SOMEONE TO WATCH OVER ME
By JS Van Buskirk. Ph.D

Having lived in shadow these many years, I have now resolved to venture, if briefly, into sunlight to unburden my heart of the secrets it has borne these many years while I have been living in shadow. At the center of my heart, the cause of all my secret pain and the tether that pulls me ever forward without rest, is one man. The only man. Neal Pollack.

To tell this story, I must begin far in the past, long before I ever laid eyes on the man. My story begins when I was but a child of barely 4 years of age. Because of the preternatural strength and agility I displayed in my pre-school tumbling class, I was taken by agents of the notorious crime-lord Thomas "Tommy Gun" Gunn to be trained as an assassin in his stronghold in the Pyrenees.

The training took many years. It was grueling and painful, but I learned quickly and gratefully. I take great pride in the depths of my mastery of the skills of concealment, tracking, disguise, and of the forty-two ways to kill a man without laughing. Tommy performed most of my training himself, and from the moment my training was complete I was his falcon. I flew out to kill at his command and returned bloody to his hand. To be a killer, one's loyalty must be absolute, as my loyalty to Tommy was absolute.

He cherished me as a man cherishes his gun or his car. I was never to hold his heart and his deepest affection. No woman did, until Marika entered our lives.

Marika was an expatriate Russian former ballerina. She had washed up on a beach in Majorca after escaping the pleasure yacht of the Turkish billionaire who had found her penniless and working as a belly-dancer in Ankara. Tommy was strolling along the shore after a late meeting with certain associates in the nutritional supplement business, and he found her there. She was shivering in the cold light of dawn, her once diaphanous trousers sodden and clinging, her spangles clinking and glimmering weakly. Her dancer's body was shown to advantage in that rosy light. Helpless and alone, she was nonetheless defiant. No man could possibly have resisted her unless he had really wanted to. She took one long look down into Tommy's steely eyes and he was hers, completely.

When he returned with her to his stronghold in the Pyrenees, I was evicted from my pallet space at the end of his bed where I had slept since I was twelve to a small room off the main entry hall. For many nights I cried bitter tears. And yet, seeing Tommy in love served only to intensify my devotion. Marika was his everything. Their joy suffused the entire stronghold. Indeed, her arrival signaled the beginning of a golden time of happiness and prosperity.

Every enterprise flourished. My own work had never brought me more satisfaction. My targets seemed to smile back at me as their necks snapped between my hands, and I was proud to return to Tommy with a job well done. Those years were the salad daysÑthe time of the only true contentment I will ever know.

We could not have known that the destruction of all our happiness was even then walking the earth in the form of a man, and that man was Neal Pollack.

***

Our doom began innocently enough, with Marika's annual two week shopping trip in to Bilbao. Even an extremely powerful crime-lord like Tommy Gun could not have kept the most beautiful and luxurious woman ever to jingle on earth happy without a lot of credit cards. She usually went to Bilbao for her shopping because particularly enjoyed the art and would frequently make requests to Tommy for specific pieces from the Guggenheim.

About half-way through the first week of her trip that year, I set out myself on an assignment. One of Tommy's associates had proved unreliable. He had disappeared with some cash and a disgraced CSPAN reporter. The man had been a faithful associate for many years, and it was my job to learn if he should be brought back into the fold or if he should be buried in the wilderness into which he had chosen to stray. It took about two weeks. After that, I had to buy a new bottle opener, and then it took another two weeks to get my shoes clean before I was able to return to my happy home.

I soon sensed that something was very, very wrong. The henchmen guarding the secret entrance in Ronces Valles couldn't even look me in the eyes. I gave the password and they wouldn't speak, only nod. When I reached the main compound, the silence that greeted me there was deathly. I dropped my knapsack on my pallet in my room and went searching for Tommy to report to him that a bare minimum, no more than 1.37%, of his former associate's remains were identifiable with current technology. There was never a chance to give Tommy the good news.

After searching for many hours, I finally found Tommy up on the roof. He was sitting on the ledge of one of the parapets that graced his stronghold, kicking his feet desultorily and gazing out towards the monastery. He had been crying, I was shocked to see. Clutched in his hand was a single piece of pale pink paper. A faint breeze carried a whiff of patchouli toward me. It could only be a letter from Marika.

"What has happened?" I asked. Tommy slowly turned his face toward me. He said nothing, but held out the crumpled letter. I took it and quickly spread it out on the rough stone surface of the parapet ledge, pressing my hands on the edges to hold it flat. The letter was short. Tearstains in the purple ink made the words hard to read. I couldn't tell who had cried them.

Solnyshko Moyo Tomasch, Ya zatrudnyaus! I am tormented! There is another and he has taken my heart. He does not love me, but I cannot return to you. Ya tak lyublyutbya, pavermne! I do love you so, but my only chance at happiness is to make whatever attempt I can to win the notice of this devil, this angel, this master of my soul! Good bye my love! Do svidaniya, slyvbovyu! Marika

Upon reading the letter, I could only stare at Tommy open mouthed. I think I asked him, "But who could . . .?" I didn't know it then, but there was only one man who could have stolen Marika's heart and sanity in less than a month's time.

At that moment, Eric, one of Tommy's entry level trainees, appeared at the top of the stairs. He was panting from the climb, and his face was distorted with pain. Tears were flowing from his wide eyes as he gasped out, "I've just come from Bilbao! She's dead!"

Tommy jumped down from the parapet ledge and demanded "How?! Tell me what has happened to her!"

Eric reached his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out what appeared to be a hardcover book jacket, and proffered it to Tommy, saying "They found this near her. um. They found this near her."

Taking the torn book cover almost gently in his hands, Tommy turned his back to us, facing back over the mountains towards the monastery. He read the name on the book cover. Then, suddenly, leaping like a cat, he jumped up on to the parapet ledge and shook the cover at the sky, shouting "DAMN YOUR SOUL TO HELL, NEAL POLLACK! YOU MIGHT BE THE SOLE GIFT OF AN UNCARING UNIVERSE TO A BEKNIGHTED HUMANITY BUT I CURSE YOU ALL THE SAME! AND I WILL SEE YOU IN HELL!"

I was frozen with grief and fear, and could only stare at my beloved master as he shook his fists at the sky. He kept shouting,

"YOU HEAR ME POLLACK?!!!!"

"POLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAACK!!!!!"

As the echoes of his cries died in the distance, Tommy dropped his arms. He looked once more at the book jacket in his hand, then released it to be carried away by the breeze. Tommy slumped, defeated by grief. He reached into the pocket of his LL Bean barn jacket and pulled out a small pen-like object. Eric saw this and immediately took off down the stairs, yelling for everyone to get out. I wasn't prepared to leave Tommy, even if he was holding the detonator for 27 thousand pounds of C4 wired throughout the stronghold, which he was in fact holding. I would have stayed by his side and been happy, but he had a plan for me.

"Joanie," he said, "Avenge me. It was for this fate that I had you kidnapped from Mrs. Malispina's Tumbling for Toddlers class all those years ago. His name is Neal Pollack, and I charge you as your last task on this earth to kill him. NOW RUN!"

It was all I could do to make some noise of assent before fleeing down the stairs. I grabbed my knapsack from my room and escaped through a passage that let me out in the crypt of the monastery. I was just climbing onto my motorcycle in the company garage in Ronces Valles when the explosion went. It broke every window in town. I could've watched the parapets tumble one by one if I hadn't been blinded by my tears. The icy wind in my face dried them as I raced to Bilbao seeking vengeance.

***

In the safe house in Bilbao I found signs of Eric's hasty departure. A bowl's worth of congealed Spaghetti-Os were spilled on the floor, almost obliterating the front page article of yesterday's International Herald Tribune.

MYSTERIOUS BEAUTY KILLS SELF:
DOCTOR BLAMES HER PASSION FOR NEAL POLLACK
My eyes barely registered the few lines of the article I could read through the tomato sauce. ". . . half-consumed remains of Mr. Pollack's latest masterpiece. The woman, believed to be the unbelievably desirable mistress of import-export entrepreneur Thomas Gunn, apparently choked herself to death by forcing Mr. Pollack's book down her own throat. Doctors suspect . . ."

