Spam has been on a low boil of ironic, kitschy popularity for a decade or more—consider the framed photo of Soul Asylum’s Dave Pirner, circa 1990, on the walls of the 400 Bar, resplendent in his navy blue Spam T-shirt. Today, Hormel is reaching for real pop-culture credibility. It’s as though the company itself has awakened to Spam’s Gen-X marketing value. But will this late-breaking self-awareness ruin Spam as a target for genuine jokes? Frankly, Hormel doesn’t seem too concerned—as long as people keep buying it. Not everyone who likes Spam, after all, is a washed-up post-punker incapable of sincerity.
Minnesota native Marion Ross—Mrs. C from Happy Days—endlessly signed autographs and posed for photos while giving the perfect, continuous smile through a generous application of make-up. Ultimate mom Barbara Billingsley from Leave it to Beaver had trouble keeping up with all the demands for autographs. Nevertheless, she presented her very own Spam recipe with verve. Debra Jo Rupp, the latterday mom from That ’70s Show, was perfunctory in introducing her recipe. She was only slightly sarcastic. One should not underestimate the power of pork. Hormel somehow persuaded sports greats Tom Kelly, Carl Eller, Herb Brooks, Matt Blair, and Bud Grant to join this year’s Spam Jam.
Hormel’s patronage of the arts has been legendary in the past. In less self-conscious times, massive quantities of Spam were allocated for area sculptors to carve temporary statues out of large blocks of processed meat. One year, Rodin’s The Thinker was a favorite. A few years later, an advertising agency commissioned a Spam sculpture of Jesse Ventura. Unfortunately for tourists inclined to the fine arts, Spam sculptures are no longer part of the program. “All that food would be better put to use to feed the hungry,” said Hormel representative Mary Harris. “Besides, it just gets kind of gross.”
These days, Hormel has pooled its resources into revisionist history. Behold, the state-of-the-art Spam museum, which is housed in a building formerly occupied by Kmart. While the museum makes no mention of the pesky labor strikes of the 1980s, much attention is given to comptroller Cy Thomson who was put through business college by founder George Hormel. Subsequently, Thomson embezzled nearly $1,200,000 by 1916. It is possible to see the checking deposit slips that nearly ruined the world-famous company.
Apart from a miraculous recovery, Spam’s biggest feat was, of course, saving the world by winning World War II. Tom Brokaw spoke of the greatest generation, and by default the pork products that made them great. After all, “Spammy,” Hormel’s fighting pig, went to war to feed the troops by making the ultimate sacrifice. Sure, doughboys may have turned Spam’s company nickname of the “miracle meat” into the “mystery meat that failed the physical,” but it was probably a welcome break from K rations. Strangely, Squeal: the Hormel News-Magazine claimed, “We have not sold a single can of Spam to the U.S. Army.” Was this Hormel’s not-so-secret mission to keep the troops fed? Did they just donate all that Spam? Or perhaps they feared becoming a target if German bombers ever ventured inland. In any case, Hormel can (and will) now boast of their patriotic assignment to rid the world of fascism one stomach at a time.
At least our allies appreciated it, as Edward R. Murrow noted in 1942: “This is London. Although the Christmas table won’t be lavish, there will be Spam for everyone.” Even Dwight Eisenhower gave Hormel a back-handed compliment in a postwar letter. “During World War II, of course, I ate my share of Spam along with millions of other soldiers. I’ll even confess to a few unkind remarks about it—uttered during the strain of battle, you understand. But as former Commander in Chief, I believe I can still officially forgive you your only sin: sending us so much.”
At the time, little was said about Hormel’s assistance to the Russians. Nevertheless, Nikita Khrushchev sang Spam’s praises too. “There are many jokes going around in the army, some of them off-color, about American Spam; it tasted good nonetheless. Without Spam, we wouldn’t have been able to feed our army.” Even Margaret Thatcher remembered in a letter to Hormel, “We had friends in and I can quite vividly remember we opened a tin of Spam luncheon meat.”
When the Iron Curtain fell, hefty Boris Yeltsin hopped at the chance to show his love of pork when he toured Austin in 1992. One of the museum’s contemporary artifacts is a photograph of the company president proudly handing a complimentary can of Spam to the glassy-eyed Russian president—maybe it was just jet lag.
Sadly, the grisly historical photos of the “Hog Kill Gang,” the “Meat Cooler Gang,” the “Lard Room,” and the “Ham Boning Room” were not transferred from the old Spam Museum to the sparkling new family-friendly digs. Instead, the new museum encourages interaction. Kids, for example, are able to can their very own Spam. If you do it in 14 seconds—a very good time indeed—there’s little satisfaction. The Austin plant finishes 105 cans in the same amount of time. While kids at the canning exhibit use pink foam rubber in that classic trapezoidal shape, “Spam is actually in liquid form when it is pumped into the cans,” a guide informed me. “The machine fills six cans at a time, kind of like an old-fashioned six-shooter.” Behind him, comic drawings of pigs showed how the happy animals gorge themselves on fresh corn out to pas
ture. The animals then joyfully enter the factory and magically come out the other side as huge cans of Spam (not drawn to scale) just in time for lunch.
The guide explained how 960 hogs are “processed” per hour. While I reeled at the thought of all those pigs, I saw a conveyor belt overhead shuttling around an endless line of canned meat. I felt like a cartoon character imagining his favorite pork products—Spam and Cheese, Cured Pork Tongue, Smoke-Flavored Spam, Spam-n-Tongue, Deviled Spam Curds. “My favorite is the red cans of Spam with Tabasco,” the guide confided. Laugh, sure, but “If all the cans ever eaten were placed end-to-end, they would circle the globe at least 10 times.” I pictured the earth with a glorious belt of blue and yellow cans to rival the rings of Saturn. Hormel claims the dubious honor of being the first company in the world to can a ham. The guide pointed out a photo of the 50 millionth pig dressed in ribbons and photographed before being “processed” into Spam. The sheer quantity isn’t what put the miracle in this meat. It’s the versatility of Spam, according to one display. Multi-cultural recipes abound, from Spam sushi to Korean kimchi Spam to Spam pizza. The new prize-winning recipe, however, is Spam cupcakes.
A video loop of Monty Python’s anti-Spam skit ran continuously, an offering that was conspicuously absent from the old museum. Apparently they now subscribe to the theory that any publicity is good publicity. Or perhaps Hormel’s newfound ironic detachment now lets it poke fun at itself. More disturbing was a life-sized video version of Al Franken hosting a painfully normal Spam game show. Sure, Hormel must have paid him a pretty penny to push Spam. But isn’t Al Franken Jewish?
The exit for the Spam Museum was skirted by the 4,000-can “Wall of Spam” with an indefinite shelf life. Outside this pork paradise, the Spam Jam was still in full swing. TV moms were still busy signing autographs, their eyes were shielded by Spam sun visors. Everywhere I turned, the word “Spam” jumped at me—product placement run amok. I was on Spam overload and even contemplated dumping the half-dozen cans of Spam I bought as kitsch gifts (only six bucks!) I sorely needed a Spam hiatus. I tried to get away—but not before a portly gentleman handed me a Spam refrigerator magnet. He had a strangely vacant smile on his face and wore a T-shirt silk-screened with the mantra, “I think; therefore, I Spam.”
Eric Dregni is the author of Minnesota Marvels.