I have to admit here that Neal Pollack is not really my friend (I don't think so anyway--as far as I know), and that using his name here to draw your attention to this essay, and to the zine, is maybe a nasty trick smacking of tabloid tactics. But I feel comfortable with this, first, because Mr. Pollack is not a huge celebrity, is not wildly famous--though he probably deserves to be--therefore using his name this way couldn't be taken as a kind of publicity stunt; so if Neal does one day become my friend--I'm not saying I hope he does, I think our relationship should take its natural course--I will be able to say I, with our friendship in mind, did not attempt to exploit his name for my own purposes. And, secondly, since I am often confused, in fact way off the mark, about the status of my various social relationships, it may even be that Neal Pollack already considers himself my friend, and I don't know it.

As a writer, Neal Pollack--a contributor to McSweeney's, and author of The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature--is pretty good, and pretty damn funny. As a person, I don't know what he is like, but from what I gather--from watching him at readings and seeing him "hang out" in a bar--he's probably very funny in person as well.

I attended a night of The First Annual Timothy McSweeney's Festival of Literature, Theater, and Music, heading out to the after-reading band/beer bash held at the North Star bar in Philadelphia. I drank some beers and felt very loopy. Seeing Mr. Pollack, I felt compelled to go over and talk to him, but I stopped. Why should I feel the need to talk to him? I had read only a few things of his on the McSweeney's website, I hadn't read his book, and I had even missed that night's reading--what was I going to say? Furthermore, in my state, I wasn't sure I could carry a conversation, and I even had doubts whether it was him. I had seen him once reading in New York, but I was far back and he was wearing sunglasses. I decided to mention the previous reading where I had seen him, to say that I thought it was funny, and that would be that. Just a, "Hi, I appreciate your stuff" kind of greeting, no harm in that.

I had seen some guy, a real hermit-looking alternative type, talking to Dave Eggers, talking on and on. Eggers looked like he was tolerating it. I didn't want to be that, a pain in the ass artsy type just thrilled with talking to a published writer, a dingleberry on Dave Eggers, boring him with my stupid chit chat. Yet I felt I should make contact. It was, after all, my involvement in zine-things, writing, self-publishing, telling me I should go out in the first place this evening, that--though these people didn't know me and were unaware of my work--this was my community and I should make some effort to get out in public and be part of it all.

Though more accomplished than myself, Neal Pollack was still one of my peers--someone writing funny stuff for an obscure publication. The responsibility of putting our two great minds in proximity, and now to encourage them to make contact with one another, was resting on me. Now that I was drunk, I was ready to face this challenge. I was ready to meet my friend, Neal Pollack.

The forces that guide my behavior when in a bar, when "tipsy," are hard to explain. They are like the forces of nature--arbitrary, surprising, without reason, acting on the will of some shadowy other, some thing we can't see or place. Like when a tornado hits the ground shredding homes, killing a dozen good, poor people who have done nothing but work their asses off for their entire lives, but then passes within a few feet of the estate of some rich, crooked bastard, leaving only a cracked window.

I approached, and not wanting to do something stupid like assume he was Neal Pollack and be mistaken and look like an ass, or ask "are you Neal Pollack?" and look like a bigger ass, I played it safe, easing into conversation with my new friend with something vague that would cover my ass in case he actually wasn't Neal Pollack.

"Were you reading tonight?" I asked. God, that was stupid, I thought. Of course it is him, and of course he was reading tonight; jeez I looked like a fool already--Neal Pollack is never going to talk to me again, let alone collaborate or come to my place to staple zines over a few beers.

"Yeah."

O.K., he responded, things weren't going too bad. I could save myself.

"I couldn't make it to tonight's reading...but I did see it in New York once; it was funny." It was funny? What the hell was I talking about? God I sound stupid--I'll be lucky if Neal Pollack doesn't bail out of our friendship right now.

"Yeah."

"So how come it's all bluegrass tonight?" I asked.

"I like bluegrass," he said, in a tone conveying a suspicion that what I had really wanted to say was "Why the fuck is the music all bluegrass tonight? I hate that crap."

Which was what I was thinking; oh great--look at me, letting my thoughts about the music come out, insulting my friend, Neal Pollack. What the hell is wrong with me? I don't deserve to even be speaking with him.

I noticed there were long gaps in my speech, things were coming out in pieces, semi-coherent--it was the height of my drunkenness. Oh damn.

The conversation was grinding to a halt, it was a disaster, but I did not flee. I stood my ground, swaying a little with a bottle of beer in my hand. I'd be damned if this interaction--between two comedic geniuses who were meeting for the first time--was going to end on some lame note. I pressed onward with much effort.

I wasn't sure if Neal was hearing me, so louder, I said, "Education causes stupidity."

"Ah..." Neal said, kind of looking at the floor.

I was pushing us to levels of intimacy normally reserved for my closest friends. I kept going...

"Evil educators suppress knowledge of Timecube[1]; Timecube holds the truth..."

Neal looked to his right, a man he had previously been talking to was gone. He reached out with his arm, pointing straight ahead, cutting me off...

"You know, there's a friend up there I have to talk to..."

And he walked away, without looking at me, up toward the stage and sat down next to someone.

I stood there swaying a little, my head swimming. I felt this was a failure. But I also felt that Neal and I had become closer. This was after all our first meeting, and our longest conversation. No, we hadn't yet talked about our past, our parents, our ambitions or goals, our dreams. We hadn't yet laid on our backs out in a clearing in the woods while camping, gazing at the night sky, wondering what it is all about. We hadn't talked about naming our children after each other, or offered to help each other move. But Neal and I did spend some time together, we did talk, "hang-out" if you will. And in that, is something.

We parted like war buddies, having undergone an experience together that, even if we decided to explain to others, they would never really understand. I felt my handling of our first meeting could have been a little more smooth. Neal was obviously more socially adept than myself. Maybe this was something that, through our friendship, he could sort of help me work on, I don't know.

As I stood there in my haze watching Neal across the bar talking to some other "friend," I did not feel the slightest jealousy of one who witnesses a friend engrossed in conversation, laughing and enjoying himself, with some stranger--someone with whom you are not at all aquainted and who yet appears to be very much aquainted with your friend[2]. Nor did I feel the need to approach him again and further our dialogue, taking advantage of our time together in this place. I did wish though, as I remember thinking at the time, that I could be more like my friend, Neal Pollack.

 

[1] www.timecube.com (self-explanatory).

[2] Where did this shadowy asshole climb out from? Has he paid his dues through years of loyal friendship and devotion the way I have Goddammit?! Does he think he can just pop in, while he's "in town," to say hi and have a laugh about old times, assuming again some kind of instant intimacy with my friend while I stand in the background like some stranger, like some tolerated relative?! Hey, jackass--get in line for this person's affection behind me: a real fucking friend!!

 

Home | Contact

Contents copyright 2002 Rat Blood Soup