I wondered. What qualities of a man did this Pollack have that could turn a devastating tigress such as Marika into a helpless slave of desire? What was in his mind that she would die choking on his book just to digest a few pages worth of words? I now know the answers to those questions, to my eternal suffering.

I could have left then. I could have returned to Ronces Valles and joined Tommy. I could have run to the waterfront and signed onto a freighter. I could have moved to California and founded a clinic for high-kidnapping risk executives. Anything that could have saved me from coming under the spell of Neal Pollack. I did none of those things. How could I have known my danger? I had Marika's example before me, but to me she was an alien creature. I thought of myself as a killer, never as a woman, so I set out to kill the man who had destroyed my world.

He was easy to find. The whole city was aflame with his presence, and it was simple enough to follow the rumors and the giddy clusters of intelligentsia to the center of their whirling dance of social intrigue. Days passed as I watched him and told myself I was waiting for the perfect time. I realized my mistake when I suddenly realized I was watching him pack his bags to leave Spain. What had I been doing?! Enraged and ashamed, I immediately leapt across the space between my stake-out in an abandoned hotel across the alley into the open window of his room.

I think I caught him by surprise, but I hesitate to underestimate him. He might have known I was there the whole time. I held my stiletto knife out in front of me as I moved toward him. He did not cringe or show any fear. I could see the lucid intelligence in his eyes and not a trace of fear as he watched the blade I was holding.

"I have killed more men than died digging the Panama Canal," I told him. "My hands have held endless pain for the hundreds of poor souls I have tortured just to be sure they understood something," I said, stepping closer with every word. Soon I was standing in front of him, the point of my stiletto blade piercing his white lawn shirt and drawing a spot of blood. With a quick motion of my left hand, I tossed a thin loop of rope around his neck. Still he did not flinch or say a word. "I am here to kill you now," I said, "Kneel!"

He finally spoke. He said "What?"

I said, "Kneel!"

He said, "What?"

"On your knees, damn you!"

At that, he said, "Oh," and looked into my eyes.

My hands dropped to my sides, my knife dropped to the floor, and my world was destroyed a second time. Perhaps he spoke, I do not know. Someone knocked at the door. Room service. I fled, leaping out the window the way I had come in. For hours I lay curled and sobbing in my hide-out, a pathetic creature with no reason to live except to kill the man who must become my reason for living.

Tommy's words rose up in my mind, I charge you as your last task on this earth to kill him. Very well, I thought to myself. My last task on this earth will be to kill Neal Pollack, in that I will honor my beloved master. I will not harm a hair on Neal Pollack's head until he is a breath away from oblivion. In the mean time, I am resolved that no one else shall touch him, so I continue to watch him, waiting silently for my appointed hour, and destroying any who intend to harm him. At least six in the past ten years, dispatched without fuss and without his ever suspecting a thing. So far as it is in my power, we have many more years ahead of us.

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A STORY OF ONE MAN'S PERSONAL STRUGGLE AGAINST TERRORISM
By Eric Olson, Ph.D.

In the wake of the events of September 11^th, I was nervous about boarding a plane. 

Images of another commercial airliner, engulfed in flames, hurtling toward some national monument or another, haunted my dreams. 

Planned business trips were cancelled, family reunions postponed.  I put off the inevitable return to the no longer so friendly skies. 

The time finally came when it was not possible for me to stay away from flight any longer.  An important business trip made it necessary for me to fly to New York, a five-hour trip from Denver International Airport.

I was not looking forward to it.

Upon entering the airport my palms became instantly drenched with sweat, my heart rate skyrocketed.

I checked my bags and made the long journey through security checkpoints and finally arrived at the terminal.  The long wait only made my anxiety worse.  I listed in my head the possible terrorist targets between Denver and New York. Sears Tower, the Liberty Bell.  Would terrorists wish to smash another plane into the remains of the World Trade Center?

I handed over my boarding pass to the flight attendant who smiled bravely as I passed.  Behind that professional face I could see the fear, the pain, the paranoia so prevalent in American air travelers over the past few months. 

"Hmm."  I contemplated these options.

"Mr. Andersen sounds like quite a catch," said Edna.

"Oh, yes." said the attendant. "Everyone thinks so."

The ninth and tenth Valium felt like they hadn"t gone down properly.

"I"ll take the monkey."

As I entered the lavatory in which his cage was placed, Bobo let out a series of sharp screeches that I found most charming.  He bared his teeth and trailed his paw through some of his own feces that had gathered at the bottom of the cage.

"This," I thought. "Is what America is all about."

Since that day, I am no longer afraid of flying.  The terrifying thoughts of plunging into the majestic wires of the Golden Gate Bridge or dragging a trail of engine parts and wing fragments into the brilliantly illuminated Hollywood sign, have been replaced by the soft, loving caress of Bobo.

Each time I enter a plane, I am no longer suspicious of my fellow passengers.  Instead I try to catch a glimpse of that magnificent creature that showed me what America can be. 

Thank you, Bobo, wherever you may be flying now.  Thank you, and carry on that most paramount of all missions.  Don't let terrorism silence your message of love and compassion for all living things.  Continue your fight for freedom and maintain your vigilance in the name of democracy.

There are few things in this life that give us hope.  Don't let your tiny monkey-beacon of greatness be extinguished. 

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MY NEAL POLLACK
By A. J. Daulerio, CPA

My Neal Pollack is not this Neal Pollack.  My Neal Pollack went to Churchville Elementary School and was half Puerto Rican. My Neal Pollack used to have short, curly hair, which was pasted to his head. He was short, maybe five-foot-three, and was simian-like. He also had overdeveloped arms for a 4^th grader. There is no reason anyone should have biceps in 4^th Grade. But my Neal Pollack did. He was a hit with the ladies, my Neal Pollack was. He would always end up kissing girls after skating parties. I would marvel as my Neal Pollack skated backwards and held Erica Baatz’s hands. He had such fluid hips. He knew how to open up his legs and bring a girl through the other end. I used to yelp uncontrollably when he did that. My Neal Pollack made me want to be half Puerto Rican. He was that good.

When we got to junior high school, My Neal Pollack didn’t grow. He was still five-three. My Neal Pollack never made “the leap” that so many expected. He was not riding a motorcycle to school, or scoring touchdowns as a star running back. He wasn’t dating college girls at age 13. And the rest of his body never caught up with his baseball-sized biceps. But, he was still My Neal Pollack.  I loved watching My Neal Pollack saunter through the hallways. Even though nobody was hoisting My Neal Pollack up on their shoulders, or even offering him high-fives, he still had an air about him

In 11^th Grade, my Neal Pollack grew darker. His hair grew quite nappy. Save his half Puerto Rican features, My Neal Pollack looked black. During this time, had made “the leap” and was a popular senior in high school. I was “knockin’ boofty out of the box”, as they said back then, and hung around the star basketball players, the class president, and the captain of the football team. I also played guitar in a punk-rock band. The ladies thought I was “eccentric”. But, My Neal Pollack was still 5’3. He still hadn’t made “the leap”. I never forgot him, though. I used to call My Neal Pollack “Theo” because he resembled Malcolm Jamal-Warner’s character on The Cosby Show. That might have been an inappropriate thing to say, but that’s what happens when you go to an all-white high school.  “Hey Theo!” I’d say as we passed each other in the hallway. “What’s up, A.J.”, he’d reply.  We did this for a few months and then I graduated. I haven’t seen My Neal Pollack since.

So, I was sitting at work, thinking about The Cosby Show, and I thought of Theo, My Neal Pollack. I did a Google search for Neal Pollack and all these sites referring to The Greatest American Writer and pictures of a nude man and a cat appeared. I had hoped that this was My Neal Pollack, the one so many people were referring to as a wonderful author. The one who was interviewed in all of these cool publications, like Flak, Ironminds, and the Boston Phoenix. My Neal Pollack had finally made “the leap”, I thought. “The leap” everyone expected him to make almost 15 years ago. I e-mailed this person, who I thought was My Neal Pollack and wanted to congratulate him on all his accomplishments. This Neal Pollack wrote me back. He wasn’t My Neal Pollack. He wasn’t Theo. But, This Neal Pollack’s kind of cool, too.

