LET US SAY A KIND WORD FOR CANNED MEAT

Here's an admission that will strike some as unimportant and others as vile: I eat meat.

Being a carnivore lacks fashion these days. Paul McCartney insists vendors at his world tour stops serve only vegetarian franks. He was, after all, the "cute Beatle" and would not give us a bum steer (in any sense of that phrase).

Without slurring the unique place tofu holds in nutrition (which, for me, is roughly the same as a spare tire for an automobile ... meaning if I had to use it, I would), a good steak pleases me.

I also enjoy a good burger. Also a ham sandwich. Fried chicken goes down good, too.

While I seldom dwell on this thought, I regard a world without barbecue as nightmarish. Alternatives may be promoted, but barbecued broccoli wouldn't do the trick.

Little in my upbringing prepared me for guilt in this regard. No ill will exists in me for cows or fowl. I am not intent on the subversion of any species. I respect my friends who are vegetarians.

It's just that my mom cooked stuff and I ate it. Nothing has convinced me to stop.

However, this article is about Spam. A wag might wonder what that has to do with the consumption of meat.

OK, Spam gets a bad rap. Even with its status as the prime rib of canned meat, Spam takes a beating from elitist eaters. (Probably, it's the same sort of beating Spam Lite takes from inflexible eaters of Spam ... such are the conventions of those dedicated to the original recipe.)

Scant Spam decorates my diet these days, though not for any reason of haughtiness. In the summers of my matriculating youth, when blistering hot mornings of outdoor employment built a mighty appetite, a lunch bucket containing a Spam sandwich and a baggie full of chips was pure gold.

By 11 a.m., your mouth would water in anticipation, and the next hour's passage would be like sorghum through a strainer.

Occasionally, a co-worker would offer a tomato slice for this feast, and you washed it down with lemonade from a Thermos. Balancing all this in your lap, you ate in the shade of a tree or the cab of a truck. As lasting remembrances go, this meal shouldn't qualify; somehow it does.

These memories surfaced in me with delivery of a notice that Austin, Minn., will precede Independence Day next month with a community celebration of its own.

The event is called Spam Jamboree.

There on the banks of the Cedar River, not far from the Iowa line and smack in the heart of luncheon meat heaven, the townspeople of Austin, many of them employed by the home-based Hormel Foods Corp., will show their appreciation for the largess that rests enveloped in those rectangular blue cans (regular and Lite).

Having just experienced another Riverfest and giving an appropriate nod to this community's heritage, Cape Girardeans will identify with this celebration and its curious traditions.

Given no context and absent local identification, some might regard the Spam 5-Mile Hog Jog or the Spam and Eggs Breakfast as provincial and maybe a tad over the top.

The same might be said of the Spam Art Contest, open to all media with the theme "Artist's interpretation of Spam luncheon meat." Andy Warhol, who immortalized Campbell's Soup on canvas, must be spinning in his grave at the lost opportunity.

Hormel will keep a close eye on, and snatch up all the entries for, the Spam Recipe Contest, which will be judged on, among other things, originality, appearance and general appeal. If you have been hoarding the secret to Spam Creole or Spambriand, I can get you an entry form.

(Cultural question: What wine do you drink with Spam, white or red?)

You won't go hungry. Concessions available for jamboree-goers include Spamburgers, Spam Kabobs and Spam Pizza. Entertainment on the main stage includes the Spamettes. Give this community credit for continuity of purpose.

The brochure that announced the Spam Jamboree was laced with pictures of people happy to sing the praises of canned meat. One photo showed a man dancing with a person dressed as a can of Spam. The man worn a t-shirt; the can had a large red bow tie, perhaps feeling a greater sense of formality.

Apparently neither was entered in the Spam Can Toss, which hardly seems a contest the Hormel marketing division would embrace.

Each community has its rites. In Cape Girardeau, there runs a mighty river. In Austin, Minn., they make Spam. And come July 3, they will celebrate it.

As a show of solidarity, for celebrating cities and carnivores alike, let's take a moment on the holiday weekend to toss a can of Spam. Our brethren up north will appreciate the effort.