Flak Magazine: Review of The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature, 02-18-01

Trying to describe why Neal Pollack's "The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature" is so great is a lot harder than it would seem — and if you've read it, perhaps under a veiled threat of bodily harm as I was, you know what I mean.

For some reason, people can't seem to grasp Pollack's greatness without actually seeing it with their own eyes. They seem unable to appreciate the "greatest writer of (our) time" in our midst, waxing and waning satirically. They are unable to see things from his caustic point-of-view. That is, until they have read the book themselves.

Take this pained example, which describes an effort to explain a riotous, though tough-to-stomach-when-taken-out-of-context, essay in "The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature" entitled "Introduction to the New Slavery."

It started innocently enough, this ill-fated trip down the chapter-about-new-slavery road, while sitting in the common/TV area of my 22-year old brother's Minnesota liberal arts school, surrounded by a mish mash of hip-hop/hipster/jock college seniors.

I had noticed they had a copy of Rolling Stone #849 on an end table (the "Hot" issue, with the fetching Gisele Bundchen on the cover. An issue in which Pollack was named "Hot Author.") Between pitches in the Yankees-Mariners ALCS game, I lead them into a (largely one-sided) conversation that began, "Did you guy's see who they picked as the 'Hot Author' in that Rolling Stone?"

Seeing as many of them were English (or related foo-foo) majors, I figured they would have at least a passing interest in a "Hot Author." I was wrong.

"No," they muttered in muted unison.

"No," one half-heartedly exclaimed, "But Gisele is fucking hot."

Well, I couldn't argue with them on that, but I continued.

"The 'Hot Author' is a guy named Neal Pollack. He's friends with Dave Eggers (blank looks abounded) and he writes for McSweeney's. (Pause for a response that I knew was not coming). The literary Web site." Still more blank looks. "And his book is fucking hilarious. It's basically Pollack describing his life as the world's greatest living writer and the shit he does and the shit that happens to him."

Derek Jeter was up. No response.

With my attempt at connecting with them dying as quickly as it began, but a burning desire to recommend a book I loved so much, and with nowhere else to turn, I dropped Fat Man and Little Boy on them. With horrifying results.

"In one of the chapters he talks about how he wants to revive slavery."

Holy shit.

Well, you don't have to be a sociology major to know that saying "revive" and "slavery" in the same sentence is going to catch you a couple of looks. I immediately knew some Beltway-sized damage control was in order before these puffed-up, protein diet, gym rat, little-d Democrats splattered me all over the TV lounge walls.

"Yea, it sounds terrible doesn't it?" I said. "But his new slavery would be based on class, not race."

This didn't help much. Okay, not at all, though there was nary a "low" class kid in the room. Jeter had flied out.

"And toward the end of the chapter he says he walks around Manhattan with rope and some tranquilizers, looking to see who'll become his slave."

Still sinking. I decided it was time to start bailing the boat while I furiously tried to fix the leak.

"C'mon guys. It's a joke," I said, noticeably changing the tone of my voice to an older brother/younger brother, I-guess-you-had-to-be-there sound. "It's satire. Don't you think that stuff's funny? Oh, when you read the part that goes like, 'Check it out people, I have a slave' you'll piss you'll be laughing so hard. It's sort of like the tone of the Onion! You like the Onion, right?"

They still hadn't bought it. Now it was Dave Justice taking his turn at the plate.

"The basis isn't race," I reiterated.

"It's satire." I restated. "It touches on the fact that our world is so consumer-based that buying and selling people is starting to sound OK. I know it's fucked up, but it's a joke. It's meant to be funny and poignant at the same time."

Justice must've been retired. It was a commercial.

Finally one of the DMX and Mickey's Beer fans broke the ice. "That shit sounds pretty fucked up, man."

"I agree, but that's what makes it funny."

"Whatever."

I had been curtly treated to the universal sign that this conversation was over. I could finally breathe, but I wasn't very happy about it.

So now, no matter how great Pollack's book is, or how funny the voice he affects in it is or how beautifully he describes how easy it is to take a lover in Cuba, these guys were no longer going to be treated to my glowing treatise on it — and they weren't going to pick it up. No. No matter how hilarious it is.

And so, Pollack lost some fans, guys who would have surely loved his book, but they won't read it. That is not unless they happen upon the book somewhere down the road. Maybe they'll be introduced to it by a girl, one with a touch more deft than mine. Maybe one whose favorite part had nothing to do with slavery, but with Pollack's sister's lesbianism, teenagers or the WTO protests in Seattle instead. A girl whose round brown eyes and small, tight wool-blend sweater has an effect I could not hope to project in a thousand years.

Until then, I'll be sad — and I think Neal Pollack would be, too.

— Erik Olson (eo999 at hotmail dot com)