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MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH NEAL POLLACK
By Anthony Mascorro, MD

And so it came to pass that through a mist of cigarette smoke and over a lacquered bar top littered with peanut shells and pornographic magazine cut-outs, our eyes met, the cosmos ruptured, and our love affair began.  Pollack winked.  Or did he blink?  I had no way to be sure; I was only watching the one eye.  But from behind that eye shone all the radiance, desire, and electro-magnetic magnetism of two: the single pupil a double abyss; the single set of eyelashes adorned with more than enough mascara for an additional set.  My nights of talking to Neal’s book jacket photograph while stroking a patch of algae that I assumed to have a texture similar to that of his goatee were over. Our bout of barstool eye-tag had marked the genesis of a new era for both of us. 

As the Northeastern March grayness gave way to blue skies and dandelion fluff, Pollack and I spent innumerable hours strolling through Central Park, drinking wine out of jelly jars, and discussing the socio-political implications and syntactical brilliance in the works of such cultural behemoths as Zora Neale Hurston and Tom Clancy.  Dancing about the fireplace in clogs and a feather boa, I’d often call out to no one in particular:  “Oh Neal, my Neal, eternal Neal...” Neal would crane his neck around the walk-in closet door jamb:  “Yes, Anthony?”  I’d chuckle at not having realized I’d spoken aloud, and then say, “Come on Pollack, put on that red dress and let’s go dancing.”

Other nights, I bore witness to a quieter side of Neal.  Often over dinner, a philosophical, far-off expression would emerge on his countenance.  I knew that if I waited quietly, he would blow my mind.  He would come to, face dancing in ochre candlelight, gaze at the remnants of his spare ribs and utter, “But what does it all mean?  Why are we here?  Was Percy right about the singularities of time and space, or could we be anywhere at any moment and lead an essentially identical existence?  Was Sartre totally full of shit?  Did the cow that produced the meal I just ate experience physical and psychological pain?  What is chaos?  Will the universe remain unchanged if I order a double chocolate mousse, and if I do will it go straight to my hips?”             

Although at first I attempted to solicit Neal’s erudite, though monumentally sensitive, criticism of my own poetry, he proved to be, as all great artists are, physically sickened by the thought of aiding another in the development of his craft.  The period of his activity as my literary mentor began and ended with his informing me, rather curtly, that the definition of the word “ostensibly” has nothing to do with dental hygienics.  To all subsequent requests for artistic guidance, he would, depending on the hour and the number of gin spritzers he’d had, either don a pair of sunglasses and glare out the window or continue auditioning fishnet stockings in his full-length mirror, absently asking my opinion and ignoring my advances toward creative communion. 

Neal, Neal, my eternal Neal.  Do you remember a single summer’s night on the countryside, gazing at stars and a Swiss cheese moon, swatting at dragonflies and reciting passages from the Diaries of Anais Nin?  Oh, the pleasure I took in hearing your poignant insights and exfoliating your feet.  And in composing sonnets and haikus: 

“O Neal, your eyes shone a shimmer that is not a shine

and your shins share

a

show of your sheath”

True, this last was not your favorite of my compositions, but I remember one you were quite fond of:   “Kneel, Neal!”Simple, you said, yet ample in linguistic horseplay and punnery.

And that’s the way things were; the way we were; the way Neal and I were beginning to blossom into togetherness.  We talked about marriage, kids, a picket fence cottage in Southern Vermont, and a seaside beach house in Cali.  Things were getting, as penis augmentation surgeons say, “big.” 

What, then, happened to our sweet paradise?  What reaper bore his shaft into the cavity of my soul, which is clearly marked No Shafts Allowed?  Was it the freewheeling nature of his artist’s spirit?  Perhaps it was my failure to satisfy his gargantuan intellectual and aesthetic appetites.  Could it have been my insistence on giving away his stiletto heels to female dancers in the parking lot of the School of American Ballet?  I do not know.  No one, save for Neal Pollack himself, knows the reason behind our demise.  No one but him can tell me why, on that blustery April morning, he stepped out for a carton of Luckys and disintegrated forever.  And it is the quest for this reason that moves me to write today, to seek publication for this maudlin, tearful remembrance of things Neal, in the hopes that he will peruse the following and respond:    

Dearest Neal,

I know not where you are.  I know not whom you see.  I know not why you ran away, away, away from me.

Despite all the answers to the riddles of existence that your mere presence gave to me softly and without effort, I have but one question that remains:  Who do you think you are, you cold, heartless bastard?  I cooked, I cleaned, I mended your tattered underthings and copied out in longhand, at your request, a hundred copies of your Anthology of American Literature, despite the mounds of professionally published copies that saturated the apartment.  What am I, a secretary?  A house pet?  A slice of cured pork?  Who do you think you are?  I gave you everything, you tyrant!  Please take me back.  Just send me your address. I’ll turn tricks for airfare.  Please, please, please!  I’m drowning in tenderness for you!  You bastard!

Love,

Tone

There it is.  From the heart.  Devoid of any pretentious literary-referential bullshit, and it will last forever.   

And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Neal Pollack. 

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AN EXCERPT FROM THE JOURNAL I KEPT WHILST NEAL POLLACK AND I WERE STRANDED IN THE DISTANT PAST, ON A FLOATING ISLAND MADE OF PETRIFIED DINAOSAUR ANURE; OUT OF SMOKES AND WITHDRAWING SLIGHTLY
By Dean Alan Haakenson, Ph.D.

Day 3: One might think that the shock of my current situation would have worn off by now but it has not. This being the first entry of this here logbook, I feel inclined to provide a little background. Three days ago, Neal and I arrived at Neal's house on the outset of a very unsuccessful attempt at getting laid (not by each other, of course, but beyond that, we weren't being very picky). We dressed ourselves up and headed to the local discotheque to play the dating game. Neal struck out twice and I drank myself too silly before I got a chance to try. A transvestite fella named "Sally" did buy me a drink and offered to relieve my tension, but he really did nothing for me. Nice guy though. The only things we managed to collectively score were a cocktail glass and two hits of what looked to be some really good Ecstasy. Weird looking pills, bright blue gelcaps. They seemed electric and alive. Of course, being drunken, I took my pill when Neal took his and didn't think much about it. But looking back, there was something just not quite right about that blue. It reminded me of fire. A blue flame dancing coolly as it burns away the rain.

So we started tripping and arrived home in good spirits. The refrigerator was plentiful, the music came out so sweet, my steady hand created, and the carpet soothed my feet. And then as we started to peak, Neal paused and a look of panic came over his face. "What the hell was that?", he asked, frightened. I had never seen him that way, so it greatly frightened me also.

"What?" I asked softly

"I don't feel right."

As he said it, I started to feel not so right myself. The world seemed to kind of bend at certain angles that I was not accustomed to. Everything seemed to take on a cool blue fuzzy tone. Sounds dulled. I was "accelerating", for lack of a better word, yet completely standing still. My equilibrium was non-existent. I looked around the room and Neal was staring at the wall behind me, blank faced. A few seconds passed and everything went from a blue to completely white. I whited out. My vision returned in a few short moments and I was here on this piece of shit with this Neal of whom I was already beginning to get sick.

We literally are stranded on what appears to be a large circular-floating piece of dung that must have been pinched off by the Almighty himself. In a moment of desperation, Jah squats near the weaker ones. We are currently floating about two or three miles off the shore of this jungle-looking stretch of land. The water is surprisingly calm, but, much to my dismay, I have not seen one living thing. No fish. I think we are slowly floating farther and farther out to sea. I tried to paddle this floating thing towards land, but I didn't appear to be making any difference and this water is so murky that I would rather not be touching it. The Aquaboogieman. Our Death Barge is circular, about 100 feet across, and full of this weed-like grass that smells like mint and tastes like broccoli. It is our only sustenance and whistles well when you put it in between your thumbs.

