Can't spell Guenther Grass without SS...

Man, who would have thought that Guenther Grass, perhaps the best-known post-war German writer of the Left had been a member of the Waffen SS? Granted, he was 17 at the time and Germany was calling up the young and the elderly for duty, and he was conscripted, which meant he didn't exactly go out and volunteer.

But, wow. Talk about creating an interesting twist to a long-standing writer's story. Frankly, I'm surprised it stayed a secret for so long. Given Grass's visibility as a public intellectual -- one who at one time held that Germany should never reunite because it would only bring a return to the nationalism that gave rise to Nazi Germany -- you'd think someone would have pulled this little nugget out long ago, the way that Paul de Man's writing's for the collaborationist Belgian newspaper Le Soir came out almost 20 years ago, allowing some critics and even more reactionaries to denounce Deconstruction itself as a tool of fascism.

The BBC website points out that Grass's unit has not been directly implicated in any of the atrocities the SS so often perpetrated:

It has to be said, that up to now, the Frunsberg Division has not been implicated in any major atrocities or war crimes - even though the SS as a whole was classified as a criminal organisation after the war.

Grass himself claims that he "never fired any shots," and I certainly hope that it's true.

War is hell.

Reading at the beach.

I admit it: I was desperate. I had taken two books with me on vacation: Balzac's Old Goriot and a book about Helene Cixous from the Continuum Live Theory series. The first was to read while actually on the beach; the second to read before bed. However, by Wednesday I had finished Old Goriot and I hadn't yet visited any of the used and discount book shops that crop up along the boardwalks in Rehoboth and Bethany (and until recently Ocean City).

So I borrowed a James Patterson novel from a friend. The Beach House. I had read a James Patterson novel before -- Kiss the Girls or Along Came a Spider...I don't really remember -- and remember sort of liking it. Mainly when it comes to "junk food" reading, I'll choose a mystery every time: I read about all of Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot novels when I was a teenager, and I've even given a paper on Raymond Chandler's The Big Sleep, so I figured a good potboiler was just what I needed to take me through the rest of the drowsy vacation week.

And it was good for about 250 of its 352 pages. Then it got stupid. Extremely stupid. I'm talking hard boiled detective fiction meets Airheads. I finished the book deeply deeply unsatisfied. It was like eating a whole bag of chips by yourself and realizing that you've probably come one chip short of actually poisoning yourself.

In general though, detective novels -- at least the ones that follow in the hard boiled tradition -- do highlight the corruption that money brings with it. For that reason alone, they're worth reading as cultural objects. Why is it that a large segment of our popular fiction holds as a basic premise that wealth and power are naturally at odds with democracy and fair play? Given that basic premise, why is it that these novels, consumed by a vast swath of the reading public, seem to provide little motivation to strike out against the jobbing of the system? Really, the better question is why do these novels, that take such a populist stance against the wealth and power of our society's elites, achieve such success within a reading public that seems complacent and accepting of the abuses of wealth and power by the real-life elites? Or perhaps we don't actually believe that wealth influences the direction of the wheels of justice, that people -- even government employees -- can be bought off, or that power provides privileges inaccessible to the run of the mill American.

What good is a vicarious wish-fulfillment of revenge against the elites when in real life we perpetuate the system that allows such abuse? Literature is essentially a field of play, where multiple realities can be explored and either embraced or rejected. Often where our current realities can be replaced by idealized and impossibly removed realities (esp. in fantasy and romance). Mystery fiction is often no different -- the worlds in which the detective finds himself are portrayed as outside the norm, almost to the extent that they become nightmarish fantasylands in which the only rule is the rule of money. The detective straddles the playground of the rich world and the everyday working world -- the authentic world in most detective fiction -- and we are led to that very conclusion that the realities of the rich are simply not ours and don't adhere to our rules of fair play -- whereas of course we always do.

So we let the detective rail against that world for a few hundred pages and generally reach -- at least in our contemporary era -- some sort of victory against the forces of wealth and power, and then we go on with our lives. Fitter. Happier. More Productive.

And all because I couldn't see myself sitting on the beach trying to concentrate on Cixous.

Midnight sadness

As it nears the end of the season along the delmarva peninsula -
basically from Rehoboth on down to Ocean City - the surf shops hold
these things they call midnight madness sales, at which deep discounts
are taken on all summer merchandise; after all, Labor Day more or less
spells the death of the summer torrent of easy dollars rolling in from
the tourists looking to feel "authentic" for their week at the beach.

I usually try to hit these sales, mainly because the clothes I buy will
comprise the bulk of my April through September wardrobe, and because
the last set of swimtrunks - or I mean "boardshorts" - that I bought
were from 2003 and it gets tedious wearing the same pair day in day out.
Oh yeah - and I want to feel "authentic" for my week at the beach.

Anyway, tonight I happened to be in Rehoboth, so I ventured down to
Dewey for East of Maui's sale. I hadn't been in this shop since I was a
kid, and tonight made me realize that I hadn't missed a thing. It is
hands down the worst surf shop I've been in for several years. For
starters, they're more of a kayak store than a surf shop, and once
you've experienced the horrible shorebreak of south Rehoboth and Dewey
Beach, you'll understand why. The two foot waves don't break until they
hit the rocky sand of the shoreline, meaning you can't ride these waves
on anything but a skimboard.

There's absolutely no excuse for a surf shop to exist under such
conditions. Now down by the Indian River inlet you'd have an excuse or
even in Ocean City, where the waves, small though thay may be, at least
have the decency to break a reasonable distance from the shore.

