About Wally

Wally Trumbull was Neal Pollack's best boyhood chum and roommate at Exeter. In the cool moonlight hours, Pollack would gaze across the dorm at Wally's lithe, hairless form and dream of the two of them dancing forever in eternal bliss. Then, when Pollack went to sleep, it was Wally's turn to gaze, and dream about the exact same thing.

They taught each other how to love, and how to be men. They led the Exeter Wildcats to three straight prep-school football titles, two straight doubles squash titles, and a national chess championship. They were the definition of Exeter Men, now and forever.

In 1947, Wally Trumbull was killed in a knife fight in the Philippines during a brutal wharfside game of pai gow poker. Neal Pollack held Wally's withering form as he died, and will never forget the last thing Wally ever said: "You must write, for me, forever." Pollack has followed Wally's wish. He writes every day in his memory. But he longs to join him in that forever Nirvana known as the afterlife. Neal Pollack is not afraid to die, because someday, he knows, Wally will be bunking next to him again, unto eternity.

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SEARCHING FOR NEAL POLLACK
By David Gaffen, Ph.D.

The role of the literary critic is twofold: to praise the great and to condemn the less-than-great. Pollack's work—from his cutting-edge life-saving journalism to the timeless plays, the perfect short stories, the monumentally innovative yet accessible novels which somehow treat both the angst-ridden heart and soul of our century and blaze new trails for the American language—is so self-evidently great, so far beyond what his pitiful competitors could even conceive of, much less attempt, so... so... great, that no reader needs a critical guide.

Literary scholars work to explain aspects of writing which are inaccessible, and here too Pollack's work obviates our raison d'être. Every aspect of his writing is so perfect, every idea so clearly there for the attentive reader, every word choice, turn of phrase, sentence, paragraph, chapter and novel constructed as straight and true as some other perfectly built thing, that there is nothing the scholar can add to this edifice of greatness. No illumination is required for this blazing star.

As for critiquing the less-than-great aspects of his work, I can only ask, "What aspects would those be?" At one point, early in my reading of Pollack, I began to be troubled by his use of the subjunctive voice and the conditional mood. But then at a chance meeting in one of Chicago's more literary saloons, Pollack brilliantly explained the intent behind his manipulation of these aspects of archaic English and his total grasp of vernacular Anglo-Saxon—while drinking prodigiously, winning at pool, and seducing three different women at once—and I saw that there was nothing more to be said. Naturally, I paid for the drinks. And slunk back to the library to mourn for my profession.

One of the few writers who can hold a feeble candle to the blazing sunlight of Pollack, William S. Burroughs, once remarked that literary critics were like the men who came onto the battlefield after combat was over to finish off the wounded. After reading this book you too will see how a writer has finally turned the tables and finished off the profession of literary criticism.

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A VERY LITERARY AFFAIR: MEMORIES OF POLLACK
By Zadie A. Smith, Ph.D.

This is not easy for me. Once, the Englishwoman in me would never have had the bad taste to stand in front of you now, and speak of that which is most special to me, most intimate - that which has remained hidden for so long, like the diaries of a Catholic schoolgirl. Indeed she would have balked - not in a vulgar way, of course, but a soft balking, and with a handkerchief close at hand. But, over time, things change; good taste turns to bad and vice versa; in this day and age not to speak of my brief and violent time with that great American, Neal Pollack, would appear as unseemly, as out-dated, as wearing leg-warmers or trying to write the great Maori novel. The Eighties are gone; and with them went privacy, discretion in sexual matters, fingerless lace gloves and of course, the Nineties. So, after much hand-wringing and legal advice, I can tell you that I have come here this evening neither to praise nor bury him, but simply to speak of Neal for a while; pause at appropriate moments for laughter; speak some more; stop; and then collect the brown envelope which can only contain my barely adequate fee.

To begin, then, at what fans of an older school of writing might call "The Beginning". We met at Cambridge. He a visiting Rhodes Scholar in the Political Science department, whilst I had won a Soul Conversion award, a state-funded iniative that aims to steer young women of colour away from the R&B industry and into Academe. This had only been partially successful, and it was while tunelessly humming R Kelly's "I Believe I Can Fly "- when I should, no doubt, have been contemplating the existence or otherwise of a bovine in the back fields behind the college bar - it was, as I say, while singing this all-purpose hymn for our times, that I first saw dear Neal, a young god in a duffle-coat, standing in the front quad, face illumined by the winter sunshine. And what a face it was! It had all the things in it that others before me have noted; the shades of Tony Curtis, echoes of Omar Sharif - but there was also, as I recall, hints of Spencer Tracy about him, along with a peculiar odour of Abbie Hoffman that only I could ever detect. I think about it every night and day. That is a line from the R.Kelly ballad I mentioned earlier. But oh, how thematic it seemed in the context of that moment! Particularly if you changed the "it" to a "him". For, from the second I saw him, I became aware that I was indeed condemned to think about Neal Pollack, as the song so clearly states, "night and day". Fully sensible of the gaol term that lay before me in the Correctional Facility of Love, my heart opted to begin its sentence immediately. I strode out of the bar, crossed the quad, walked right up to that remarkable stranger and asked if he would like to come and get a coffee. His answer was, like his prose, simple, incisive, revealing, damning. "No, thanks," he said, cleanly, his very voice like a bell tolling me back to myself, " I'm kind of waiting for my girlfriend." Then, as now, I am no stranger to heartbreak. If I were a stranger to heartbreak I wouldn't have just put thirty thousand of your American dollars behind this new Paul Simon musical about the Golem.