Man, Neal is losing it. About halfway through yesterday, Neal just started rambling about this and that. Intelligent things. Philosophical thoughts and deeply meaningful questions. I remember wishing that I had a tape recorder. Now I wish I had some tape because he won't shut up. Neal is rambling as I write this. Mumbling. He's gotten himself down to television commercial jingles and sentence fragments of no particular order.

"Just because you put two words together, Neal, doesn't mean that it makes sense"" I just said. I don't even think Neal was talking to me. I think I'm starting to ramble, myself. We know not when or where or why we are and, oddly, both Neal and I are contently dealing with the matter.

Day 4: Neal was pissing into the water, when all of a sudden, a large snake-eel looking thing jumped out of the water, gobbling up Neal's manflow, and landed on the edge of our bioraft. Neal quickly stepped on its midriff and I, like lightning, stomped on its head until it was dead. I have never seen anything like this creature before and I don't want to know if it was a big or small animal for this ecosystem that we have found ourselves in, but man, did that thing taste good. Of course we are starving, but me and Neal both thought that, even raw, that thing tasted like a BBQ tofu/eggplant surprise, slightly undercooked.

Day 5: Well, I think Neal and I are gonna die. The Land is barely visible now and there isn't as much mint grass as there used to be. Neal is being really optimistic and is still singing about and always trying to keep me talking. Maybe he is just delusional. Maybe he knows something that I don't. I don't see any reason to go on caring.

Day 6: Today I tried to kill myself by jumping in the water and drowning, but it is certainly harder than I thought it would be. You get to a point where you are ready to do it and you are under the water and you go to open your mouth and then your body won't let you. Like some defense mechanism, I tried to breath in some water, but I got a little bit in my lungs, closed it up, struggled to the top, where Neal pulled me out, and coughed myself back to breath.

Day 7: Weak Neal is gone. I don't know where he went, but he is gone. Maybe he swam back toward the land. Good luck Neal, wherever you are. You the Bomb. I think I will sleep now.

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NEAL POLLACK, WHO'S ALSO AN ALCOHOLIC
By Leah Melnicoe, HTS

"It's about a physicist. A physicist who's also an alcoholic. And its going to be entitled "Bored." This is John speaking. John has a little drinking problem, which he loves very much. He cultivates this problem like a tender plant. John is always unemployed, but he loves to write short stories. His last story was about an alcoholic chef. He has also written about an alcoholic sailor, a lawyer who happens also to be an alcoholic, and an alcoholic actor, among other vocations. But none of these stories ever satisfies John. He never gets past the first paragraph. Sometimes not even the first sentence. He feels so empty. So purposeless. Then one day John discovers Neal Pollack and his web site.

"This," he shouts, "is the greatest living American writer. And I am going to write him a fan fiction. A story about Neal Pollack, who's also an alcoholic."

For the first time in John's life, the words flow freely from his pen. The story is a masterpiece. A runaway hit. It's anthologized with the Best American Short Stories. He does interviews for Vogue and Entertainment Magazine. People say, "Are you Neal Pollack, who's also an alcoholic?" And John says, glowing with pride, "Yes."

The real Neal Pollack is mildly upset. "Was this not meant to be fan fiction?" he asks. "Am I not the true Neal Pollack? The reality behind this pallid imitation?"

"You are obsolete," says John and the world. "You are vastly less interesting than Neal Pollack, who's also an alcoholic. You have been improved upon, and you are no longer necessary. Please be quiet."

Neal Pollack who's also an alcoholic goes on to have a lucrative career writing for Dawson's Creek. The real Neal Pollack changes his name to Dwight and develops a drinking problem.

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"THE SUNDERING OF THE FELLOWSHIP": BEING THE FIRST PART OF THE WAR AGAINST NEAL POLLACK"
By Philip Toalston, Ph.D.

We walk around, Neal Pollack and I. After a while we get tired and sit down. I've been thinking about jogging to get in shape. Neal picks up a small stone and flicks it. It goes far into the street and we watch it bounce away until it becomes too small to track.

"That was a good flick," I say.

"Thanks," Neal says, looking around him for another pebble.

"It went really far," I tell him.

"Yeah, it was good," Neal agrees, and then he flicks another pebble only this time it doesn't go as far and I am not as impressed with him.

"That one sucked," I say.

Undaunted, Neal retrieves another pebble, apparently from some pebble-quarry nearby and gives it a mighty flick, and the flick is surprisingly loud and we think that it must have been a really glorious flick because the pebble disappears. Then we realize it has just rolled off his thumb and onto his pants. Neal becomes less and less effective at impressing me every time he does something. It's really childish at times how he tries to impress people.

"Why don't you just stop it already?" I ask him.

When Neal doesn't respond I realize that we are through with the pebble flicking and I am able to relax. When we are good and relaxed Neal suggests that we continue.

"What's the point?" I ask.

"What's the point in going?" Neal asks, and for a minute he appears to lean over and search for a pebble, but he catches himself and pretends as though he was looking for something else. "Yeah, I mean, why bother?"

"Because if we go, we get to not be here any more." I think about this for a minute. If there's one thing Neal is really good at, it's making points. So Neal stands up and from my seat on the sidewalk I stick my arm in the air to suggest that he aid me in my ascension, which is stupid, having someone help you up, because you end up doing all the work yourself anyway. We're both standing and we look around for a spell and then start walking.

I say, "I look really stupid in shoes."

"But you're wearing boots," says Neal.

"That's the point. I have to wear boots or else I look stupid."

"Why would you look stupid in shoes?"

"I don't know, I'm disproportioned. I think maybe it's my hips are too wide."

"You don't have hips. Women have hips."

"Pelvis then."

"Please don't say 'pelvis' anymore."

*****

The light in the sky is beginning to fade. "What time is it?" I ask.

"I don't know I don't wear a watch," Neal responds.

"I mean, I put them on and it just doesn't look right.

"Show me."

"What do you mean?"

"Trade with me, I'll wear your boots and you wear my sneakers. I want to see."

I look around to see if anyone is watching. I don't want anyone hot to see me in shoes. It could give them the wrong impression--that I'm a stupid looking person all the time. We sit down and I start unlacing my boots. Neal can just slip his off. He waits for me. He has nice shoes, Neal does. I put them on. They're a little big. We both stand up and Neal takes a step back and says, "Now let's see." I stand there while Neal inspects how I look in his shoes.

"Huh," he says.

"Huh what?"

"You really do look stupid."

"See." I turn and start walking when Neal stops me. "What?" I ask.

"Please, take them off," says Neal.

"Why?"

"You really need to not wear those."

Someone says, "No loitering, gentlemen." We turn around. Some guy has stepped out of some store behind us and has started to say things to us.

Neal gets all cool and insolent and says, "Who are you?"

The guy says, "I own this store and you're loitering in front of it. Please move."

This is the point when Neal and I get really grateful, because this is when an arrow comes from out of nowhere, pierces the store guy's shoulder, and kills him.

Neal and I inspect the arrow in the now-dead guy's shoulder. It is slender and made of very light, yet strong wood. It is an arrow of the type used by the Wood-Elves. Neal and I turn and look at each other. At the same time we say, "Legolas!"

"Yep," comes the voice of Legolas from the top of the building across the street. "Hi Legolas!" we say. "Hello!"

Legolas has been our friend ever since the War of the Rings, in which we all played pivotal roles. Legolas is an Elf. Legolas says, "It appeared as though you two were in need of a hand."

"Yeah," says Neal, "he was about to make us move further down the street."

"Not a minute too soon," I say.

"Verily," says Legolas, leaping down from the building and running over to meet us. We all embrace, as old friends do upon meeting.

Our embrace is interrupted by a strange sound. I look at Neal. Neal looks at Legolas who, because of his excellent hearing, has already identified the source of the sound. "He is moaning," Legolas says, pointing to the store owner. At that, Legolas fits his bow with another arrow, and lets it fly. This time his aim is more true and the store owner knocks off all the whining.

"What a baby," says Neal.

"Yeah," I say, "I mean, could he make a bigger deal out of it?"

