comment cards while eating, gazing, and defecating at a
Wendy's restaurant, Wenderoth scrutinizes a world of Frosties,
burgers, french fries, and soft drinks, the staples of the
American fast food diet. Irreverent, scatological, and philosophic,
these reflections critique our corporate-controlling, marketing-driven
society. Though promoted as a novel (Wenderoth admits they
“sell better”), no cohesive story drives Letters.
The book’s strength, aside from the ribald hilarity
that offsets the absence of plot, lies in the intricacy of
its tropes, its critical acumen, and its sustained examination
of contemporary America consumption. Exploring the desire
to consume commodities we typically consider unrelated, Wenderoth
contemplates how we consume food and durable goods, how we
consume the other, and above all, how we appropriate meaning-systems.
In Letters, Wenderoth pokes fun at the way we often
use critical theory as academic currency. This is not a new
obsession, however. For example, in “Zookeeper Lacan,”
a work from his first poetry collection, Disfortune,
Wenderoth pays homage to the great French psychoanalyst while
simultaneously using him as a stand-in for any academic who
writes with an abstruse style: “what you said / stops
the animals / too often / for the real issue / to be fit /
to be tied.” In Letters, the narrator often
becomes one of these “animals,” a follower of
the poststructuralist ideas that have fascinated humanities
departments for the last thirty years. Responding to the comment
card command “TELL US ABOUT YOUR VISIT,” the narrator
employs critical theory, its conceits, its recondite ideas,
its idiosyncratic syntax and vocabulary, demonstrating how
the discursive language on which the academy relies inhibits
rather than facilitates understanding:
Today there was no blood in my stool. The sun was shining
as I sat with my burger and Coke and gazed out across the
parking lot. Gazed – there is the place where
what is feels itself slipping – with difficulty
– into the fitful sleep of replica. I did not gaze.
I was the sleep what is gazed through. One is confused,
though, having truly shit. (July 5, 1996, italics in original)
Framed by two scatological, seemingly unrelated thoughts,
the core of the aphorism targets the overanalyzed concept
of “the gaze.” On one level, the passage highlights
how a critical theorist might attach an overabundance of meaning
to actions of seemingly little importance. After all, one
need not be gazed upon in order for one’s alimentary
system to function, indeed for it to mean something.
Needing the presence of another, one who can gaze on you while
you sit on the toilet, only adds a confusing element to an
otherwise necessary, though banal, daily procedure. The passage
is fairly easy to traverse until the third sentence, which
syntactically and conceptually breaks the reader’s stride:
“Gazed – there is the place where what
is feels itself slipping – with difficulty –
into the fitful sleep of replica.” Using language as
slippery as Lacan’s own, the narrator leaves us to wonder
what the second word “there” signifies. If it
refers to the parking lot, the narrator suggests that American
consumerism, signified here by an endless supply of look-alike
cars, emasculates being.
True to the American culture the narrator inhabits, he doesn’t
allow us to ponder for too long what “being” is.
Couched in the middle of the sentence, the “what is”
slips from the reader just as it slips from the writer “into
the fitful sleep of replica.” Such is all we can expect
from consumerism: The prospect of gazing on an infinite supply
of replicated products, where replicated signifies both simulated
and fake. That is, not real. In the context of American
consumer culture, replicas are responsible for a collective
“fitful sleep” because they provide an infinite
regress of desire for the next replica, moving us ever further
away from the real. But given the construction of the sentence
under inspection, that its first word, “Gazed,”
is followed by a dash and then a clause, “there”
might signify the act of gazing. Understood this way, the
narrator manipulates the gaze as a theoretical concept
by linking it with the dissolution of “what is.”
From a Lacanian theoretical perspective, we seek another’s
gaze to confirm our sense of presence. Collapsing self and
language, Lacan describes making sense of a text as a comparable
process. We read seeking confirmation from the text’s
gaze and from others’ eyes. In that confirmation, we
experience a subject position, a sense of narrative wholeness.
But Wenderoth’s text offers one elusive image after
another. With its shifting subject, tone, and rhetorical style,
Letters to Wendy’s destabilizes our ability
to locate ourselves within it.
