Dear Mr. Pollack,
Some time ago I purchased your book The Neal Pollack Anthology Of American Literature and I was aghast to see that someone is already out in the world stealing your schtick! The miscreant’s name is Hunter S. Thompson. He is writing the same type of farcical articles as you are—not the same content, but articles with the same feel. And I mean exact! See if your attorneys can have this newbie stopped! You’ve carved out this highly original literary territory for yourself and it would be a damned shame if this Thompson asshole got the credit as a “gonzo” journalist when you should wear that laurel. After reading his novel Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, I thought, “Thompson doesn’t have me fooled. Just because he set his novel in 1971 doesn’t mean he wrote it then. He’s obviously seen what Pollack has going on and jumped on the bandwagon.” Nor was I fooled by the copyright date on the fly pages. I saw “1971” there and thought, “How Pollackian!” Well, hopefully you’ve got a 300 pound Samoan lawyer who can take this bastard to task for his lack of originality.
But between you and I, your piece about “The Celtic Tiger” and how you believed that a large green jungle animal was loose in Ireland was pretty damned weak. Shit, Thompson could probably have done better than that. But maybe I’m not your audience; most of your humor is too far east of Bob Hope for my liking, and far too far north of Bing Crosby for my spleen to tolerate. However, as an avid reader I feel a duty to notify you about this Thompson character. Stop him before dilutes your market. There are only so many artists who can practice this kind of writing before it’s soon seen as derivative. Next thing you know, this Thompson Pollackian wannabe will have started up his own band.
From Neal Pollack:
Dear Matt, you bastard:
I was going to send you an email (well, first I was going to ignore your cruel letter, but then I decided not to) excoriating you for sending me such a takedown on the eve of the “most important election of our generation,” but then a quick click on your name revealed that you are Canadian, and therefore not culpable.
As for my “schtick,” I tried something in that first book, to mixed reaction. The band was a disaster, but I had a good time. I’m about as gonzo as a root canal, and if you give a crap, I’m moving my attention toward more conventional literary voices, having run my little hipster horse into glue long ago. If anything, I’m disdainful of gonzo attitudes, and....oh, hell, I don’t have to explain myself to you.
Good luck with your own literary career, which will only bring bitterness and disappointment. And I’m not saying that as an insult. It’s just the way things work out for everyone.
Neal Pollack
From Matt St. Amand:
... oh, hell, I don’t have to explain myself to you.
But you have; you were; you tried.
I’ll accept my position of lacking culpability based on my citizenship, but remember that only America could produce, much less elect as president a monstrosity like George W. Bush. Your navel gazing is touching. Tomorrow’s election will change nothing, least of all in America. I hope Kerry wins, but the red, white and blue wrecking ball will continue swinging across the world to much lack of applause and even more consternation. I don’t take this out on you. You sound like you’re rooting for the good guys.
Hey, I’ve got books out in bookstores, too. I do readings, I’ve even got an e-mail address on my Web site. Notes like mine to you are a hazard of the game. However, I’m not so bitter about my literary career. I’m not in this for the attention, but to actually create work. I didn’t realize I was buying schtick when I bought your book, that’s all. My note to you wasn’t intended as a “takedown” or to be “cruel,” but I have to confess the level of disappointment I felt reading your work could only be equaled by the crashing heartdrop I felt reading Paul Auster’s abortion, Hand to Mouth. Truth be told, I can’t wait to hear from my own outraged readers.
I’m glad you’re striking out into new territory. I admire your versatility and your attempts at self-promotion—the kafuffle reading on Amtrak, et al. My inner Donald Trump is an unrestrained monster, as well.
Vote tomorrow. Have a drink. Lighten up.
From Neal Pollack:
Hey, I’ve got books out in bookstores, too. I do readings, I’ve even got an e-mail address on my Web site. Notes like mine to you are a hazard of the game. However, I’m not so bitter about my literary career. I’m not in this for the attention, but to actually create work.
I’m in it for a little bit of both. Motives are complicated. Now, I figure, the attention-getting phase of my career has ended, and I can actually go about the business of writing. A few years of youthful enthusiasm never hurt anyone. Be well.
NP
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