Neal Pollack’s funny first book, The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature, satirized the kind of self-
congratulatory, advertorial magazine writing that has become the house style for all glossy media. He followed this promising debut with a flabby sophomore book that didn’t so much poke holes in music clichés as wallow in them. And then he began writing the same kind of drivel that he was parodying a few years before. Alternadad was a dunderheaded memoir about Pollack’s attempts to stay “cool” while becoming a father, and now he has published Stretch, a memoir about his life as a practitioner of yoga.
A passage near the beginning of Stretch warns us of Pollack’s further deterioration as a writer. Early in his yoga life, he was very gassy:
If I felt a loud one moving toward my anus, I tightened my perineal muscles and willed it away… If I absolutely had to cut loose, I tried to let it out slowly and subtly, with a nice hiss. That didn’t always work, though, and little plopping sounds would emerge.
Elsewhere, he brags about how his perineum has become “one of the strongest parts” of his body. Clearly, this is a man who believes that his own asshole is fascinating. Every page of Stretch oozes with smarmy self-interest as Pollack becomes more and more involved with yoga. For example: Did you know that yoga is not just for chicks and homos? It’s true, brah! Even manly men like Pollack can get into it: “I’d expected poses with flouncy names, like laughing daisy, or bejeweled vagina, or the infamous happy baby that I’d heard about. Instead, I got masculine ones like warrior and cobra…” One can almost see the Pollack of 10 years ago rolling his eyes at the faux-macho everydude posing of a soft bourgeois media-elite wannabe.
The thing is, if Pollack had just written an entry-level yoga guide for men who are nervous about yoga, an inoffensive book that women would buy for their nervous boyfriends, that would have been fine. But Pollack can’t stop himself from puffing up the story with a ridiculous, unbelievable goal in mind (he’s purportedly trying to find his “best self,” as though yoga is going to make him a better person instead of a douche who does yoga all the time, which—spoiler alert!—is what he becomes), and then he spends the last half of the book trying to find the best ending for the book (traveling to India to study under a yoga master and becoming a yoga teacher are briefly considered for their narrative splash and then deemed too difficult for poor Mr. Pollack, who decides to junketeer at a yoga convention and go to a yoga retreat instead).
Pollack’s unfortunate turn to memoir—complete with the now-requisite memoirist’s complaint that the poor dear just can’t seem to hold down a “normal” job like everyone else—completes his transition from parodist to self-parody. In the beginning, he pointed at assholes and mocked them. Now he has become the asshole, with a body of work that includes a book about how to become a father who is also an asshole and how to become a yoga-practicing asshole. One can only hope that with the skills he has learned in the writing of Stretch, he has become so flexible that he can now crawl up his own asshole and disappear forever. 
Perhaps Paul needs to do more yoga….
I’m so glad you point out the nauseating trope of memoirists everywhere: that they’re too special to hold down a regular job. That’s because it’s hard to show up at the same place every day, year in and year out, and the people who do don’t usually have time to write amusing yarns about their struggles with tedium.
Maybe the forthcoming demise of the publishing industry will give us more Harvey Pekars and fewer Neal Pollacks.
Ouch. This review was way harsh. I was turned onto this book by some fellow classmates at my yoga class, and I breezed through it in a weekend. I thought it was hilarious! Also, I’m in the middle of a 30-classes-30-days yoga challenge, and it offered some unorthodox inspiration to keep up my practice. I think everything that Pollack writes is tongue-in-cheek. Sorry you couldn’t enjoy it.
I am so glad I read this review instead of picking up this asshole-gazing memoir.
A ‘friend’ sent me this book for my birthday two weeks late, after he threw up red wine in my car when I got stuck driving him home from my own party because he did not have money for a cab. I can only assume that it was the kind of last-minute gift that came up as a ‘recommendation’ based on my friend’s past purchases on Amazon.
Pollack strikes me as the kind of guy, the friend of the friend, that I dread seeing at parties and social gatherings. When you meet him the first time you think ‘godammit, what an asshole!’ and take comfort that you will never see him again. Then, over time, he has managed to work his way into your larger social network. You start to see him every time you see your other friends. He is always there making every event, dinner party, or weekend camping trip about himself. He talks stupid crap non-stop, eats all of the appetizers, and then complains about the dinner you worked all day to prepare. Being the very self-important prick he is, he expects a lot and offers nothing…ever. He is the guy that shows up late to the potluck empty-handed and demands that you reheat the fried chicken. Nobody really likes him, but they all seem to pretend he belongs to the group, even though nobody can say why and nobody ever admits to inviting him. He just seems to show up.
This book embodies everything I hate about that friend of a friend and I highly recommend reading it if you want to spend several hours with a person you hate without actually having to deal with the person for real.
Yuck. Humorless & mean-spirited much? I read “Stretch” & greatly enjoyed it — no doubt there are many legitimate criticisms to be made of the book, but not by a writer who rejects the very concept of using yoga to find your “best self.” Or perhaps you feel the need to reject the idea of earnest self-exploration itself, out of knee-jerk snarkiness? Wouldn’t be unheard of, in an alternative-weekly writer.
Anyway, the book is humorous and self-deprecating, not filled with bragging about his spiritual prowess. For instance in the sentence you quote about “flouncy names, like laughing daisy, or bejeweled vagina,” he’s poking fun at his beginner mentality, and his irrational fear that yoga would somehow imperial his masculinity. He’s being honest about his flaws, something most memoir readers probably want in a memoirist. Do you have a personal beef with Pollack or something? Not sure what’s up with the deliberate misreading.
I think it’s time the critic got in touch with his “best self,” rather than seething with envy and lashing out at the successes of other (far more talented) writers. Stretch is a fantastic book. A fun, funny, and candid look at one man’s personal transformation via yoga.
Here’s to hoping we have mercy on Paul Constant when he sells his miserable memoir about life as a low level character assassin.
Constant’s review was far more honest and helpful than those on Amazon and other sites where you’re feed an echo chamber of praise from the same cadre of people who personally know the author and do damage control on any website where the book receives anything but a glowing review. This is called being a shill, folks. A simple google search proved my suspicions correct. How sad. “Stretch” looks to be the latest foray into preening self-indulgence which I hope our current economic situation quickly puts to rest as a literary trend. He’s worried about looking foolish doing yoga, I’m worried about keeping my job and making rent each month.
Couldn’t have said it better myself, Scott. This review reeks of jealousy and hate. I am enjoying this humorous book so far, especially since I am just starting to get into yoga/meditation and ‘bettering myself’. I think Paul could use some yoga!
Couldn’t have said it better myself, Scott. This review reeks of jealousy and hate. I am enjoying this humorous book so far, especially since I am just starting to get into yoga/meditation and ‘bettering myself’. I think Paul could use some yoga!
#5
I think the first sentence of your comment would be the best blurb ever.