So. Neal Pollack had a girlfriend. And now that we are kindred spirits, Neal and I, I'm sure he would not object to a brief description of the young lady who had, at that time, captured his heart. Irina Markolinavich, then, was a melon-chested stunted bitter little Russian red-head, busy faking artistic talent and intellectual fervour so as to trap a man superior to her in every way it is possible for one human being to exceed another without recourse to some kind of artificial advantage, like a handgun. Yet somehow Neal had fallen for her; he was enamoured of her European glamour and ability to blow smoke rings the shape of Prague; he mistook her devotion to the slimmer volumes of Nabokov and habit of writing her journal in public places, for a personality. While I looked on, helpless, the two of them formed a clique of South American graduate admirers, all convinced of Neal's huge talent and Irina's huge breasts, and I, equally in awe of the former, but unable to abide the latter, was forced to place myself outside that charmed circle, with it's sparkling conversation and its delightful habit of re-staging late Shakespearean comedies as Problem Plays set in Damon Runyan's New York. I did not trust myself to be around him. No - that is not accurate - excuse me. As Neal has said so often in the past, we writers have nothing but the truth on our side - that, and four-hour lunches. It is my responsibility, then, to tell the truth and I shall tell it. There was another reason why the circle remained closed to me. To be a part of it, as a woman, Neal demanded two things of you: large breasts or literary success. And at the time, as he so eloquently pointed out to me, I didn't have "diddley squat". Show me the Nannas or the Nobel, was his oft repeated, now infamous, motto. I had neither.

And yet I must tell you that this most exquisite of your literary American orchids befriended me anyway. We drank Guinness together whenever Irina was out of town having one of her epic bikini waxes, and it was during one of these late night sessions that he gave me a marvellous piece of advice, hand on my upper thigh, from one writer to another. "Look, honey," he said, looking me up and down and then up again, though on the return journey he got stuck at chest height, "You want to write, is that it? And you're ethnic, aren't you?" I nodded; too nervous to find my voice. "Well, then," he said, with the look of a man either possessed by genius or allergic to wheat malt, "Work it, baby!"

I wanted to; I wanted to work it. But there were two black girls in Kings College, Cambridge, and I was the other one. My opposite number was a girl called Danielle who beat me to the college literary award for Women of Colour, the Hamilton, three years running for no good reason. It went like this. Each summer I would write a short story and Danielle would write a poem. And Danielle would win. The longer my short stories got, the shorter Danielle's poems became. At the height of this farrago, I submitted a twenty thousand word novella and was beaten by one of Danielle's haikus. I was ready to throw in the towel. Until Neal, in an inspired move I shall always thank him for, collected my previous three efforts, stapled them together and called it a short story collection. Guilt overwhelmed the judges. Danielle and I were joint winners that year. But what of Hamilton himself, after whom the prize had been named? Dodie Hamilton was the only surviving member of the whole Bloomsbury shebang and had been living in a pretty cushy college room for fifty years or so. Dodie's involvement with Bloomsbury was tenuous. In his heyday he slept with all the great men, Lytton, Keynes, and Lawrence's gamekeeper. He played women in all the Greek plays. He also printed the first edition of The Wasteland and Freud's Interpretation of Dreams. And when we say printed, we mean printed; while Virginia pooh-poohed Ulysses upstairs for The Times, he it was who sat in the basement, turning the cranking arm on the printing machine. Still, he became Neal's , and my own, obsession. Skipping lectures we would follow his slow ninety eight year old steps - stalking, you'd call it these days - through the village wondering wither the old boy was going. To the post office, as it turned out. To post a letter. It was during this covert surveillance that Neal and I fell for each other. An expensive breast augmentation procedure, paid for by Neal with his Booker money, sealed our love. (Neal, I should say, is the only visiting American scholar to ever win that coveted prize).

The sex. I suppose you'll be wanting to know about that. Well, I will say only that it was different in style, texture, intensity and odour than any sex I have had before or since. When it is said of Neal that he is a lover in a million, this is nothing but the truth, if only for anatomical reasons. Sex with Neal is, simply put, an education: this is a man who likes to conjugate Latin verbs at the crucial moment.

But there was so much more than bodily fluids between us. It was with me that Neal took up, once more, the project that Brooke Shields had so tainted for him, five years earlier - writing the great Maori novel. Together we travelled to New Zealand, and spent all our time in the Inter-Continental, as far from the Maori as possible. I was confused, but Neal patiently explained to me that though the Maori are metaphorically sublime, in actuality they are prone to scabies. If we were going to write this novel it would have to be entirely symbolic, transferring the action, once again, to Damon Runyon's New York. This is what we did. You may have noticed my repeated use of the personal pronoun, "we". Though Neal's name alone appears on So Sue Me, his most lyrical, 1987 Pulitzer prize-winning novel that takes as its theme the rape of Maori land, it was a work of love; produced by two people as surely as a child. Over the years, feminists have demanded to know what I felt about the sole acknowledgement of my contribution to that book which reads as follows:

" Dedicated, with awe, to the British penal system, and to Zadie, for re-stocking the mini-bar"

How do I feel? I feel a part of greatness, which is more than you people can say. When I think of all the dedications - this one from The Hasidim and the Flea, his great Zionist novel, which states, on its title page, " To Gerald Ford for that thing we spoke about, and to Zadie, for keeping one eye on Herb, my accountant." Or this one, from Funny Peculiar or Funny Ha-Ha? which says simply, "Dedicated, with love, to Zadie, because she typed this." When I think about how many books I was around for, in between Princess Grace and Shirley Bassey, I just feel very proud. The only single dedicatee who receives more references than me, in Neal's work to date, is his great, late, fragrant childhood chum, Wally Trumbull. Although, as we speak, it seems Chelsea Clinton is giving both Wally and I a run for our money.

But what, I hear you ask, of my own literary career? Well,what of it? Sometimes you are great, sometimes you meet greatness, and sometimes you shack-up with greatness for four years in a lovers nest in Delhi and leave your own ambitions festering in the Gaharanpur Road along with the street children and the rest of the trash. Still, what little talent I have, I have no qualms in saying Neal Pollack nurtured and encouraged. There is neither time nor space here to go into the myriad of tiny kindnesses he did me during that tumultuous four year affair, nor the deep cuts he inflicted that made me stronger, always stronger. But suffice to say it was he who said of my tap-dancing, " Honey, you're either Donald O'Connor or you're not, know what I mean?"; it was he who, upon reading my first novel, White Teeth, while it was still in its early stages, quipped, " Babe, I like this Aristocrat-Englishwoman-falls-in-love-with-her-maid shtick, but how about transferring the action to London, adding some more adjectives, and, you know, some ethnics?"

