In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

67 SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION Alice฀B.฀Toklas฀was฀alive฀in฀1966, but฀my฀parents฀(being฀themselves)฀were฀absorbed in฀buying฀diapers,฀paying฀rent,฀blowing฀up ฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀the฀blow-up฀pool— so฀it฀didn’t฀dawn฀on฀them฀that฀if they฀dropped฀everything (golf฀clubs,฀keys,฀oven฀mitts) and฀flew฀Pan฀Am฀to฀Paris, and฀rented฀a฀mini, they฀could฀find฀Alice฀B.฀at฀her฀flat฀in฀France, resplendent฀in฀a฀black฀wool฀dress, marinating฀half฀a฀lamb, and฀they฀could฀set฀me฀on฀her฀lap. Most฀laps฀are฀chairs—dull฀and฀sturdy— but฀hers฀would฀be฀itchy฀and฀dense like฀a฀college฀lecture in฀twentieth-century฀history, and฀her฀hands฀would฀be฀cold, betraying฀a฀lingering nostalgia฀for฀the฀Vichy฀puppet฀state. But฀we฀missed฀our฀chance.฀Alice฀is฀dead, and฀so฀is฀Freud,฀so฀there’s฀no฀one฀to฀say that฀my฀parents฀(mother฀especially)฀are฀to฀blame. ฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀Every฀life฀is฀its฀own฀flame. And฀now,฀in฀the฀summer฀of฀2003, George฀Bush฀is฀peddling฀a฀“road฀map฀to฀peace,” and฀Eminem฀is฀touring,฀and฀the฀world฀teems with฀historical฀figures฀that฀my฀son฀will฀never฀meet. Just฀today,฀Gregory฀Peck฀died.฀And฀where฀were฀we? We฀were฀sitting฀on฀a฀tilted฀picnic฀bench in฀Milwaukee. ฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀Son,฀I’m฀sorry. The฀sex-ed฀books฀call฀birth฀a฀miracle, but฀what฀they฀don’t฀describe฀is฀me฀lying฀helpless and฀bloody฀as฀you฀were฀born. I฀could฀only฀carry฀you฀so฀far. My฀muscles฀pressed฀eject฀and฀then my฀cry฀was฀not฀your฀cry, while฀outside฀who฀can฀say฀what฀wild cargo฀passed฀us฀by? 68 ...

Share