When he tells the reader, “I was the sleep what
is gazed through,” the narrator aligns himself
with Baudrillardian replicas produced by American consumer
culture. As defined by the sentence immediately preceding,
in which “fitful sleep” is “replica,”
the narrator situates himself with all the other mass-produced
products fashioned by contemporary society. He is at once
a replica of every other person who ingests fast food and
a replica of every other theorist transfixed by the concept
of the gaze. Fast food and the gaze are consumed to the point
of having lost their appeal, whether gustatory or intellectual.
In this way, Letters to Wendy’s blends content
with form, both of which draw the reader’s gaze toward
the artificiality of what the narrator discusses
and how he discusses it. The “how” underscores
the “what”:
Today I was thinking that it might be nice to be able, in
one’s last days to move into a Wendy’s. Perhaps
a Wendy’s life-support system could even be created
and given a Wendy’s slant; liquid fries, for instance,
and burgers and Frosties continually dripped into one’s
vegetable dream locus. It would intensify the visits of the
well, too, to see that such care is being taken for their
destiny. (August 19, 1996)
Read as a metaphor for the direction of postmodernity and/or
American society, Wendy’s has become a kind of transcendental
signified of Baudrillardian consumerism. No longer do customers
desire the goods produced by the restaurant. Instead, they
desire to become one with the restaurant, which is, of course
one more floating signifier in the hyper-real. The narrator
suggests that the next and final step in our quest to eliminate
any connection with “the real” or with a life
outside simulation, outside a media-centered existence, is
to commodify death.
In another passage, the narrator focuses on the subjectivity
of Wendy’s employees:
Today I bought a small Frosty. This may not seem significant,
but the fact is: I’m lactose intolerant. Purchasing
a small Frosty, then, is no different than hiring someone
to beat me. No different in essence. The only difference,
which may or may not be essential, is that, during my torture,
I am gazing upon your beautiful employees. (July 3, 1996)
Here subjectivity and consumption are intertwined. Because
the narrator drinks a Frosty in spite of the pain it causes
him, we can assume that the beverage signifies some positive
element that overrides his belly ache. He is not, as far as
we can tell, a masochist. He buys and consumes Frosties because
Wendy’s has effectively branded its products. They signify
the chance to look upon Wendy’s laborers, who have been
integrated into Wendy’s marketing strategy. Frosties
signify a lifestyle into which the narrator wants to assimilate,
a subject-position determined by Wendy’s advertising.
By appealing to the narrator’s psyche, Wendy’s
sells its food items not because they hold economic use-value,
but because they signify something else: a way for
the narrator to relate to the American social order.
The narrator often links a lived dining experience and an
imagined sexual one. In one entry, he ruminates that Wendy’s
could only be improved by adding television sets that play
“non-stop hardcore pornography without sound”
(September 24, 1996). In another, he reasons, “Only
in porn, it seems, does a face acquire the peculiar glow of
its own most rhythmic ambiguity. It’s sad to everyday
come to Wendy’s and see faces that will never be given
to me in their full porn depth” (July 29, 1996). On
one level, this sexual obsession ironizes Western Civilization’s
history of attaching moral significance to sexuality. Speaking
blithely of sex and admitting how much he enjoys it, the narrator
argues that it “seems to threaten the very core of so-called
humanity…[and] undermines the abstraction – the
bodiless image – with which ‘human’ identity
proposes it is moving forward toward…toward…toward
what?” (October 2, 1996). Naturally, given the satirical
character of these “comments,” we might wonder
whether the narrator’s tone is ironic or not, whether
we should read Letters as an attempt to desensitize
our reaction to and suspend our judgment of sexually explicit
material, indeed to sex in general, or as an attempt to ridicule
the omnipresence of sex in the contemporary world.
Yet, Wenderoth’s commentary on sex does not merely undermine
the absurdity of rendering a natural act taboo. It also foregrounds
the role sex plays in the semiotic systems facilitating the
exchange of goods. The narrator links sex with products, in
his case the fast food he consumes. Recognizing this connection,
he delineates himself from the majority of Wendy’s diners:
Wendy is not a girl – she is a sign. This means she
does not have appendages or orifices – she is herself,
at once, an appendage and an orifice. As a sign,
she holds within herself – radiantly implicit –
that orifice which language must have always already have
penetrated, just as she holds into view the penetrating appendage.