We are both disturbed by a sudden change in Legolas' expression. He raises his eyes to the darkening sky. "For some time now there has been a shadow growing in my mind," he says. At that moment there comes a stiff, cold breeze. An unnamed fear falls upon us.

"What is it Legolas?" Neal asks, being a sissy.

"Nothing," says Legolas, "I was just screwing with you guys."

"Oh Legolas!" I say. "You old hound!"

We all have a good laugh.

*****

We have known for a long while that our time here has been coming to an end, so as the stars become bright as fire in the black sky, the three of us companions set out for the Gray Havens, where Legolas has prepared for us a sturdy, very seaworthy ship for our long journey across the sea, to the Elven-home. We board the ship, and just as we have set off, Legolas pushes Neal over the side and we laugh as he thrashes about in the black icy water.

"Do you think we'll ever seen Neal Pollack again?" I ask Legolas, who is standing at the stern of the ship, looking proud and fair.

"We just might, Philip. We just might."

"Sing me a song, Legolas. Sing me a song of the Elves," I say, and with that he begins singing, and his song is nice.

BACK TO TOP

OPEN MIC
By Tom Angelo, MFA

CAST OF CHARACTERS:

DOT CON: The hostess, she is a "punk girl" wearing a Rancid t-shirt and torn
black jeans
REVEREND JEWISH FARRAKHAN: A young white guy wearing a priest's frock, a
Muslim kufi, and a Star of David Medallion
ARTHUR BAXTER: A not-entirely-lucid black man in his late 60s/early 70s,
wearing a baseball cap and sweat suit
MC  JARVIS: A young white guy wearing baggy hip-hop jeans and whatever he
wants for a shirt
NEAL POLLACK: America's Greatest Living Poet

SETTING:
(The stage of Rick's Café. There is a large sign hanging from a wall,
visible to the audience, that reads "Rick's Café". In the center of the
stage is a podium with a microphone. DOT CON walks on stage).

DOT CON:

We're so glad you could make it tonight. Welcome to our latest Open Mic
reading.
If this is your first time at Rick's, allow me to introduce myself. My name
is Dot Con. That's Dot - D-o-t, Con, as in "Con Ed." My name is an ironic
comment on the increasing commercialization of our society. The young men
and women you will see here tonight are issuing a challenge to the status
quo. We have seen what this society has to offer us and we say, "No thanks."
Instead, we want to create our own society - a society defined not by money
and products, but by the transformative power of words.  For it was William
Burroughs who said, "The word's the thing, boys," and we believe he was
right. Nothing else matters.  Words are our currency, the Daily Bread by
which we live. Poetry is our raison d'etre, the only meaning in an
increasingly meaningless world. Poetry is the music that wakes us up each
morning, the lullaby which soothes us to sleep each night. You may take your
broadband, your SUVs, your triple lattes, your stock options - we have no
need for them. We have poetry.  And so, I introduce to you our first poet -
Father Jewish Farrakhan!

(To scattered applause, Jewish Farrakhan walks onstage, holding a notepad)

FATHER JEWISH FARRAKHAN:
This is called "Spearing Britney." (Begins reading from notebook)

    They say you're saving yourself
    But for whom?
    You've already sold yourself to Mickey Mouse and Pepsi,
    So why not rent yourself out to 'Nsync for a night and make it official?
    Or better yet, come visit Father Jewish Farrakhan in the rectory.
    (Begins gesticulating like a rapper and badly attempting to preach like a
Black  Southern baptist)
    You'll forget alllll about losing that Grammy
    When the Father slides up in you with his jammy,
    I'll bless you, sister, for you have sinned,
    You're a corporate whore, but not beyond redemption
    Sellouts go to Hell, but I can give you an exemption,
    I'll bless you with a soul kiss that'll exorcise Satan
    He don't stand a chance against an old devil like me!
    And then I'll ask you to confess your sins,
    All of them,
    Every dirty little secret you can't tell Glamour magazine,
    Until your conscience and soul are clean
    And then, it's Penance Time!
    Drop those Minnie Mouse panties,
    And let your host consecrate you….
(Walks offstage to scattered applause)

DOT CON:
Thank you, Father Farrakhan. This next guy has been following hip-hop since
the days of Boogie Down Productions and The Jungle Brothers. Let's show some
love to MC Jarvis!
(MC JARVIS saunters out on stage).
MC JARVIS:
Yo, yo, yo! I'm here to tell you about my 'hood, a place that doesn't get
nearly the props that it should. So everybody get up on your feet, get your
butts off the seats, and now give me a beat!
(The crowd begin clapping a basic "one-two" beat; unfortunately, it's not
basic enough for folks to realize that they're not necessarily clapping in
time with everyone else).
LYRICS TO "YORKVILLE"
    Born and bred on the Upper East Side
    Many a night I sat up and cried
    As I looked out my window at folks in despair
    'Cause they couldn't get a substitute for their au pair
    They were going to the Hamptons and leaving the kids
        But now those plans have just hit the skids
    So they stay in the city but the streets are mean
    Newspaper vendors say "Buy a magazine,
        Or scram!
    This ain't no damn library!"
    Ask 'em for change? That's committing hari-kari!
    Dodging delivery men on bikes
    Weekend punks with their hair in spikes,
    Yikes! Things can get pretty strange,
    Yorkville ain't no home on the range
    Tragedy strikes on a daily basis,
    "Details" out of stock, no parking spaces,
    And fuck statistics, the crime is ballistic,
    Rare bookstores selling bootleg triptychs,
    Retailers sabotage competitors' brands,
    Dishwashers piss and don't wash their hands,
    Ask the deli man, "Why the high prices?"
    Your next hero may contain some surprises,
    Or you may be cursed in a foreign tongue
    And not realize it til the damage is done,
    And you've lost your home and your kids and your wife,
    It don't seem fair, but hey, that's life
    On the mean old streets of Yorkville,
    That's my hood, G!
    You best come correctly,
    You come here starting that rigamarole,
    And my homegirls on the neighborhood watch patrol
]    Will report your ass to the boys in blue,
    We don't fuck around on York Avenue!
(MC JARVIS pumps the fist holding his mike, and starts to walk off the stage
to wild applause. He then turns around and says:)
I just want to give a shout-out to my boys up in Yorkville: Travis, Sidney
and Cormac. Also the crew down at Stuyvesant High, and the fine young ladies
at the Yorkville Public Library! And to the punks from Carnegie Hill: don't
be coming across 72nd Street, 'cause we're gonna wax your ass!
(Walks off stage; several audience members leave, terrified).

DOT CON:
This next poet needs no introduction. He is…unforgettable. Ladies and
gentlemen, Arthur Baxter!
(ARTHUR BAXTER walks out onstage)
ARTHUR BAXTER:
I know a lot of you young people find it hard to believe, but there was a
time when I was young too. And I did a lot of the same things you did. So I
thought I'd sing you a song about some of my favorite things.
"ARTHUR'S FAVORITE THINGS" (sung to the tune of "My Favorite Things")
    Picnicing weekends
    Inside the Sheep's Meadow,
    Cold coffee ice cream
    With cool amaretto,
    Warm summer breeze and
    The comfort it brings,
    These are a few of my favorite things,
    Mingus and Dinah and
    Dizzy Gillespie an'
    Spending the night with
    My friend who's a thespian,
    Binding his hands
    With the finest of strings,
    These are a few of my favorite things
    Me on the top and
    My friend on the bottom,
    I'm out of rubbers,
    But my bad boy's got 'em,
    Spanking him gently,
        Don't want it to sting,
        These are a few of my favorite things
        Fisting and fucking our way
        Through the weekend,
        I'd marry him,
        If he just weren't a vegan,
        Bondage and sex
         Are the past-times of kings
        And they're a few of our favorite things!
        When I'm horny,
        When I'm lonely,
        When I'm hard as a tree,
        I try not to think of my favorite things,
         'Cause now they just frustrate me!
(ARTHUR BAXTER walks off the stage to various rumblings of distaste)


DOT CON:
And now, we have a very special treat for you. Fresh from the greatest
literary tour of all-time, ladies and gentlemen, a man who needs no
introduction, the Hardest Working Man in Poetry: NEAL POLLACK!

