Neal Pollack: “That would quickly find me at the wrong end of a fist or a beer bottle.”

“Pal, I’d rather have a cup of coffee with my next-door neighbor every day for the rest of my life than share one ‘hazelnut latte’ with you. He thinks I’m going to hell but helped me fix my lawnmower last weekend anyway. ”

Blah blah blah.

Lately, Neal Pollack seems to be operating under some illusion that he’s the blue-collar voice of reason (complete with Star Trek references!). I hope the new schtick wears off. Of course, I have no worries. I’m sure his post-Nov. 2 ravings are just a temporary affliction that came with the six figure check he got from Bill Gerber, which should last him very handily during the next four years while the tax code gets uprooted.

Next thing you know, Pollack’s going to be making documentaries and telling us that he’s a factory worker from Flint, Michigan.

But no matter. Maybe he should just follow his own advice and shut the fuck up.

See? Satirical genius! I’m recused from responsibility! In your faces and pocketbooks, foolish readers! Such courageous writing! Why, Terry Southern would give me a rim job!

Where’s the realism and the attention to details? What’s needed among the blogs in this turbulent time is a batallion, a brigade, of Zolas marching from here to Montgomery uniting the two Americas: the Real America and the Pretend America, if you catch my drift. Neal Pollack is a bag of bones. His work is no longer relevant. He is the one stooge in a sea of self-indulgent bloggers trying to comment upon the current situation. And he is a friend of Dave Eggers! It doesn’t get much lower than that.

The time has come for bloggers to concentrate on the tiny important details of the world around us rather than be funny. That involves going to colleges and watching the world around us helplessly while the sorority girls ignore our erections.

I hereby renounce the use of satire. Life is too austere and heartbreaking. The white suit is in the closet. Blame the liberal elite. They haven’t got a clue. I haul my colostomy bag in their general direction.

I’m currently researching the next play.

If you are in a polyamorous relationship (meaning: more than two people), I’d be interested in talking to you — ideally in person, but, if desired, email or phone works too. Sexual persuasion and gender do not matter. However, I hope to concentrate on relationships that have been going on for at least two or three years.

If you have an hour or two to spare and you’d be interested in a confidential chat, please feel free to drop me an email at ed AT edrants.com.

Thanks,

Ed

• Okay, how about some cool things coming out of the U.S. government next year, such as some nifty stamps, including Marian Anderson in February (to counterbalance the odious Reagan one), Jim Henson and the Muppets in March, Robert Penn Warren in April, a Masterworks of Modern Architecture set in June, and a Greta Garbo stamp in September. The Garbo stamp is rumored to be the first talking postage concocted by the U.S. Postal Service. It will not be sold in sets and the stamp will remind you to mail it through repeated entreaties to “be alone.”
• There’s a rollicking debate going on at Tingle Alley about migrating within the United States. Carrie suggested that instead of moving to Canada, bluestockings might better serve this nation by moving to a red state. Several lovely people have made some fabulous cases.
• I was remiss in noting the Complete Review’s incredible coverage of Checkpoint. It seems more pertinent now, somehow.
• James Patterson’s ex-girlfriend has sued him for breach of contract and copyright infringement. One only hopes that the legal battle prevents him from gluttoning the bookstores with more tripe. Perhaps Karen Valby might want to be called in as a character witness.
• The bad reviews for I Am Charlotte Simmons keep on coming. David Kipen suggests that “Wolfe needs a cold shower in the worst way.” Meanwhile, Bob Minzesheimer demands a Wolfe embargo on “loins.”
• And the Guardian First Book shortlist has been announced: Matthew Hollis’ Ground Water, David Bezmogis’ Natasha, Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, Rory Stewart’s The Places in Between, and Armand Marie Leroi’s intriguingly titled Mutants: On the Form, Varieties and Errors of the Human Body.

• Nobel Peace Prize winner Shirin Ebadi can’t get his memoirs published in the States. Why? There’s an embargo in Iran. Ebadi has responded by suing the United States. Her memoir, it should be noted, is the story of “a woman, a mother and a lawyer living and working in a country that confronts many human rights problems.” This may be the first flagrant example of, as Moby Lives recently asked for ideas on, poltiics having a definitive influence upon literature.
• At the Vancouver International Writers Festival, Natalee Caple declared that one of her desires is to excel at “literary sex: better, more accurate sex scenes in Canadian novels…written by stronger, more difficult, troubled, kick-ass women characters.” Caple also felt bad about one of her characters losing a leg. So out of sympathy, she decided to give him a hand job. If this is the kind of generosity we can expect from Canadian writers, perhaps this isn’t such a crazy idea after all.
• Literary scholars are reassessing the influence of Louis Zukofsky. Several professors, who recently received substantial checks from Zukofsky’s heirs, have declared Zukofsky “the best poet of his generation.” In response to the overblown plaudits, Heidi Julavits is expected to write an anti-praise manifesto in the January 2005 edition of The Believer.
• Frank DiGiacomo is expected to “co-author” Harvey Weinstein’s memoir. In preparation for the job, DiGiacomo has begun humiliating lowly interns, smoking and swearing like a motherfucker, and exclaiming “Ben Affleck is my bitch” throughout the Conde Nast building.