She is a girl only in the mind of the customer, the lonely
hermaphroditic homestead of significance. (October 17, 1996)
This aphorism operates on two levels. First, it distinguishes
how commodities are not durable goods but signs that signify
a way of living and “assist” individuals in forming
their subjectivities. For the narrator, sex never exists too
far along the chain of signification: Every sign signifies
sex, even if only indirectly. And the indirect path is never
very long. Having recognized that “Wendy is not a girl
– she is a sign,” the narrator fantasizes about
having sex with “her.” Linked with his comments
concerning Wendy’s “beautiful employees,”
sex, like everything else, is a floating signifier in the
hyper-real space of contemporary America. Second, this is
one of several aphorisms in which the narrator culls the technical
language and ideas of theorists to produce a preposterous
effect. The use of the phrase “always already”
taken together with the passage’s focus on the appendage/orifice
binary indicates its thinly veiled fascination with Derrida.
Simultaneously, the reduction of Wendy’s-as-concept
to a phallus and lack of one, combined with the heavily
Saussurean language, alludes to Lacan. With hyperbolically
absurd language that borders on satire, the text mocks poststructuralist
theoretical inquiry.
In another highly metaphorical passage, the narrator lambastes
academe:
I drink tea at home but would never at Wendy's. Tea lacks
the necessary brutality. Tea pretends knowledge is a cumulative,
a saturation. Coffee knows knowledge is an endless betrayal-process,
endlessly knocking the wind out of what I thought.
Coffee confuses and intertwines, for a long moment, the immense
strength of my betrayer with my own small strength: steady
impatience. (December 22, 1996)
Here Wendy’s symbolizes the method of knowledge-acquisition
on which literary study depends. Employing Foucaultian rhetoric,
the narrator deconstructs knowledge, the brutal, swift fist
that “knocks the wind out of” the individual who
attempts to lay claim to this tool of power. Using a cultural
studies approach, the narrator speaks of coffee and tea as
“texts,” suggesting that epistemic inquiry operates
differently depending on what motivates it. Outside of academe,
where knowledge-as-such grounds our motivation to read, think,
and write, we are less likely to become enamored with the
latest academic and theoretical trends. Inside the academy,
however, epistemology itself becomes a commodity subject to
basic supply/demand economics. And like every other commodity,
the moniker “new” sells better than any other;
novelty, not truth, creates demand. Hence the narrator’s
wry suggestion that “knowledge is an endless betrayal-process,
endlessly knocking the wind out of what I thought.”
Knowledge-as-such is impossible because the academic machine
that wields autocratic power over epistemic inquiry betrays
a “steady impatience” that disallows it. Instead,
the academy moves from trend to trend, all the while waiting
for the next Jacques Derrida or Michel Foucault or Luce Irigaray
or Hélène Cixous or Jean Baudrillard or Judith
Butler. The machine depends for its existence on motion. Extending
this thought, the narrator comments:
I was lured out slowly, by a series of toys. Each new
toy appeared to be a new step toward establishing me in
an eternal state of play. The insufficiency of
each discarded toy was always hidden by this coming play.
A pile developed, though, and couldn’t, in time, be
hidden. After awhile I stopped getting new toys. I was interested
only in the pile, the insufficiency. I sit with it even
now; I’m learning not to play. (March 7,
1997)
Like so many of the narrator’s aphorisms, this one
ties together several Letters themes. If “toy”
operates as a metaphor for a theoretical fad, the passage
confirms the narrator’s indictment of the academic’s
search for knowledge. By following the latest craze, he can
only hope to establish himself in “an eternal state
of play,” where truth, like Derrida’s transcendental
signified, defers endlessly. But “toy” also resonates
with the unmistakable ring of consumerism, the way that brands
define who we are as subjects. Both the average American and
Academic consume to fill subjective lacks. The difference
lies in what we consume: the average American consumes Frosties
and SUVs while the average academic consumes theory. Either
way, the insufficiency remains; both continue to desire wholeness.