(The crowd goes completely nuts. Feet stomp, hands clap, babies are
sacrificed, and flares go off. A bloody battle ensues between those favoring
POLLACK's pre-and-post-Nobel Prize work. In the midst of the chaos, a former
Vietcong refugee, still harboring a grudge over POLLACK's impassioned
dispatches from Saigon, steps forward and plugs POLLACK in the chest with a
single shot from a pistol of unidentified caliber. The crowd swiftly tears
the hapless would-be assassin limb from limb. An ambulance is summoned, but
as the paramedics try to force POLLACK onto the stretcher, he shoves them
away)

POLLACK:
Dammit, man, away with you! My audience needs me! (He staggers bravely to
the mike, blood pouring from his chest, and begins, rasping slightly):
Trying to silence me with a pistol!  The very idea!
(The crowd goes nuts again, applauding for ten minutes)
I knew that, if I was going to read here in New York City, a city that has
been so good to me over the years, I had to create something to show my
enormous love for this teeming metropolis.  Now, more than ever, New York
needs poetry. And I, as America's Greatest Living Poet, knew it was my duty
to create something…transcendent. Please accept this as my gift to you.

NEW YORK IS MY POEM
(He begins a bit weakly, somewhat distracted by the numbness spreading
through his torso)
What is a poem?
Some say it is a collection of carefully rhymed verses
Assembled on a page
In a book.
Others say a poem needn't rhyme, that it can simply be words
That reflect some essential truth
About nature, or God, or the human condition.
(The beauty of the words, and the audience's rapt, adoring attention, are
having a transformative effect. The next lines are spoken much more
emphatically)
But I, (laughing deeply),
Oh, I say the very sidewalk outside this café is a poem,
Breathing with the sweaty exhalations of people
Living, and loving, and working
To me, the sleek, silver subway train
That courses through dank and musky passages
Underground
Is as erotic as any sonnet
Greenwich Village and the Lower East Side are like free verse
Their winding unnumbered streets silently rebelling
Against any attempts at the imposition of structure
Oh, Ludlow Street, Ginsberg himself might have dreamed you up!
I see the Statue of Liberty and I am reminded
That New York is America,
Home to millions of swarthy strivers
Seeking the same rewards and
Pursuing the same dreams
That lured their ancestors,
And have now lured them to this
Island in the Hudson,
Yea, New York is America,
And what is America
If not the greatest poem ever written?
Thus, if New York is America,
And America is the greatest poem ever written,
New York is a stanza in this greatest poem.
Its people are the commas;
Its brownstones and towers, the exclamation points;
Its bridges, the hyphens.
From high atop the Empire State Building,
I gaze out at endless miles of inspiration,
A vast labyrinthine organism embracing multitudes
(POLLACK hacks violently)
A muse on every corner,
A haiku on every street,
And I truly think that I did never see
A poem grand as NYC.
(POLLACK forces out these final words, clutching his chest, and then
collapses to the floor of the stage. A scream is heard in the audience, then
weeping. It is plain to see, even from the rear of the café, that NEAL
POLLACK, America's Greatest Living Poet, has stopped breathing. DOT-CON,
sobbing, steps to the mike)
DOT CON:
Bless you, NEAL. Bless you for everything you did for me over the years. All
the selfless, little acts of kindness you showed me, without ever expecting
repayment or acknowledgement. For all the orphans you raised, all the widows
you comforted, all the lonely-hearted virgins you introduced to the delights
of the flesh (and the heart)…for all the charities you single-handedly
rendered obsolete through the offering of your time and money…for all the
near-disasters you helped avert through-out this troubled world: the
Barbadian Uprising; the Laotian Rebellion; the Canadian Misunderstanding…For
all this, and so much more, we thank you, and will never forget you.
(The crowd somberly streams out into the streets, aware that, yet again,
right here in New York City, the world has changed)

THE END

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A SEASON ON THE BRINK
By Elizabeth Miller, Ph.D.

The year was 1985.  I was a junior at Rutherford B. Hayes High
School in Dayton, Ohio.  We were a small, forgettable school, not unlike our namesake, the small, forgettable 19th President of the United States, he himself a native of Ohio.

I was the second-string forward on the girl's basketball team.  It had been a brutal year for our team, what with Cindy Pickle, our spritely star forward, being forced to leave school, thus basketball, indefinitely, mostly due to a rather persistent bout with mono; and Frida Sockeye, our best point guard, relegated to the bench for kicking Cindy's ass when she figured out how her boyfriend mysteriously and suddenly came down with a
wicked bad case of mono of his own.

Neal Pollack was our new basketball coach.  A young man new to the world of competitive high school sports, Neal--I mean, Mr. Pollack--had been handed the task of coaching our team after our previous coach, the handsome Burt Reynolds look-alike Mr. Frank, very mysteriously and suddenly came down with a wicked bad case of mono.

Our team was a handful, to say the least.  We were out of shape, what with our initial reluctance to resume basketball practice due to all the cases of mono that seemed to be going around, and our spirits had been broken, now that we knew our time off the court had seriously effected our chances of making it to the state finals.

But Mr. Pollack, well, he saw things differently.  What we viewed as setbacks he looked at as challenges and goals to shoot for, so to speak.  He lit a fire under us, lecturing us on the importance of hard work, playing as a team, and never giving up.  He even helped us out with some of our more overlooked complaints, such as our tendency to get overheated in the middle of a game.  Mr. Pollack ordered us a brand new batch of basketball uniforms, complere with super short, hot pants-like bottoms that proved to be far more comfortable and provided us with much more ventilation during our active games.

Before long we were unstoppable.  Once we got back into the spirit of basketball we were winning every game we played.  Marilyn Artsmith's guarding was phenominal.  Vickie Stretfield learned the time sensitive art of "driving the lane."  And me, well, my shooting percentage improved from a mere 32% to a whopping 75% all in a few weeks (it must have been all those one-on-one sessions I had with Mr. Pollack when the rest of the girls went home after practice).

The winning was glorious, mind blowingly wonderful.  We approached the end of the season like voracious lions at a fresh kill, looking--no, begging for our chance at state.  And then, as quickly as it had begun, it ended.

One cold winter evening Mr. Pollack didn't show up for practice, and after that he never showed up again.  Our hearts broken, we chalked it up as something we girls had done to drive him away.  It was only later, after the interrogations and the repeated "questionings of conduct," that we found out the truth.  Mr. Pollack had been forced to leave the season prematurely, due to a rather mysterious and sudden onset of a wicked bad case of mono.

I haven't seen Mr. Pollack since. 17 years it's been. But how I long to once again be reunited with the man who taught me the true meaning of the word "lay-up," the man who imparted upon me the spirit to never give up, never get tired, and if I do, to remember that there is always a solution to be found in wearing shorter clothing. You are my hero, Neal Pollack.

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AFTERNOONS WITH NEALIE
By Doug Finch, President of the Neal Pollack Fan Club

I remember as a high school kid when Neal Pollack came to my school, how all the English teachers made such a big deal over him. He talked to my journalism class. We were supposed to be honored, I think, as he did an hour or so on sock puppets and Chinese finger cuffs before offering us some pearl of wisdom about what it takes to be a world class reporter. Big deal.

Anyway, when the vice principal caught him in the boiler room with the captain of the cheerleading squad all hell broke loose, until he agreed to teach my class for a semester.

Well, the bon vivant Pollack really knuckled down for a while, teaching us some of the basics like: the finer points of checkbook journalism, creative fact invention, getting street cred through intimidation, and his specialty, blackmail, "journalistic tool or a one way ticket to easy street?"

Those were the Eisenhower years and there weren't a lot of big stories to cover. Still, Pollack knew where the action was and took us on illuminating field trips to hotspots like Times Square. My breakthrough article, "Street Of 1,000 Diseases" grew out of that trip. And it was in Greenwich Village where Pollack mugged a poet in the morning and in the afternoon interviewed the same guy for an article about street violence. This oft-practiced journalistic technique is today known as "getting Pollacked", after the man who pioneered it. I am proud to say I was there at its birth.