When our romance ended, thanks to that scourge of all literary relationships, Jeannette Winterson, I felt that I'd lost a piece of myself - a piece of my body - and not just my Terence Conran sofa and the apartment which I recall having paid the lions share for. To use a metaphor that has appeared in every single one of Neal's novels since 1957, it was as if I had a phantom limb, and it itched, and there was nothing there to scratch. Some wise soul once said that "Losing Neal Pollack is like losing the best looking, most talented man in the history of American literature." To that final thought I can add only that it hurts, still receiving, as I do, mail with his name on it. 

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THE TIME I MET THE GREATEST LIVING WRITER IN AMERICA: A WISTFUL TALE OF REMEMBRANCE
By Sean Carman, Ph.D.

When winter holds my rain-drenched corner of the country in its grip, when it gets dark so early each night there is nothing much to do but crouch over the latest bestseller sipping oolong tea and listening to National Public Radio, I console myself by stirring my memory of the time I met the greatest living writer in America.

He came to the University of Washington Bookstore on an October Saturday night to read from and sign copies of an anthology of his greatest works. The fact that I had read his every work upon its original publication did not stop me from sending away for five autographed copies of his collection and plastering my bedroom with the complementary posters that arrived with my order. He had, over the course of his career, earned every major literary and journalistic award, as well as the Congressional Medal of Honor, the Congressional Medal of Freedom, the Purple Heart and a certificate from the President's Council on Physical Fitness, signed and suitable for framing. I snapped up my free ticket weeks in advance and arrived an hour early to wait on line.

He turned out to be much younger than I expected, but his reading so captivated the audience no one asked about his seemingly impossible youth. He spoke of the many places he had visited on tour. So wide was his popularity, so overwhelming the country's demand to hear him read his work, that he had been forced to schedule readings at national monuments, baseball parks and public restrooms. After his reading, at a college bar across the street, I buttonholed the young master over a pint of Red Hook.

"Hey!" I shouted into his ear, hoping to overcome the deafening squall of the band, "how's it going?"

"Hey!" he answered, "not bad!"

There were so many subjects I wanted to take up with him: my regret at having chosen law school over a journalistic career, and my dream of establishing a sideline freelance career in which I would forge grand literature from the raw material of everyday reporting, the way he had done to such voluble and widespread acclaim. I wanted to be Mailer to his Ali, or Gertrude Stein to his Hemingway. In the alternative, I would settle for being Cosell to his Plimpton, or Monroe to his Joyce Carol Oates, in the way that, if you thought about it, Mailer was really Plimpton's Ali, and Hemingway Oates' Plimpton. I was also willing to be Regis Philbin to his Merv Griffin, the point being, I wasn't going to be picky about it. I also wanted to ask how to write a decent query letter, and what sorts of subjects regional magazines tend to find interesting.

Instead I chose to stand quietly in his graceful presence, which proved satisfaction enough. "Here I am," I thought, "hanging out with the greatest living writer in America." I looked over, raised my beer and smiled. He gazed into the distance, his eyes blissfully unfocused.

I then realized he was not daydreaming, but was staring at the club's blonde bartender, in fact he had become mesmerized by the swaying of her platinum bangs as she moved behind the bar filling drink orders. I waited for the greatest living writer in America to saunter over and strike up a conversation with her, enticing her into rapture with his vast literary knowledge and tales of journalistic adventure, as he must have done in countless similar situations. Was it possible, I wondered, for any man to tire of such a life? When I looked back, however, he had moved to the dance floor where, alone, he did something that looked like a cross between the Electric Slide and the Funky Chicken. It was not pretty.

Just then a young graduate student in the University's child development program introduced herself. It turned out she had just moved to Seattle from Cleveland, my own hometown. We hit it off. Later she and I would go home together, and with the lazy arrival of the morning I would look down at her innocent face and realize that, for the first time in my life, I had found someone who would would cook eggs for me in the mornings and listen patiently in the evenings as I complained about my day. Ironically, however, I first quietly and shamefully betrayed my dream, when my newfound acquaintance interrupted our introductory conversation in the bar to ask about the solitary figure on the dance floor who had only recently shared my table.

"So who's the guy in the trench coat?" she asked.

"No idea," I said, trying to sound casual, "I think he's here by himself." Immediately she looked relieved. Then she looked coy, then later still charmed. Finally, much later, her face assumed a look of real urgency, almost desperation.

Later still, as my new girlfriend lay beside me asleep, and I considered our coming life together, my thoughts returned briefly to the greatest living writer in America. He seemed like a nice guy, knowledgeable enough, although I hadn't really gotten to talk to him. I imagined that he must have gone home with the blonde vixen behind the bar, and was at that moment wrapped up in her arms, panting with exhaustion, or perhaps tied down to her bedpost, writhing in delight.

Then I realized that, of course, at that early hour of the morning, the greatest living writer in America would be sitting at the study desk in his hotel room, leaning hungrily over his laptop keyboard, recording the day's events in his personal journal or perhaps embarking on some new masterpiece. He was surely teasing brilliant images from his gifted imagination and powerful words from his rich vocabulary. Undoubtedly, he was alone. "Probably," I thought, "he is still wearing his trench coat."

Whenever I recount these events, they fill my heart with gratitude that, for a moment at least, I shared a beer with the greatest living writer in America, and thereby gained a rare glimpse into the life of a living genius. What greater opportunity, really, can anyone ask of life?

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NEAL POLLACK: A TRIBUTE
By Colleen Werthmann, DDS.

Nearing my driveway, I breathed in the salty Pacific Ocean air and sighed contentedly. Only a few more days until the New Year would arrive. I was alone at my beach house in Santa Barbara, taking a well-deserved vacation after a particularly strenuous episode of the television show on which I played a hardboiled, yet sexy and vulnerable, FBI agent. I'd had dinner that evening with my mentor, James Garner, and his companion, Chiara, a stunning Italian-born textile heiress in her fifties with a taste for expensive Scotch and lawn darts. Jim and I had met on the set of a made-for-TV movie nad had become fast friends. The tinsel shimmered quietly on their tree, which still had a few presents underneath it for great-nieces and great nephews visiting in the days to come. We'd traced our fingertips idly along the inlaid mahogany dinner table and reminisced about the fun we'd had in days gone by, bicycling home with groceries, utterly blotto, to Chiara's old place, the one with the white plaster lions on the landing. After liqueurs, more laughter, and cigars, we were delighted to admire how quickly his knee-replacement scars were healing. It was a lovely time altogether. After a round of cheerful embraces at the door, I climbed into my Oldsmobile and drove back to my cottage, without a care in the world.