In case the reader fails to catch the connection between the
two types of consumption, the narrator makes it explicit when
he indicts the latest movement in literary studies:
Sometimes I think of Wendy’s as a library without books.
Without magazines, maps, or videos. Without a rare books room,
and without an Information desk. As such, it is the most pleasant
library I’ve ever visited. It offers one text –
on reserve and on view. This text explicitly organizes the
way we feed ourselves. And it allows us to act as though a
greater significance has never been attempted. (April 8, 1997)
Whether it’s the fryer sharing living space with the
high-speed toaster, the menu posted above the cash register,
or the cash register itself, the cultural studies school deems
the tools of the fast food restaurant worthy of study. As
the narrator characterizes it, these texts form chapters of
a larger, more inclusive text that “organizes the way
we feed ourselves,” and reveals our penchant for and
motivation to consume indiscriminately.
Once everything becomes a text, it becomes much easier for
scholars to yield their imaginations to the process of academic
consumption. As Terry Eagleton writes in After Theory:
To work on the literature of latex or the political implications
of navel-piercing is to take literally the wise old adage
that study should be fun. It is rather like writing your
Master’s thesis on the comparative flavour of malt
whiskies, or on the phenomenology of lying in bed all day.
It creates a seamless continuity between the intellect and
everyday life. There are advantages in being able to write
your Ph.D. thesis without stirring from in front of the
T.V.
Eagleton offers a Marxist critique of cultural studies, lamenting,
for instance, that the fascination with the body has enabled
an explosion of discourse on the erotic body while virtually
ignoring the famished one. There is, he argues, “a keen
interest in coupling bodies, but not in labouring ones.”
Wenderoth disconnects the reader from the assurances in the
critical position that Eagleton delineates. At the very least,
Letters causes us to assess whether the motives,
interests, and behavior of the academic bear any substantial
difference from those of the average citizen. Because Letters
to Wendy’s expresses itself in ironic prose poems
rather than a tightly controlled rhetorical argument, it remains
difficult to discern its critical posture. As he does throughout
the text, Wenderoth lets the reader decide whether the library-without-books
aphorism is playfully ironic or scathingly derisive. Whichever
the case, the passage unmasks as hedonistic the collective
impetus of cultural studies. Wendy’s, as the narrator
notes, “is the most pleasant library [he’s]
ever visited” (italics ours). Much more than the will
to truth, the will to pleasure motivates the cultural critic.
Because sex captivates academics and non-academics alike,
it is Wenderoth’s most efficient vehicle for exposing
their shared concerns. Usually, when the narrator evokes sexual
imagery, he either refers directly to the pornography industry
or integrates pornographic allusions into his remarks. On
several occasions, the narrator imagines sexually explicit
scenes involving other customers, the employees, a Frosty,
or even Wendy herself. Obsessed with pornography, his sexual
imagination is limited to the pornographic films he has already
consumed. As sexually charged as he is, he never manages to
relate to another human. He concedes that he feels “jealous
when the employees speak to one another in that knowing
way” (January 31, 1997). In fact, Wenderoth constructs
the entire text around the narrator’s desire to belong,
to communicate, to be understood:
Standing in Wendy’s is like standing naked in your
own glass compartment in a room full of people similarly
compartmentalized. One is free to take in the nakedness
of others, if only from behind sturdy glass. It is possible
to communicate, but only within a crude signaling system
that makes conversation very limited. One must be satisfied
with this limitation, though: one must not stare.
(January 16, 1997)
By not staring, we accept the restrictions contemporary
American culture places on proper speech, which regulates
accepted communal behavior, and indeed, even prevents
community. The American ideal tempts us to construct
our identities out of the goods and services we consume, not
out of genuine interaction. Consigned to two marginalized
industries, conversations about sex tend to adopt one of two
vocabularies: the vulgarities of the pornography trade, or
the highbrow talk of the academy. With only these two vocabularies
at his disposal, the narrator cannot interact meaningfully
with another human being.
