Foreign Exchange
by Laura ()
Eliana pulled her scarf tight against the cold. Her home in Brazil was so much warmer. But she could not pass up the opportunity to come to Columbia for her MFA. Never mind that English was her fifth language. Never mind that the language made less sense than Latin, her third language. To her, any English word, even "infrastructure," was poetry. Because English was the language of him.
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Neal and I: United We Stand
by David Parsons (dparsons78@hotmail.com)
Cautiously, I have begun seeing Neal Pollack romantically once again. It has now been almost seven years since our messy and surprisingly anti-Semitic breakup, and I am tired. I’ve let my guard down, and now what I swore would never happen again has happened, again. Twice, in fact, if you count the drunken handjob behind the Copper Bucket, an absurd left-handed knob polish that ended abrubtly with an awkward slap on the ass and a rebel yell from Neal, screaming something about the “lost soul of Ichabod McWhiskey.” Jesus, how can he be so hot?
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Saint Ladybird
by David Erlewine (derlew1@yahoo.com)
At the 2002 Texas Book Festival After Hours party, Neal Pollack battled for Ladybird. I asked a rude question about her in front of 100 people. In Austin, Texas. The equivalent of asking whether Dennis Rodman was right that Larry Bird wouldn't be anyone if he were black. In French Lick, Indiana.
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I Carry A Heavy Axe, And A Heavy Heart
by Nick Latus ()
There is nothing more exhausting than swinging an axe on a hot and humid day in South America.
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Twenty-six
by Darrell Stephenson (culturalgiant@yahoo.com)
“Ciao, slug-like sane plan!”
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Healing Neal
by Matthew Glarner (glarnere@aol.com)
I had never seen a man smoke cough syrup, at least never with the ardor, the hunger or the sheer drug-lust of one Neal Pollack. And never in the morning. Rich crimson smoke curled from Neal’s nostrils as he stared into space, glassy-eyed. He appraised the fading red tresses with a self-satisfied smirk, each puff becoming a ghost of Mars, a reminder that the war was over. Yes, those would do just fine. He coughed.
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Thirteen Ways Of Checking Out Neal Pollack's Ass
by Anon ()
I Among twenty snowy mountains, The only moving thing Was the ass on Neal Pollack.
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The Writer On Tour Secretly, part two
by Matthew Simmons ()
I’ve gotten tired of reading the same chapters of my novel every night, so I decide to write something new to read at my next tour stop. But, I’m sick of literary fiction, and I’m sick of genre fiction, and I certainly won’t be writing any poetry. I decide what I’m going to do is write a piece of erotic fan fiction.
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Six Weeks and Four Hours With Neal Pollack
by Josh Danart ()
Neal and I had been shacked up in a bungalow in the Hollywood Hills for six weeks. We had been tasked with writing a treatment for a sequel to the Pauly Shore vehicle, Biodome. Things weren’t going well. We hadn’t written a single page and our stash of marijuana was frightfully low.
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My Night In the Neal Pollack Suite
by Bettina Swigger (eswigger@coloradocollege.edu)
Summer was hot in the West and the drought-ridden air was choked with thick smoke. Life here is never easy, but that summer brought out the worst in people; the phlegm-filled throats of elderly ladies at the supermarket coughed out “forest fire” instead of the usual “Virginia Slims.”
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Neal and Kiko
by Erin Ferdinand (yourpalerin@yahoo.com)
Neal Pollack lay with one arm propped behind his head, captivated by the brilliant night sky. Above him, Kiko practiced her high wire act, wearing nothing but a red silk kimono. He hid under her safety net, certain that she sensed his presence. His suspicion was confirmed as she used her body to spell out "I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-N-E-A-L. M-A-K-E-L-O-V-E-TO-M-E-N-E-A-L-!" Not once, but three times… and in Kanji.
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I Want An Asian Girlfriend
by Sam (wearegenius@juno.com)
As I walked out of theatre after seeing The Transporter, I was immediately struck by two thoughts in this order: 1) I should become a transporter, and 2) I should trade in my Caucasian girlfriend for a real Asian.
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The Smell of the Pizza Sub
by Bruce Dore (Dorébrucedore@yahoo.com)
"You can't get a sandwich like this just anywhere," he reminds me, without hesitation, "You know what ingredient they forget about? Hehh Brucie? The love. I put the love into each and every one of my sandwiches. All those bastards care about is moneymaking. Moneymaking!"