After setting a favorite Anne Murray album on the hi-fi, and pouring myself one final glass of Franzia rose', fresh from the 5-gallon box, I relaxed for a while in my white terrycloth bathrobe on the veranda with the waves crashing in the distance. I padded into the bathroom, disrobed, and stepped into the shower.

I shuffled around delicately within the perimeter of my bathmat, with my aqua blue exfoliating gloves on, washing myself. I did my feet last, as usual, and rinsed them one at a time, carefully, to avoid slipping. I washed my hair, taking my sweet time. I had no one to meet later, no place to go except my fluffy bed, covered with 535-thread-count sheets made by monks. I washed it once to get the dirt out and the second time to make it look nice. I conditioned, rinsed myself thoroughly, and turned off the water.

Refreshed and squeakily clean, I pushed the curtain aside and stepped out. Wrapping a luxurious towel around myself, I reached my hand to the fogged-up mirror and smeared the condensation away -- I froze in shock.

In the small oval of the mirror's reflection I saw a man, standing behind me.

My heart leapt into my throat. In a split second, my retinas sucked in all the information they could before instinct took hold! He was dressed in a black rib-knit army-issue sweater with canvas epaulettes, black jeans, and cowboy boots. He was medium-tall, and solidly built. Though he was wearing a ski mask, my widened eyes ascertained he was olive-skinned, with light eyes. There were dark locks of hair curling from underneath his woolen disguise. He said nothing. All he wanted me to do was see him, and then I would be his. In that instant when my eyes locked on him, he yanked the curtain off its rod, and lunged forward to smother me, but I had already slipped out the door, and was hurtling down the stairs with the unique speed of a terrified homeowner.

As I reached the bottom of the staircase, I heard the intruder struggling and stomping above me. He had accidentally become enwrapped, burrito-like, in the folds of the shower curtain, and, his vision obscured, he slammed his body against the door of the sewing room, into which he had inadvertently fallen. I frantically scanned the hallway closet. I ditched my towel for something a little more aerodynamic before the assailant could get back on my trail. I grabbed from a dusty, placid shelf the old down jacket and matching ski pants my cousin had accidentally left with me after a long weekend at Vail. Yanking themonto my body, hopping, I skidded around the corner into the living room, where I grabbed a weapon from atop the bookshelf. I hid in the fireplace, my heart pounding against my still-damp, Thinsulated thighs as I silently panted, eyes bugged, until the unsuspecting fool turned the corner, at which point I sprang from the cinders like a kangaroo and, yelling loudly, clocked him at the base of his skull with a hardcover edition of Tony Hillerman's "The First Eagle". He wailed, blind with pain, and began to crumple to the floor. I dumped Tony on the floor next to him, smeared the ashes from my face and, in an inexplicable moment of levity, with my thumbs akimbo at my temples, I wiggled my fingers and stuck out my tongue.

My masked attacker leapt up and, grabbing me by my tongue, as I gagged and sputtered, flung me around and swung me toward the plate glass window. He let go, and my body unfurled against it with great force. It shattered with a terrific din, sending tiny flashing pebblets into the void of night. I toppled into the hibiscus bushes and a flurry of pink petals erupted, randomly corsaging my scraped, stricken face and shredded ski-pants. He leapt out the window after me as I ran pell-mell down the driveway toward my Oldsmobile, sliding in through the window. Desperate, I released the emergency break -- my keys were still in the house -- and slowly began careening down the driveway, in the direction of the Pacific Coast Highway. The steep embankment proved no impediment to him. He leapt after my car and jumped on the trunk as it gained speed. He scrambled over the top of the hood, and though I tried to stun him with a vigorous squirt of wiper fluid, he swung through the window on the passenger side, kicking me deftly in the boob. Clutching at each others' throats and faces, we struggled for a brief, thrilling moment, grunting and spitting, until we happened to catch a flash of silver out of the corners of our squinting eyes. My attacker and I were on a collision course with a lamppost at the bottom of the hill, rushing toward us with alacrity. As though in a dream, our adrenaline throbbing in sync, we grabbed the wheel and yanked it, over and over again, glancing over our shoulders, knuckles white, as the voluminous backside of the Olds swung deftly past the lamppost with nary a scratch. The hill leveled out, and the car finally rolled to a stop. We slumped back in our seats, breathing hard, and then the man remembered he was trying to kill me.

Revitalized by the threat of my impending doom, I sprinted from the Olds toward the ocean, cradling my bruised boob in one hand. It was a murky, cloudy night on the beach, and the brisk December air slapped violently at my face as I kicked up crunchy cold sand with my heels. We ran at a breakneck speed along the coast for at least a good four or five miles, and the man, undeterred by the awkwardness of his boots, began slowly gaining ground. Each time I stumbled on a clamshell, or became entangled in a lump of kelp, a maniacal laugh issued forth from his advancing form.

Finally, I could literally no longer go on. I fell to my knees, exhausted, my muscles quivering and my synapses friend from the panic, the terror of the relentless pursuit of this strange man. I began to sniffle and tears poured silently down my face. The man slowed to a halt, relishing my defeat. He removed his ski mask. He was beautiful and evil. I felt myself gasp inwardly at my executioner, so cuddly, yet so excitingly dirty.

Breathing hard, he looked down at me, cowering and whimpering, and shook his head, chortling arrogantly with a rueful smile. I was shaking with fear. He kneeled down and touched me gently. Despite the snug fetal position in which I was curled, I felt a shameful pang of deep desire flash through me.

"You know, Mrs. Volanchikov, you put up a hell of a fight. I like a woman with pep. Tell you what. I'm feeling whimsical tonight. Instead of killing you, which is what I was hired for, just do me a favor. Promise me something".