Instead, he often passes lunchtime in a daydreaming haze,
cut off psychologically from everyone around him. In one fantasy,
he imagines sitting in his car alongside Wendy, who commands
him to perform oral sex and then punch her in the face. After
emerging from the reverie, he comments, “Thus it ran,
the empty dining room filling” (July 17, 1996). Filling,
not feeling. The play on words betrays a modern tendency to
respond to emotion, especially dejection, with consumption:
an attempt to “fill” oneself up. For Wenderoth,
the verb “to fill” stands for a basic human need
– the desire to fill our lives with meaning:
Wendy’s sits next to the fullest possible manifestation
of our casual rushing vacancy. This is well and good; I like
to think of this vacancy, this busy thoroughfare, as my mother.
It has certainly birthed me. Wendy’s is that space wherein
I have attempted to leave my mother, and to come to some kind
of independent fullness. That fullness looms
like a room full of obsolete tools” (April 26, 1997,
italics ours).
At this point in the text, near the end of the book, we
see that Wendy’s is a metaphor for America, which has
birthed our collective conscious, our penchant for responding
to emptiness with what we know is available, or rather what
seems available for consumption. Fullness – that is,
fullness of meaning – eludes. Animated in a permanent
state of play, signifiers defer endlessly into the future
forcing ultimate meaning, whether we call it the “transcendental
signified,” the “right word,” or the “real,”
to hang suspended, just out of reach. Yet, impelled by the
“publish or perish” edict, the academy violates
this conclusion while simultaneously professing to apply it,
because it applies it.
Whether it’s a slightly altered menu that offers the
same endless supply of burgers, fries, and soda, or the latest
theoretical fad that promises to fill our minds with meaning,
twenty-first century Americans cannot help themselves in desiring
the new, the novel. Wenderoth uses blatantly postmodern techniques
while simultaneously launching a critique on the postmodern
insistence that meaning must be permanently deferred. Just
as much as Frederick Jameson’s own writing about the
effects of later consumer capitalism becomes itself an academic
commodity, so also does Letters to Wendy’s
become what it satirizes. In rejecting postmodern theoretical
positions it functions as a postmodern text.
Co-opted and put into the service of an economic trade, theoretical
writings are inverted, turned into the very thing they were
designed to critique. Rather than protesting the creation
of hegemonic meaning systems, they become one. As much as
anything, Letters reels against the formation of
such exclusionary schools of thought:
One watches the others order. An aesthetics develops. It’s
not the worst thing that could happen. Yes, a weariness lurks,
often, in the obvious next step – the dream of a school.
The only thing worse than endeavoring to create a school is
endeavoring to maintain a school. Which is why I like, above
all, those customers who, in the middle of their order and
quite without warning, change their minds. (February 10, 1997)
This passage burlesques a herd mentality fashioned out of
a theoretical enterprise that, in searching after the new
for its own sake, keeps pace with fast food consumerism. Theoretical
evolution occurs out of inertia rather than out of any genuine
desire to reach a static truth: As academics, our collective
refuge “is like an argument that only ever begins because
it can’t believe what it knows. After awhile, it only
goes on for the sound of its voice – that sound which,
miraculously, briefly, resists curiosity” (November
21, 1996).
But while Letters depicts theoretical discourses
as narcissistic enterprises, Letters also portrays
them as tasty treats. Consider the following passage in which
the cultural studies trend is a desert tempting the ever-hungry
academician:
The thought-cake stream is only visible at night. Big white
cakes moving slow, one after the other, into oblivion. These
cakes aren’t to be eaten. They’re just for show,
as though the night needed their senseless procession to remain
its own dark self. One night you will wade out, when hunger
becomes too much, and you will taste this cake, and you will
know, then, for certain, that it was only for show. (November
10, 1996)
An elaborate application and expansion on the adage “you
can’t have your cake and eat it too,” this passage
suggests that critical theory – the “thought-cake”
we want to both own and consume – cannot be
applied without turning into the thing it seeks to critique.
Once applied, these theories become the very thing they seek
to subvert. Therefore, they are “only for show,”
cannot be used, and are functionally “senseless.”