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Haddock On Pollack
by Cap'n Haddock (damon@instoremag.com)
Under the bright lights, pussy-smoke-cigarette show, razorblade-in-pussy show and even man-woman-fuck-on-Harley-descend-from-rafters show take a backseat to pussy-shoot-dart-at-balloon show. An old standard, true, but sometimes they are the best. It is the element of danger, mused Pollack as he sat in SuperPussyGlamSlam, the famous yet genuinely seedy upstairs vixenagerie . top draw in the Holy See's popular "red light" district.
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The Leafy Stick, Being the Second Part of the War Against Neal Pollack, in Which I Act Heroically
by Philip Toalston (buggfinnworks@hotmail.com)
It was not long after Legolas and I set off from the Gray Havens that we got bored and turned back. At first, I believed that Legolas's Elf-songs would be enough to keep the both of us entertained during the long journey to the Elvenhome, but as it turned out, he only knows the one song, and after the fourth or fifth time through it we both knew we were kidding ourselves. Plus, his voice is kind of high, and it's embarrassing.
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The Incredible Neal Pollack #137:
by Robert Karol, BFA (robbykarol@hotmail.com)
It was a typical party at Stark's mansion. Every month, Tony Stark threw a big shindig, and you could usually count on superheroes, movie starlets, writers, rock stars, heads of state and captains of industry attending. And you could usually count on me, Nicholas Fury, commander of SHIELD, to be running security. And you could usually count on Happy Hogan, Stark's personal assistant, to harp on every problem.
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The Authentic West
by C. Schaberg (Email tragically misplaced)
Sitting on the floor, listening to Madonna’s Greatest Hits volume 2 and the trickling decompressing stage of the air conditioner outside, I wondered what it was about The West that made it so intriguing. I had been sent out on assignment by the New Yorker to do a participatory case study of the Western experience. Now, here I was in Bozeman, Montana, living the real thing: the Western life.
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Nealing Before Me
by Brin (kneegrowburrito@hotmail.com)
There have been two great loves of my life, Noam Chomsky and James Brolin. James had been my rebound.
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Great White Author
by Flannery Dean (flannery.dean@utoronto.ca)
How stacked Canadian girl who live dirt humble in village of Toronto, which in American tongue translate city of negligible interest in border country of little significance, who never read no better ‘an Mordecai Richler, never dream no higher ‘an night manager of Tim Horton’s, find spiritual renovation in chance encounter with American literary scion Neal Pollack, you ask? Sit down, remove pants and I, Liat, beguiling womanchild of the frozen North, tell you tale of discovery deep as ditch, life changing as two-dollar scratch ticket.
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Ol' Neal
by R.W. Holiday (rwholiday@earthlink.net)
Like me, some people don’t know Neal Pollack but for when he was a trucker. So I couldn’t believe it the other day when I was on the Innernet looking for a load to haul and somehow comed across this Neal Pollack dot-com, and I clicked on it to see but what by chance it might be the same ol’ Neal Pollack I used to drive with and there he was, sure as shit. Couldn’t believe it was him at first. But then, he always said he was gonna be some kind of Hemingway or Franzen or something. Now here he’s got his own web page and all. And that picture of him, the one of him buck naked with the cat. Crazy sumbitch!
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Notes From Neal Pollack's Underground
by Dennis DiClaudio (dennisdiclaudio@yahoo.com)
Neal Pollack is a sick man... Neal Pollack is a spiteful man. Neal Pollack is an unattractive man. Neal Pollack believes his liver is diseased. However, he knows nothing at all about his disease, and does not know for certain what ails him. He doesn't consult a doctor for it, and never has, though he has a respect for medicine and doctors.
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Model United Nations--A Brush With Greatness
by Mark Samuels (mgs98@hampshire.edu)
The negotiations seemed to go on forever, but by 4PM it looked like the enemy might fold. Under the fluorescent lights of the General Assembly, I rolled up my sleeves and dabbed my forehead with a handkerchief. In my right hand was the document that could change forever the lives of a million peasants fishing under Chinese dominion in the South Pacific.
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Pollack Is My Groupie
by Sheila E (NA)
Except for the busted bass-string halfway through the set, it was a good show. The opening band was the right kind of mediocre: skilled and rehearsed, but not so talented that they’d show me up. The crowd was solid.
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There Are No Angels, Only Fake Breasts
by Ben Brown (ben@benbrown.com)
I've barely touched my feet to solid ground before Chester lights a cigarette, puts it in my mouth, and wraps a Triple5Soul coat around my shoulders. This is why I hired him as my agent -- he knows how to treat someone like me, someone special and charmed, someone who has certain needs which need to be sated. Yes, Chester is a good agent.
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