But perhaps the high point of the semester was when he brought in his friend Joe McCarthy, who fingerprinted us all and had us fill out a bunch of forms, none of which, oddly, I can remember in the slightest. My classmates had no memory of this either, and I only hope that the prolific Mr. Pollack will someday write about the event so I can discover what the hell happened that day.

Perhaps he will in the third edition of The Neal Pollack Anthology Of American Literature? Some people are getting excited about the satire in the current second edition, for which Pollack is now touring. Others like the sex, double entendres and innuendo that populate its pages. So I ask, who wrote this book a "satirist" or a "satyrist"? I guess we each have to look inside ourselves to answer that question according to our own souls, or perversions, as the case may be.

I remember my own Wally Trumbull (Pollack's long lost love), happily for me, a female version. We'd hold each other close and in paroxysms of hilarity, while reading from John Lennon's "In His Own Write". Mr. Pollack might not enjoy this comparison, being a Stones and not a Beatles man. Still, in deference to his standing in the world of journalism, I don't believe the rumors of the existence of the Neal Pollack/Mark David Chapman correspondence, said to prove beyond a doubt that...But I digress.

Whatever, TNPAOAL is a talisman of mighty literary power, and very possibly the best bookish chick magnet since the novelization of the movie "The Graduate". Or as Neal, resplendent in madras Bermuda shorts, penny loafers and a "Neal Pollack For President" tee shirt, asked aloud at a beer bash at my fraternity house in 1956, "Lit and chicks, what more do you need?"

Greeted by silence, he looked up from the floor at our quizzical, anticipatory faces and came back, if only temporarily, to his senses. "Oh yeah, and beer!" he exclaimed, hoisting to his lips a sloshing manly tankard he had personally fashioned from a buffalo head and the hoof of an ass.

It was another valuable lesson from the mighty Mr. Pollack.

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INTERVIEW WITH NEAL POLLACK, ADULT FILM STAR
By John Bryant, MFA

Bryant: Today we have the honor of visiting with acclaimed first-time director,

Neal Pollack.

Bryant: Neal, your film, "Well Hung Jury" is one of the first adult films to have mainstream success. How do you account for this?

Pollack: I think there are two reasons for the success of my film. First, it has a story ripped from today's headlines. It describes a hot young trophy wife who has killed her rich decrepit husband in order to get his cash. Then, when charged with murder, she goes on a sexual rampage in order to win the jury to her side. Secondly, we decided to invest in special effects like costumes, make-up, and adequate sound equipment. The level of quality this film sustains through its 57 minutes is head and shoulders above any other adult film ever made.

Bryant: The added touches are definitely appreciated. But the special effects cannot account for the way that "Well Hung Jury" appeals not only to men, but unlike many adult films, also to women. Why do you think this is?

Pollack: Well women love the film because the main character, Titsanass Jones is a strong woman who knows what she wants and is not afraid to go out and get it. She uses her sexuality to conquer the men that had once confined her. Truly, she is what every woman secretly wants to be. And men like the film because we were especially heavy on the blowjobs.

Bryant: that aspect of the film was highly appreciated. And let me say that I am not the only person honestly appreciating this film. The reviews are amazing, even by reputable mainstream media sources. Just to rattle off a few: The New York Times raves, "'Well Hung Jury' is spanktastic!" Ebert and Roeper, "We give 'Well Hung Jury' two massive erections. Two massive erections way up!" The Wall Street journal says, "'Well Hung Jury' is a treat for the genitals. If you go out and masturbate to one movie this year, make it 'Well hung Jury'!" Even the Christian Science Monitor raves, "The eleventh commandment: Go see 'Well Hung Jury'!" How do you keep the reviews from going to your head?

Pollack: I am still getting used to the positive reviews. It has been a sudden, but very welcome change in my life.

Bryant: How true. Things weren't always so good for you. Before 'Well Hung Jury', you were a B adult movie actor that went by the name, "Henry Lickinger". While your list of adult movies was quite long, including such forgetable films as, "Black Hole", "Wild Sorority Nuns on Spring Break 12", and the gay porno, "Buttman and Bobbin: The Colon Crusaders", you were more famous for your strangely ill-formed genitals than anything else. Why originally did you get into adult films, and why did you continue to be in them, even though your attempts at success were always foiled?

Pollack: When I was 9 years old, I decided to get into adult films. It actually was a decision I made to get revenge on my parents. And I stayed with the industry because my urge for revenge was just that deep-seated. Bryant: I had no idea... What was it that inspired so much deep seated hatred for your parents? Pollack: All throughout childhood, I wanted a beebee gun. And they wouldn't give it to me, those bastards. They said it would make me grow up into a violent and disgusting person. All because of a beebee gun. Well who's got the last laugh now?

Bryant: Indeed. So why did you want to move into directing? Pollack: There were really two reasons that I wanted to get into directing. Initially I was tired of being controlled by someone so insulated from the process of being in an adult film. Most of the young directors these days are college boys from Harvard that have no idea of what its like to be in the pit. Frankly, I just grew tired of answering to some egghead film theory student. When he or she commanded me to ejaculate, I just couldn't feel it. Then when I began to ponder the possibility of becoming a director, I realized that I had the necessary artistic vision. When one sets up a scene, he needs to fully comprehend how all the ejaculations will play out--to be able to first visualize and then successfully orchestrate the many ejaculations. It really, is a strange mix of choreography and the conducting of a symphony orchestra, especially in a "gang-bang" scene.

Bryant: You certainly do have a way with ejaculations. You make that especially clear in "Well Hung Jury" during the scene with 6 people, a donkey and a bowling ball. I don't want to give it away, so I won't describe it any further, but your artistic vision is extremely clear in the scene with 6 people, a donkey and a bowling ball. Enough about the past though, what is in Neal Pollack' future?

Pollack: I will continue directing and acting. You might have noticed me as Juror Number Seven in "Well Hung Jury". I also have a project involving Julie Andrews coming up, though that is very hush hush. And I am doing a sequel to "Well Hung Jury" entitled, "Members of the Jury".

Bryant: Well, Neal, thank you for being so generous with your time. I will forever cherish this memory. I'll end this interview with the words of "Inside the Actor's Studio"'s James Lipton. He referred to Neal Pollack as, "The greatest human that has roamed God's green earth in the history of mankind." While that praise might be going slightly overboard, I would definitely say that Neal Pollack is the greatest man in the last 150 to 200 years.

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LOVING NEAL POLLACK
by Eric Williams, Ph.D.

You have...ELEVEN...new messages. Message...ONE

Hi, um, Eric? This is Neal. You know, *Neal*. It's two-thirty in the morning. I'm at the diner down the street. I stopped by your apartment but you weren't there, I guess. I tried tapping on your door with the heel of my Sketcher for fifteen or twenty minutes but no one answered. Heh. So, how are things? I'd really like to see you tonight, if that's okay. I know it's unexpected, with my living seven hundred miles away. But I happened to be in town and thought I'd say hi. So, um, hi! Hope you stop by. I'll be the guy in the baseball cap with the patty melt and butterscotch shake.

Message...TWO:

Hi Eric, it's Neal. I'm sorry for calling again so soon, but I had an idea. I thought that maybe we could go out tomorrow, to a movie. There's an Olsen Twins double feature at the State. That should be good for some laughs, right? We used to have so much fun going to children's movies and ridiculing them mercilessly, then ridiculing the children, who always started crying, then ridiculing the parents, who always hissed *monsters!* at us. We had some good times, Eric. I haven't forgotten. I hope you haven't, either. Well, goodnight.

Message...THREE:

Hi Eric, it's three in the morning now and I'm still waiting. Not *waiting*, just sort of hanging out and really, really hoping that you show up. I didn't tell you this before, but there's something I'd like to talk about with you. It's sort of personal... I can't get into it now. There are people around. What kind of people hang out at diners at three in the morning, anway? Stoners? Losers? Emotionally disturbed wanderers without hope and with no place to go? Hookers, probably. Maybe I'll buy a hooker tonight. I'm kidding! But I am kind of lonely. Not really. Just a little. I could use a friend. I hope it's okay to say that. I know I can trust you with my feelings. I'm grateful for our friendship, have I ever told you that? Well, I have to go. I won't call again. Sweet dreams.