One of the central challenges the reader faces when approaching
Letters to Wendy’s emanates from the text’s
penchant for weaving together a high-minded social commentary
with a profane, even licentious, focus on sex. On one level,
this makes perfect sense, especially given how the text operates
as a parody of current academic inquiry and seems to anticipate
Eagleton’s pronouncement that within the ivory tower,
“What is sexy…is sex. On the wilder shores of
academia, an interest in French philosophy has given way to
a fascination with French kissing.” If the academy and
the wider consumer culture share more and more in common with
each passing year, it makes sense that a text satirizing both
would satirize what both consume: sex.
Like the most technically demanding academic writing published
in the most esoteric journals, the Wendy’s letters are
directed to an ever-present yet nonexistent audience. Writing
cryptic and obscene prose poems to an unnamed Other who mans
a desk in a dubious and shadowy PR department, the narrator
wonders whether his letters will not be read:
There may be no you – no other to receive and understand
these revelations of myself. The Post Office may burn them
for all I know. It’s not important. I only need you
as a good idea – to make me apparent. I love you, even
if you don’t understand me, even if you burn my attempts
to reach you, even if you are no one, nowhere. After all,
I warm my hands by the same fires. (September 3, 1996)
Attempting to communicate with an unresponsive interlocutor,
his attempts hardly classify as communication. Without someone
to communicate with or to, the comment cards fail to transport
meaning. But this is not the whole story. Like an academic
seeking recognition, Joe Wenderoth composes these aphorisms
for bound publication as if they are comment cards written
by an unnamed narrator. The cards are not, then, meant for
the PR rep’s gaze, but for our gaze, which discerns
the text through and in spite of this conceit. The text draws
the reader’s gaze to its artificiality. It underscores
that critical theory asks us to construct realities from an
incomprehensible world, one both devoid of meaning and filled
with delirious possibilities.
In an interview, Wenderoth admits that, in part, Letters
grew out of his “fondness for the grandiosity of certain
nineteenth century poets and philosophers,” a grandiosity
that has since gone missing, as if “some great wave
of triviality has made it painfully apparent that all such
grandiose efforts at truth are ridiculous in the extreme.”
Part of the project of Letters resides in an honest,
though comical, attempt to reinvigorate “reality”
by uncovering the Truth, which Wenderoth hints only exists
contingently. The text verges on the grandiose, even the ridiculous,
but avoids the mistake of triviality, which Wenderoth views
as a function of pursuing an aesthetics without resonating
with the world of which one speaks. This world, what he calls
the “postimaginary world, the REAL world…humbles
every imagination by subjecting the imaginer to its nearly
unspeakable simplicities…[Letters] tries to
recognize a pretty new insight that is available to beings,
which is that our imaginations are woefully inept and sort
of limp behind rather crude (though wholly definitive) processes.”
Letters to Wendy’s walks a tightrope strung
between ridicule and reverence. Wenderoth understands the
insights theory provides while also recognizing its limitations
and absurdities. The text not only references many theoretical
ideas of the last forty years, but it also pays homage to
many of the major canonical philosophical thinkers from Plato
and Aristotle to Nietzsche and Marx. Yet Wenderoth employs
parody to point out the inherent discontinuities. Like a literary
theorist obsessed with poststructural/postmodern thought,
Wenderoth presents an unstable subject gazing at fast-food
employees, a reflective narrator whose quest for a moment
of fulfillment leads to blind alleyways and endlessly deferred
associations. Here critical theory and Wenderoth’s poetic
utterances intersect, each attempting to come to terms with
experiences that lie beyond reason’s reach. While Wenderoth
achieves a masterful satire, the text ultimately exposes how
subversive discourses, both in attempting to overcome the
ways language articulates social and cultural practice and
in seeking to circumvent the ways in which institutions wield
power, engage, through a process of definition and exclusion,
the very thing they seek to avoid: The construction of a discursive
language that in its unspoken rules and assumptions ends up
regulating what we deem legitimate thought. In the end, Letters
renders the way in which we gaze — whether through the
window of our SUV’s while waiting for a burger and fries
or through the lens of a poststructuralist theorist waiting
for tenure — as comic. Poetic, pensive, poignant, pugnacious,
and pornographic, it is worth every laugh.
January 2006
From guest contributors Blake Hobby and Earen Rast
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