Neal Pollack, The Greatest Living American Writer, is the author of many semi-bestselling books of fiction and nonfiction. He also cohosts the podcast Extra Credit on Audible.com with his teenage son Elijah. He lives in Austin, Texas, with his family.
We must build a society based on what I call ‘rational kindness combined with government-mandated contact tracing.’
If you do one thing wrong during this pandemic, you will die. But we must be steadfast and brave, and bravery means staying at home forever.
Restaurants will reopen, but only for one customer at a time. Shopkeepers must shoot pre-purchased goods out of a T-shirt cannon, and we can only catch them if we’re wearing gloves.
Did anyone listen to me? No. But they’re listening to me now. And I’ve suddenly become quite expensive.
I’m proud to be part of a long tradition of productive plague authors. As I gaze upon the valley below from the parapets of Mount Winchester, I am alone with my prose. And my health.
Where I live, there’s an organization called Feed The Homeless While Not Using Any Fossil Fuels And Fighting Racism. I give them $100 a year so they don’t ring my doorbell.
Gen X grew up with parents who were always getting divorced, and siblings who were always drunk. When we came home from school, the house was empty, and so was the refrigerator.
My publisher sent advance pages of my book to judgmental Goodreads critics and other young-adult writers who live angrily in small apartments. An enormous scandal erupted.
While I’d never heard of Louis C.K. before yesterday and am still unclear as to who he might be, there’s no doubt that his so-called humor inflames me to the point of angina.
As The Greatest Living American Writer, I accept TIME’s Person Of The Year Award on behalf of all writers, journalists, and writers who write about journalism,
Sometimes you reach a point—usually when you have something to promote—when what you once thought no longer is what you think now.
Whether you cover the White House, Big Pharma, or the local water board, it’s time to hide your belongings and kiss your children. For the gulag surely awaits unless we act now.
I began my work covering a civil war in Africa—or maybe it was Asia. But I never thought I’d end it (not that my career is actually ending) covering a civil war in my home country.
Not only will I no longer buy Nike products, I will also no longer wear shoes, socks, or underwear.
Becoming a member of the radical fringe group the Intellectual Dark Web has allowed me to spread my ideas using controversial technologies like YouTube and podcasts and Twitter.
Because I’m desperately, epically isolated, I find it hard to determine whether something I write is offensive to the public, whose tastes are always changing, and who are generally stupid.
Clearly, the times have become serious. We no longer live in an age of comedy. We live in an age of essays about why the age of comedy has ended.
The story of the ‘Roseanne’ reboot and its demise is an American cultural tragedy whose historical ramifications will reverberate long after the doomsday device kills us all.
Of all the Great White Male Novelists who wrote novels about being great and white and male in the late twentieth century, Philip Roth was the greatest and whitest and malest.
A screaming horse hurtles into an oil drum, creating an explosion that engulfs us all. That, Donald Glover says, is entertainment.
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