"Anything, just tell me, and I'll promise," I pleaded, as my nose ran.

"They want your husband to hand over the weapons tomorrow. Make sure he does."

"Okay. I promise. I swear", I said, playing along.

"Good." He chucked me gently on the chin, straightened himself up. "Neal Pollack never likes to see a woman cry". He grasped my hand and pulled me to a standing position. He caressed my tear-stained, scraped cheek, softly, his eyes crinkling with tenderness. I pressed his hand to my good boob. Our lips met. Such was the beginning of our wild affair. We carried on for weeks. It was joyful and mad. We saw it through. After a final glass of wine from the box, and a knowing wink, we parted ways. I never saw him again.

That very same night, Mrs. Volanchikov, the woman Neal had really meant to kill, had also begged and pleaded, effectively convincing her husband, a powerful man in the Russian Mafia, to turn over the weapons, independent of the threat that I, her next-door neighbor, had received in her stead.

He never learned the truth about me, and sometimes, when I feel pensive, sitting in my trailer, knitting, I think about Neal, lying next to me, spent and exhilarated, the way he would talk, confiding in me his secret desire, someday, to become a writer.

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THE NEAL POLLACK WORLD TOUR: PHILADELPHIA
By Andrew M. Grossman, G.E.D.

I cut through the mob on the street as Philadelphians do, with a strong arm and irate voice. Giggling and buxom coeds with horn-rim glasses clustered by the doorway amongst portly yuppies in polos and middle-aged men with long hair. Finally, I entered Philadelphia's temple of literaryism, Big Jar Books, site of a long-awaited reading by Neal Pollack.

From the crowd inside, between the shelves and tables of books, Pollack stood apart, as if the lights shone on him alone, as if all energy in the room centered on this one man. And it did.

Pollack began reading, and the room shot into silence. His words were clear, untrembling, unlocking the mysteries of our times like an agile locksmith with a pick. Pollack's deep bass, venturing at times into a delightful falsetto, flowed from deep within, from between his broad shoulders and muscled chest, before emerging from his supple yet firm lips, it's power pushing the weak to the back and out of the room.

The crowd, really a wild throng like at a rock concert or soccer match, faded away from sight at Pollack's first words, until he and I were the only two in the room, his breaths shaking the building to its foundation, my ears, drowning in eloquence, grasping for all they could.

Pollack is an attractive man. His dark demeanor, sculped physique, and controlled gentleness of motion scream "Come hither." I could not resist. I knew that I had never before been attracted to a man, but it didn't matter. I realized, as so many have, that Pollack is not a fellow man, he is a king among men, a head above all who stand near him. His writing is unrivaled; his graceful Roman physique stands not apart from perfection. If we had gods in this day, Pollack would be among them, as the god of wisdom or fire if not of all things, a Zeus of power, compassion, and fury.

Suddenly, I was wrung from lurid fantasies of Pollack when the room erupted in praise, its sound thundering. First a red and then two white pairs of panties were flung against the great author's face, all three dropping to the ground in awe of his stature.

And it was over, the reading. Pollack had said more in that brief time than our greatest leaders have known. He spoke of history, of love, of lust, and of our shared experience as human beings. Many in the crowd were moved to tears. Others stood in shock at what had been revealed. The Bible holds not a candle to the Truth of Neal Pollack.

I waited in line for the master, my mind ablaze at the thought of my skin touching his, him thick hands handling my copy of his book. I was delirious, and the line moved slowly, as each disciple explained to him their problems and the difference his work has made in their lives. Pollack has heard it a thousand times before and will hear no less again, yet still deigns to address the common man, to solve his problems and take on his burden. He suffers so that we may live.

Finally, my turn had come. His hand crushed mine its grip with warmth and feeling. Language abandoned me, and I could only sputter, "Thank you. Thank you," and Pollack looked up and he knew. He knew the thoughts behind my eyes and the throbbings of my soul, and he looked into my eyes and smiled.

I have before me now the copy of "The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature," which he inscribed to me. I will not read it to maintain its pristine pages but will open the cover this last time to recount Pollack's inscription. Pollack had seen through me to my essence and plucked that from me, laying it down in perfect script on the book's first page. It reads, "Andrew, what's your problem, tough guy?"

And I had a problem, of life and existance, and purpose, and Pollack has solved it, by his divine touch and gentle and wise words. He is the miracle worker of our time, of all times.

Pollack may well be the Second Coming.

With this feeling in my heart, I exited Big Jar Books and stood among the others on the sidewalk, dazed in the cool night air. Our time with Pollack had been only minutes, but it had seemed hours. My life, all our lives, will never be the same.

To label Neal Pollack "the pre-eminent American writer," as the front flap of his book does, is to spread a half-truth.

Neal Pollack is our best writer and so much more. Neal Pollack is the only reason I get up in the mornings.

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THE FIRST SIGNS OF LIFE AFTER SCHOOL
By Kevin Dehan St. Michael's Academy, Austin, Texas

Think about this: the parking lot. It amazes me. It speaks chapters on human behavior, and this place is too captivating to just write off as tar and little black rocks. So I decided to go further in my pursuit for the irrelevant.

For an entire week I did strenuous observations of the Saint Michael's Academy parking lot. More information was recovered here than in the Galapagos with Darwin, more lessons can be learned here than in Athens with Plato. Let us observe this peculiar behavior.

In my studies four factors made themselves very distinct: the music factor, the speed factor, the group factor, and the honk factor.

First, with music I learned that 86% of students prefer to blast their music beyond the limits of human ear. This made no sense to me, so i went into the red zone in search of some explanations.

I spotted a car with two seniors in it, so I decided to direct their vehicle to a stop. As the 1974 Ford pick-up's windows manually rolled down, I attempted to question their motives only to realize they could not hear me due to their obnoxiously loud music.

Finally, thanks to a viscous threat and returned blows, they decided to turn it down. When I asked this question of why, one responded, "Because we're wild and crazy teenagers." The second also added, "And we love to rock."

