Neal Pollack

Given the choice between self-proclaimed “Greatest Living American Writer” Neal Pollack and self-proclaimed “Best Band in the World” Tenacious D, we’re inclined to go with the latter. Not only does Jack Black do a better job of keeping his chest hair under control, but rock stars are a hell of a lot more fun to lampoon than exceedingly egoistic writers, whom Pollack lambastes by satirical example in his first-person Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature (new to paperback). From Conan O’Brien’s relentless self-deprecation to Pollack’s relentless self-aggrandizement, turn-of-the-millennium comedy seems mighty preoccupied with the overstated self-image. What gives? Did Seinfeld and family sitcoms simply wring all the laughs out of ordinary life? Maybe so. But as the buzz surrounding the McSweeney’s clique of wry, irreverent young writers ebbs, Pollack’s grand delusions sound more and more like a desperate (read: not-so-funny) and disposable kind of shtick. As with his cohort and benefactor, Dave Eggers, it’ll take another couple of books (er, sorry—“anthologies”) to properly measure how much literary mettle lies behind the hokum. Judge for yourself—and catch a glimpse of all the local McSweeney’s groupies at this St. Paul reading.