Funk

My friend B gave me a wonderful Christmas present this year, Joe Wenderoth’s Letters to Wendy’s (2000). From what I gather, Wenderoth overcame a period of personal and professional crisis by going to Wendy’s every single day and filling out a comment card. Over four hundred of these brief missives were then compiled to form the book. If you aren’t acquainted already, check it out immediately. I have laughed myself into stomach pains. But aside from pushing the obviously awesome and resisting the urge to fill this entire blog with transcribed passages from this book, I do find myself turning to the entry from November 14, 1996 to describe my mood lately:

Today the restaurant was filled with warmth, a spirit of caring.  The food was just right and the service was prompt. For the first time this season, snow began to fall. Parents laughed with their children. Handsome employees made witty–but not inconsiderate–remarks. Retired couples were given Extra Value coupons. I felt like getting fucked up and watching t.v. forever.

There is something totally perverse about being in an amazing place and yet sustaining a low grade funk. In some ways, the guilt that I feel about how much I ought to be enjoying my surroundings right now seems to aggravate my negative feelings. I’ve been watching The Wire like a junkie and rattling on too much about my decidedly First World problems to my friends and family. The Wire is as fantastic as I had always suspected it would be. My Parisian blues are less atmospheric than I had hoped.

Photo courtesy of the singular M. Starik

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