The truth of the matter is that they were listening to country music, which hardly rocks, so I decided to dig deeper, but I didn't.

Second, we have the speed factor. I have come to the conclusion that at 3:49 everyday an invisible entourage of leprous "roach people" scurry their crusty-shelled bodies into our parking lot in search of students, therefore resulting in the panic-stricken rush to exit as soon as humanly possible. With this we see a heightened speedometer causing these massive lunar rovers (that somehow pass as "SUV's") to reach ridiculous speeds.

This leads us to our third factor, also known as the stragglers or "Nowhere-to-go'ers." This vast population creates a diverse crowd. 25% of the area is used for "parking lot football," the entertainment for the after school crowd. According to one fellow participating in this game, these 5 on 5 competitions started when he and another straggler had a football, a dream and boredom.

They are looking for enthusiastic players so that they can get together a team for the PLFL (Parking Lot Football League) if anyone is interested in joining. (They will make cuts because room is limited.)

Another 25% of the area is dead space or walking space. (No one resides in this area so I safely set up my camp here.) The other 50% is mostly made up of about 7 or 8 large groups of people. These groups are very uninteresting; they just sit and talk. I did find, though, that 9 times out of 10 they will move from in front of your automobile if you are driving towards them. (My apologies to the unfortunate 1% who failed to move, please pay attention while in a parking lot, people may be doing important studies.)

90% of the parking lot is made up of Seniors and Freshmen, while only 10% is made up of Sophomores and Juniors. My intuition told me that it was probably the intimidation of the Seniors that keeps the Sophomores and Juniors away, while the Freshmen are too young to be afraid.

I confronted two people in this pitiful population and asked these Sophomores what they think might be the reason for their missing classmates. The shorter, redder one said they have, "better, more important things to do," but when I asked what was more important than the SMA parking lot her only response was, "             ." I had obviously stumped her.

The final factor in this comprehensive study is the honk factor, another star player for the team of noise pollution. 6 times out of 10, students will honk at one of their fellow students as they drive by in their automobile. What ever happened to the wave? The wave never hurt anyone's ears, so why did people have to go and sit him on the bench? Well, I'm putting him back in the game. Go get 'em wave.

The uglier side to the honk factor is when someone honks at you to suggest you to "move out of their way." Let me tell you, it is very unpleasant when you get honked at, especially by someone in a large red truck. (You know who you are. And in case you don't, we've included a picture of your monster. Don't honk at me again.)

Anyhow, slow down, turn it down, wave, don't honk, and go home. School's over.

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I WILL BEAT NEAL POLLACK TO A BLOODY PULP
By Chris Kilgore, Ph.D.

I was three weeks into my "Search and Destroy Neal Pollack" tour, and things were miserable, having seen him only once on a piss-soaked book jacket in a New Orleans gutter, and the lowly highlight of the entire tour so far was having beaten hell out of some girl in Evansville Indiana who looked a lot like him. I was beginning to believe that I wouldn't find the "real" Pollack until we were both corpses, and our spirits would do battle in Hell. I pressed on, however, and chartered a flight to L.A., (if he was anywhere he would be in that steamy piss hole of a place) at a rock bottom price from a pilot whose license was under suspension, and kept calling me Carl because he said I reminded him of his mother. I had fallen asleep in the back, cooed to by the lullaby hum of the engine, and woke up just before my skeleton was reassembled by the impact of the little plane hitting the big ground, tearing the vessel to pieces, leaving it to resemble some cute little plush toy that your cat loved.

I picked myself out of the fuselage of flimsy tin, mangled fiberglass and jagged propeller blades that used to be a plane, the pilot was gone, I felt like a pile of dust that the wind might blow away at any instant. Looking around, I noticed the world was different now, everything blazed a fiery red, heat hung to my body like wet blue jeans. "Hell?" I thought. Then realized that my assumption was an all too reality as I saw the great blue snake of turnpike, it's moving metal scales glistening and writhing across the ocean of golden wheat turned hell-fire red under the enormous setting sun. I was in Kansas.

My shoulders slunked, my heart broke as that Kansas feeling of lost hopelessness, like your richest dreams burning before your eyes, set down on me like a fog, leaving me vulnerable to turning around just in time to see Pollack, in stance, behind me, a cherry 2x4 with protruding nails, points sparkling like diamonds, cocked behind his ear and then impaling my face with it. Collapsing to the chunky Kansas earth, my only thought besides "That bastard poked my eye out!" was, "Where the hell did he come from?" It was as if he'd risen from the hoary nether world, appearing golden out of the earth like another stalk of Kansas wheat.

I looked up out of my remaining eye to behold the beast, tossing the piece of cherry that had split in two across my skull, "Piece a shit." He said, disdainfully. He was the Pollack of my nightmares to a tee, everything I am only more so, lean, angular, muscled, with soft blond hair and a wry "suck my cock" smile that I couldn't wait to tear off of his face and shove up his ass. I peeled myself out of the dust staggering, and when I had gotten hold of my senses, what I sensed was the cow dung on the bottom of Pollack's Italian boots, close up, inverting my nose. I shook the cobwebs out of my head and found myself back on the ground, a mess of tenderized carrion like a opossum lying dewy and limp up on the turnpike, my brains and teeth sprawled in front of me, a grainy red streak on the smoking august pavement. Then I felt a warm drop of rain fall singularly and perfectly on my upper lip, and trickle into my mouth, turning into a river and then a torrent of what I then realized was not rain. Suddenly, through the hot piquant flavor of human blood I had discovered the necessary inspiration, my destined adversary illuminated before my eyes, and the clairvoyance of my entire life leading up to this moment. I bounded to my feet with eye aflame and serpent tongue prepared for the cleansing combat of men reduced to their most fundamental bestial qualities. Pollack's façade was unchanged, but his eye's told the story of his fear. On light feet, I danced around him like a confident prizefighter, feeling all of my youth and strength, inner and physical coming to a head and then with invisible quickness I struck. Waitƒ noƒ what? Pollack was on me from all angles, without even moving he beat me with fists and hot pokers and metal rods turning my body into a bleeding purple beet of mucus, blood and puss flowing from every orifice, not to mention some new ones, before the realization of what had hit me dawned on me with a day-lit wretched reality. Had I only known what I was getting into, I could've stayed on the farm and passed my days away happily milking cows, had I only known the horrible truth of Neal Pollack. I could lick Pollack in my sleep, 2x4 or no, but his Aura was beating my ass, how embarrassing.

