We recently launched a sneak attack against daddy-author Neal Pollack's adorable 4-year-old son, Elijah. Or more accurately, we launched a sneak attack against author Neal Pollack shamelessly exploiting Elijah for his own literary ambitions. Pollack responded. Fark weighed in. Facebook profiles were updated. Pollack expressed a realization: That his constant blogging of Elijah exposes the little tyke—or rather, the trite twee petite-bourgeoise portrayal of him—to public scorn. One might think this would prevent Pollack from sending little Elijah back into the baby mines. But then one would be wrong.
went to the grocery store with my family today and wandered around in the haze of my most recent public identity crisis, dutifully loading the cart with apples, bananas, and whatever else Regina told me to get. My exchanges with Elijah were minimal. I swore that I wouldn't mine this trip for blog material. Enough already.
And then we reached the checkout line. Or at least my body did. My mind was somewhere far away, in a place full of waterfalls and self-pity. I heard Regina's voice echo in my skull.
"Neal," she said.
"Look what your son is doing."
I turned around. Elijah was sitting in the shopping cart, smelling a pack of bacon, and going "mmmmmmmmm."
"Elijah," I said. "Why are you smelling the bacon?"
"Because it smells so good," he said.
He turned the package over.
"And the back of it smells even better," he said.
"Is he not supposed to be doing that?" I asked Regina.
"Well," she said, "it's a little weird, but I don't see how it's harmful."
So we let him smell the bacon until we had to put it on the conveyor belt. Later, at home, there was ham for dinner, at least for the boy. Regina and I knew that our dinner would be too spicy for him.
We're having a realization of our own. Neal Pollack simply hates actually working.