Message...FOUR:

Eric, it's three fifteen. I was almost ready to leave but then I remembered a story that I wanted to tell you. And since you've decided to ditch me, ha ha, I'll leave it on your machine. I was walking down the street yesterday and this lady, an *elderly* lady, stopped to ask me if I was famous. She recognized me! She was covered in liver spots and had a, what do you call those, like a scarf that old ladies like to tie around their heads really tight? A babushka? Anyway, she asks me my name. And you know what I said? Tom Wolfe! And she believed me! Well, I think she believed me. She just sort of nodded and smiled pleasantly like she might not know who Tom Wolfe is. But everyone knows who Tom Wolfe is, right? Anyway, ta da, that's my story. Life's weird, isn't it? And full of old, dumb bitches.

Message...FIVE:

Hi, it's quarter to four. Did you know they stop selling beer at 2am here? Luckily, I always keep a trusty flask filled with Schnapps, Peppermint Schnapps, to keep me company. Tee hee. I'm a little tipsy. That's ok, right? We're old friends. We've been tipsy together. More than tipsy. Remember the time we got blind drunk and set fire to the library? Or was that the first time we experimented sexually? Anyway, I'm on my way and just wanted to say that Peppermint Schnapps reminds me of you: it's sweet and intoxicating. Unlike you, it's *here*. I usually don't drink alone, by the way. But tonight is different. I'm celebrating. Cheers!

Message...SIX:

Yo, man, it's four something. I feel great! You wouldn't believe the personal breakthrough I've had since I last called! It's like, I just looked at the world, but kind of in a detached way, like a Zen way, and I realized that I have no need to be unhappy. I've been reading Alan Watts and it's helping me not to feel so sad as usual. Not that I'm usually sad! I'm usually happy! But everyone has a down day now and then. A day when you don't want to get out of bed. Or can't. A day filled with gray skies and niggling doubts about one's sanity. Nothing major, just little doubts about my ability to keep going through the motions of my life. When you're lonely. Especially when you're lonely. But I feel great tonight! You know? It's all about the moment, moment to moment, day by day. One day at a time. I'll drink to that.

Message...SEVEN:

Hi Erin. I mean Eric. Sorry. I was just calling to apologize. I feel like an idiot. I *am* an idiot. I can't believe that I'm doing this again. I hope you understand. You're cool that way. That's why I like you, old buddy. That's why I love you. That's why I think about you sometimes while masturbating with Wonder Bread bag tied loosely around my head. Shit, I didn't mean to say that. I don't do that. I was just kidding. Kind of. God, I hate myself. I hate my life. I'm a shitty writer and everyone knows it. I'm just a little tired. I'm just a little depressed. I just a little drunk and nude from the waist down. I can't remember where I left my jeans. I think I'm going to start crying. Jesus, just *saying* that made me start crying. It's no big deal. I can deal with this. You're not home. Or your listening to all of this and not doing anything. Or laughing. You're probably laughing. I don't blame you.

Message...EIGHT:

Dude, do you know where I can score some coke? Call me.

Message...NINE:

Erish, it's Neal. I just wanted to say *fuck you* before I left. That's right, FUCK YOU. Ten four *that*, good buddy? I don't know why I ever put up with your crap for so long. I *give* and *give* and *give* and get *nothing* in return. I'm sick of your selfish ass. I'm sick of your ability to reach in, just *reach into me* and stir up these emotions without giving a damn about how it feels. Do you hear me? I know you do. You're just too scared to acknowledge it. Well, I just want you too know that, despite your plan to ruin me spiritually, to eat me up and shit me out on the sidewalk and leave me there to be sniffed by the dogs, I'm stronger for all your manipulation. That's right. I'm a better person, 'cause I can look inside and know, know that no matter how desperate I get, no matter how much I plagiarize, no matter how many underage girls I impregnate then threaten with physical harm that I'll never be *you*, you selfish cunt. GOOD.BYE.

Message...TEN:

Hi Enron. Are you there? Are you list-en-ing? I'm just calling to say that I've been *so silly*. You know that I didn't mean those things I said. I couldn't if I wanted to. My god, this ecstasy is amazing. You know that I still love you, sweetie. You know that I still find you attractive. You know that I'm literally stroking my huge, throbbing cock at this payphone at Meijers and dreaming about those soft lips of yours. Just swallowing it all. Mmmm hmmmmm. Baby I'm'a need you. I'm just pulling my ass cheeks apart reeaaalllll sllllooowwww and stroking my uuuuuuuuhhhhhhnnnnnggggg [muffled] I will take it all, daddy, I'm'a promise...WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT, LADY? YEAH, I'M TALKING TO YOU! I WILL KILL YOU! JUST KEEP MOVING AND TAKE THE BRAT WITH YOU! WHAT? NO SPEAK-A DE ENGLISH? WHY...[scuffling, yelling, sirens]

Message...ELEVEN:

Hello? My name is Neal Pollack and I'm hoping to reach an Eric Williams. I know this sounds strange and I apologize profusely. This morning I woke up with a terrible headache, naked, in prison, with a piece of paper with this name and this number on it. I'm just at a loss. Last night I got a little drunk and lost track of myself. I don't have any family here, and no friends... except for one, if you'd be willing! Anyway, I know this sounds bizarre and I'm sorry. I hope you'll find it in your heart to help me, whenever you get home. I'm a writer, by the way; maybe you've heard of me. Your name sounds familiar...I know this sounds crazy. Wait! We met last night at my book signing! Well, mystery solved! By the way, what did you think?

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MIDNIGHT
By Steve Heimhoff, PDA

I awake in a cold sweat. Just had a dream-- a horrible dream. Slimy things chasing me -- body snatchers -- worms. Tachycardia. Try to calm down, center. Still the mind...breath slowly, deeply. The fear will pass. Ahh, that's better. Roll over on my side-- what's this? Finger grazes against something -- something THAT SHOULDN'T BE THERE. Soft...moist...rubbery. I bolt up -- switch on old Fred Flintstone nightlight --

AAIIIEEEEEE!

The horror! The horror! It's (I can barely utter the words): NEAL POLLACK!

I know it's him because the other day when I did a Google search on "bestiality" I accidentally stumbled on his photo -- as if there are really any "accidents" when it comes to these things. Revolted, I bolted -- but not before that image was seared into my brain.

And now here he is in my bed!

How can this be? I am obviously still dreaming. Yes, a waking dream ... it must have been those damned tacos. Unsettling, but, on reflection, not really frightening. His bloated body seems harmless enough. I could destroy him easily -- one rock hand to the face, a chop to the Adam's apple. Let me count the ways. His belly rises and falls with his breath, a tide of cellulite. I lean on one arm and watch him. He is so oblivious. This raises all sorts of possibilities. I lift the sheet and peek underneath. He is well-endowed. It nests there between his pudgy thighs like a leathery reptile, one crafty red eye peering balefully out through a thick wad of foreskin. Slowly, my hand creeps toward the thing. My hand is a spider. I extend a finger. It touches the skin. Then a second finger. Now I have the thing in my fist. I give it a little squeeze. The Pollack stirs, moans, but does not awaken. A second squeeze, and the thing starts to swell. I can feel it fill up with blood and life, I can feel it pulse and stir. I begin to move my fist up and down and the damned thing explodes into full boner. It is enormous, huge. Such a pretty cock attached to such a revolting body. Such is life: Irony.

Now his hips begin to gyrate, but still he sleeps. He, too, is having a dream. I am in Neal Pollack's dream and he is in mine. I rub the thing faster. My fist begins to feel wet: Neal Pollack is issuing pre-cum by the bucket. Gobs and gobs of moist lubricated fluid. I never pre-cum like that. My admiration for Neal Pollack increases. This is a man of many talents.

Finally it is over. Neal Pollack's breathing slows down. With a groan, he turns on his side and rolls over, facing away from me, his buttocks mere inches from my own manhood. Should I? Could I? The thought is too revolting. I slip out of bed, g