The massacre concluded, I held the hand of death then and realized that I had been learned in the art of Great American Writing, but as a fire is very much alive without a visible flame, somewhere within me there was a searing heat that Pollack's Aura hadn't smothered, and I knew that it could be rekindled soon enough. As Pollack receded back into the dusty dirt from whence he came, I screamed out to him "Pollack!", the words muffled and inaudible through the pint of blood boiling from my throat, but the hate and venom ringing clear as a church bell on a winter Sunday. "I'm alive, Pollack!", and unable to restrain, I let out a choking giggle at my visions of vengeance.

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POLL LEADER
By Karl Wasser, Ph.D.

End to the end
Pollack begins again,
Two great tastes that go great together
In the crunchy American Mouth
Neal! They shout
Pollack! They proclaim
Great words commenced in park of yonder lore,
Fairy tail beatology of hippies and technology.
Oh, Golden Gate,
Where is Jerry now?
Grasping at the eternal spirit
Welled from beneath our underdog‰s breath
This new epic speaks to times in this great Land.
Ah, but what is in a name.
Let us now forget all the Cassidy‰s and Jackson‰s
We, Nu America have reached our
Final frontier-
Neal Pollack!
Swing low sweet man of the American Heartland,
Vivo, Vida, Vice!
And God Save the Queen!
Amen. 

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MY BOXING MATCH WITH NEAL POLLACK or A PLAY FOR THE TITLE
By Benjamin Jared Gilton, Ph.D.

His 12-ounce boxing glove glides across my cheekbone with the beauty and precision of a swan settling onto the glass surface of a pond. My face swings over my shoulder. My jaw extends upward and separates diagonally. One million tiny drops of sweat explode from my crewcut and rain onto the spectators in the first three rows. Flash bulbs pop. My right eye sends signals to my brain notifying that my left eye has been knocked clean from the socket. I blink a few times and find the left eye still intact, but my contact lens is gone!

I turn to face my opponent, a six foot and 210 pound Neal Pollack, as he taunts me with strange facial expressions. He does the eyebrow thing. He does the neck thing, whereas he leans back and forth indicating that he's going to strike again at any moment, but I'll not know from where and I'll not know when.

And then Pollack throws. Fist over fist. I unsuccessfully block the assault, a left to my kidney, a right to my sternum, a left to my ear, and a right square on the chin. I back up. I drop. The referee, Mills Lane, immediately rushes my steaming carcass. He's bald and old and he yells: "One... Two..." From here I notice that Pollack has tassels on the bottoms of his canary-yellow shorts. He has tassels upon the tops of his black athletic boots. What a showboat!

Mills Lane hollers: "Three... Four..." He is also counting it out with his fingers. I get up to my hands and knees and am shouting at the ref, "BLAAAAGGAAA! SLEEPPKA!" I spit out my oversized rubber mouthguard and repeat myself: "My feet slipped on the wet canvass!"

"Five... Six..." he continues. Pollack plays up the crowd. He raises his gloves in the air and those bastards cheer him on. The rowdiest are the Baldwin brothers accompanied by Kim Basinger, who somehow managed to score 4th row seats nearest to the blue corner. But that's my corner! I am enraged.

"Seven... Eight..." I'm back upon my feet. I'm spanking my fists together to signify a purplish kind of masculinity. I fit my mouthguard back across a convenient row of teeth. Then I dance. And before I know it I'm boxing again.

I land brilliant punches onto Neal Pollack's flabby stomach. They sound good even though I'm actually aiming for his neck. Pollack responds with an overhand right to my forehead. This puts me on my heels, but not for long!

I'm jabbing. I'm jabbing. I'm a natural southpaw, but I can switch it up at any moment and, just to showcase my skills to the judges, I do. Then I'm going for the face. Neal's blocking most of these punches while my arms begin to feel clumsy and absurd. During our e-mail correspondence Pollack had threatened a biting incident, but so far he's been nothing but a sport and a gentleman. However, those tassels are truly appalling, and he wears his shorts a bit too high. I express my disapproval with a short jab into the groin region.

Again Mills Lane rushes in. He pushes me back. He's yelling in my face. He spits while he yells. He's got a lot of energy and a delightful southern accent. "Keep 'em up Gilton! Next time I'm taking away a point!" I appeal to the crowd for hints of sympathy. Cameron Diaz winks her approval. Jack Nicholson seems mostly unamused. Pollack seems a little shaken up by the intentional low blow, but I'm quick to learn that it was just the motivation he's been looking for.

I am introduced to the ropes of the opposing corner while Pollack really lays into my ribs. A decent shot to my belly begins a sensation of internal bleeding—convincing me further that the years of nail swallowing (from my painful and yet enlightening "circus sideshow" youth) have finally caught up with me. It appears to the crowd that I'm bobbing and weaving. Bouncing off the ropes is probably considered excellent technique, but if the truth be known I'm trying my damnedest to attack with an illegal head-butt.

I know this because Charlie Sheen knows this.

Meanwhile, Pollack begins executing sharp right hands onto the bridge of my nose. Repeatedly. I'm no longer paying much attention anyway. I'm wondering if 75 bucks was too much to pay that filthy mechanic to fix the brakes of my El Camino. I'm thinking about all those wonderful afternoons when my sister and I would hitchhike to the beach and collect dinosaur eggs.

- - - -

I'm being examined by a physician. The stretcher is a nice touch, but I hardly think it's needed now is it? How did I get into this little room with a bare light bulb stringing off the ceiling anyhow? Oh God, what's that terrible smell?

There is a knock at the locker room door and a freshly showered Neal Pollack steps in. He's wearing a fine tailored trench coat and expensive sunglasses. He's got a dozen long stem roses cradled in his arm along with a stuffed white teddy bear. He sets them down on the bench, a safe distance away from where a pool of blood—I assume stemming from my head—is drying.

Neal says: "Good fight, champ. You showed some real guts out there, don't you know."

"Thanks, Mr. Pollack," I say, then spit loose nose cartilage into a white bucket, "I wish I could have given you a better fight, but I haven't eaten in two days."

"OK, OK," says Neal Pollack, "you're not trying to weasel out of settling up our wager, are you?"

"No, Mr. Pollack," I say, "I'm still buying first pitcher of beer up at All-Star Bowling Lanes."

I admire my broken knuckles by making a fist and releasing it. "Tell you what, I'll even pay for your shoe rental."

"Good kid." Says Neal Pollack.

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THERE ARE NO ANGELS, ONLY FAKE BREASTS
By Ben Brown, Ph.D.

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.

We get into the back seat of a limo which is idling illegally in the drop-off zone. A chilled flute of robotussin is waiting for me, as well as the last week's newspapers, stacked neatly on the tiny table in the middle of the passenger compartment. I point at them. "Summarize!"

Chester clears his throat. "There's some shit going on in Israel, something something genocide, something something America is paying, something something. I think we're killing more brown people, but that's not really a surprise, is it? I think that one guy, or maybe that other guy, they're gonna drop a bomb or something. Or maybe drop boxes full of guns. Something like that. As far as I can tell, a bunch of little kids were tossing rocks around, and they must have broken a really expensive window, because now we have to kill them. I know! I know! What could little kids do that's so bad? They must be pretty dangerous because we're shooting at them from helicopters, is all I know. I'm sure they deserve it. Oh! You were voted the hippest guy in Texas, but again, no surprise. I clipped that article for you, it's in here..." He hands me a velum envelope, which I tuck into the breast pocket of my jacket.

"I've been on the phone with the people who own that abandoned nut house that you want to buy. They're still holding out for more money and an equity stake in whatever it is you do with it. Oh, and there are a bunch of half-naked teenaged girls waiting at your place. I told them they could stay if they cleaned the place a bit, 'cause I know that Ani's arriving soon and you want the place to look good."

I nod.

"So tell me," says Chester, "how was your trip to the city of angels?"

Oh, I say. Los Angeles. Yes.

I am like a mercenary soldier, you see. My ninja-like coding skills are available to the highest bidder, and even in the heat of start-up battle, I am willing to cross from one side to the other with nary a moral or ethical question bubbling to the surface of my finely tuned and drug-streamlined brain. The front-lines are where I am the most comfortable -- if I do not cut myself on the bleeding edge, I might as well hang up my coding dukes and retire to the Midwest and raise a family of chubby, chipmunk-cheeked toddlers. In fact, I am so intrinsically linked to the art of code-jujitsu that if I am not actively involved in software development projects, my skin develops a terrible rash and I begin to turn green. Did you know that? I don't imagine you knew that.

And, as you may have guessed by now, that highest bidder might very well be in, as you said, the city of angels, although I did not see any of these fabled angels. Hookers, fake breasts, overly coifed gay men? I saw these in great numbers, but there was not a feathered wing in site! Not even a small one attached to a pigeon, which only now strikes me as extremely odd, and perhaps related to the fact that, as I sat, smoking a cigarette on the balcony of the company that was so kind as to fly me to their 90210 office, yes, their balcony (or perhaps their balcony), I was struck very suddenly with the horrifying revelation that out over the city, I could actually see the air which appeared to be a hazy yellowish mist hanging above the trees! The clean perfect air that I was supposed to be inhaling into my lungs between deep drags off my unfiltered, imported French cigarette was not clean, not perfect, and very possibly, not even air! Was there a bird, flitting gently from branch to branch in this toxic sludge of an atmosphere? No there was not!

Later that night, with my legs spread wide and wrapped around my good friend Tine's hips (the only safe way for a passenger to ride on a motorcycle), I wept for the sparrows, finches, and peacocks who must be hiding away in tiny condominium apartments which hide behind innocent looking bends in tree branches, tinier oxygen masks strapped to each insectivore beak. These beaks were not made for oxygen masks, Chester! They were made for catching and tearing apart tough shelled insects!

"You poor bastard," says Chester. "Here, let me pour you another 'tussin. So off to Lala land for us, is it? Do they know how to treat an author of your delicate sensibilities?"

Indeed they do, I say. While I wept onto his broad shoulders, Tine was navigating his lime-green Triumph through the throngs of artificially-accented pedestrians to a small, independent book seller where we stumbled into fellow author of delicate sensibilities, Neal Pollack. We sat in on his reading, calling out for the reading of my favorite essay, The Burden Of Internet Celebrity, which may or may not have subconsciously influenced my online 'persona' which everyone has grown to love and to whom oral sex is offered on a regular basis. I was delighted to discover that the hordes of literary groupies that flocked to his manly presence were not only more attractive than the oft-unshaven groupies present in Austin, but had also arranged to rent out a bar for an after-reading party. So you see, they do know how to treat me, and I am sure that I will also have a party thrown in a fancy bar with velour couches.

Of course, I did not attend the party, as I was afraid that I would overshadow Mr. Pollack at his own party because of my superior facial hair grooming skills. Moustaches are so 1984, you know? Of course you do.

"Of course," says Chester, smoothing down an errant hair in his moustache. "As your agent, I think I need to ask you this, though I'm not sure if I'm actually legally bound or if it's just professional courtesy, but you did use the line I gave you, didn't you? It's very important that you used the line."

Indeed I did, and it worked like a charm. At some point, during every conversation I had, I pulled my partner aside and told him (or her) that the real reason that I was coming to LA was to become an actor and to write screenplays. And like you said, each and every one of them was immediately struck with a look of horror and pity, and offered to buy me dinner. Never before has any one phrase resulted in so much alcohol, so many offers of food, drugs and sex -- such an outpouring of sympathetic affection.

If they only knew the truth -- that I am coming to LA, in fact, that my entire circle of literary compatriots is coming to LA to mis ourselves en scene as it were, to stage a literary uprising at the very heart of our dead culture...

"In the form of new-modern novels based loosely on your drug addled late-adolescences? Genius!"

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