Day 2 Report

Most of the idiots here in OCMD couldn't ride a wave if the lifeguards
were handing out free SmarTrip cards. And I'm not talking about surfing;
I'm talking about body surfing or using a body board. It's really
pathetic.

On the other hand, it's a good thing we've got a whaling ban in place,
because nothing brings the obesity problem in America out clearer than a
day at the beach, where several visitors resemble well-oiled, if not
well-plucked Butterball turkeys.

No one out there would mistake me for a paragon of fitness, but at least
I don't use up an entire bottle of suntan lotion trying to cover my
surface area.

We continue to sleepwalk through nightmares.

I made the mistake of reading through Charles "Kill 'em All" Krauthammer's column in the Post today. Krauthammer's main point, if you can call it that, is that Israeli Prime Minister Olmert didn't authorize enough force -- in the form of an all-out ground assault -- in the fight against Hezbollah, a fight that Krauthammer, true to his myopic track record, characterizes as the new prime front in the "clash of civilizations" between the West and the radical Islamic world.

Well, there's nothing new about Hezbollah and really, I think, Krauthammer's true agenda is that he's still fighting the Cold War, except now the Soviet Union has been replaced by the Islamic militants. He tells us as much through his opening anecdote:

At critical moments in the past, Israel has indeed shown its value. In 1970 Israeli military moves against Syria saved King Hussein and the moderate pro-American Hashemite monarchy of Jordan. In 1982 American-made Israeli fighters engaged the Syrian air force, shooting down 86 MiGs in one week without a single loss, revealing a shocking Soviet technological backwardness that dealt a major blow to Soviet prestige abroad and self-confidence among its elites at home (including Politburo member Mikhail Gorbachev).

So basically, Israel functioned as the pawn in a much larger game between two superpowers. And I'll give him that -- US support for Israel has much to do with its position near all the oil. Krauthammer continues that analogy in this latest conflict, where Hezbollah stands in for all of radical Islam -- but especially Iran, the neocons' favorite next target now that Iraq has soured on them -- and Israel stands for the West. He calls it a "proxy war," which is entirely indicative of his mindset and completely beside the point. In fact, it ignores the entire history of the region since the creation of Israel and more particularly since the invasion of Lebanon in 1982.

Hezbollah was formed in 1985. That's 21 years ago. We were still funding the Sunni-dominated Iraqi regime of Saddam Hussein and providing him with logistical support in his chemical weapons program. Perhaps that might help explain the Shia antipathy toward US...that and maybe decades of support for the ruthless totalitarianism of the Shah of Iran. Anyway, it's all water under the bridge and for the neocons, historical memory is very shallow indeed.

In fact, in Krauthammer's world, Israel is being supported -- if privately -- by the "moderate" regimes of Egypt, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia. Is Krauthammer nuts? Well, yes, he is, but that doesn't keep the Post and other papers from printing his rantings. Get a read on this:

The moderate pro-Western Arabs understand this very clearly. Which is why Egypt, Saudi Arabia and Jordan immediately came out against Hezbollah and privately urged the United States to let Israel take down that organization. They know that Hezbollah is fighting Iran's proxy war not only against Israel but also against them and, more generally, against the United States and the West.

Like most neocons, Krauthammer consistently falls back on the old falsehood that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. This line of thinking kept Pinochet in power -- even after his secret police carbombed a dissident right here in Washington, DC -- and kept the Shah in power; it funded Osama bin Laden and Saddam Hussein; it propped up Apartheid and gave crucial support to the death squads in Guatemala (under John Negroponte's watch). So now Krauthammer wants us to see the authoritarian regimes in these countries as our friends. So the Egyptian government jails its political opponents and features strong anti-semitic television programming as "entertainment." So the Saudis adhere to Wahhabism, a version of Islam that holds that all non-believers, including non-Wahhabi muslims, are infidels -- incidentally a belief system shared by Osama bin Laden and most of his buddies in al-Qaeda.

Oh, and speaking of al Qaeda, Krauthammer brushes that threat away: "With al-Qaeda in decline, Iran is on the march." Well, thank goodness we don't have to worry about that nasty Osama anymore. Apparently, that terrorist movement just withered away.

Krauthammer should realize that Israel's actions, far from damaging Hezbollah, have done nothing but strengthen it. Continued attacks on civilians -- and a ground war will only augment that aspect of the current conflict -- only undermines Israel's claims that it's either better than the terrorists its fighting or that it's actually only interested in Hezbollah. With each child killed via an airstrike or artillery shell, the chances that Hezbollah becomes the dominant force in Lebanon increases. That's a frightening prospect.

Pre-Vacation Jonesing.

I am going on vacation in less than 48 hours, meaning that sometime during the wee hours (OK probably around 6 a.m.) on Saturday, we will load the car, pile the sleeping children into the car, and head east on Route 50 for the glory that is Ocean City, Maryland. Sometime around 9 a.m., we will cross the Route 90 bridge and see the strip of high rises to the north and the low slung buildings, each year dotted more and more with higher buildings, to the south. Our son, if he's awake, will begin to talk about all the miniature golf courses he wants to play. Our daughter, if she's awake, will probably be crying because she's been in the car so long. We'll eat some breakfast, maybe at the Sahara or the Satellite, then it'll be beach time...

But I still have two days to work before that happens. It's difficult to get motivated when you're anticipating some time off, but it's also the time when you need to concentrate the most, since you'll be leaving your work for an extended period and don't want to look bad for not completing projects. Can't concentrate. Must concentrate.

Anyway, I will be revelling all week in the cultural morass that is Ocean City, land where the mullet never died (other than Canada of course). I will see immensely large people load up on the large size Thrasher Fries. I will see angsty (or maybe just horny) high school kids and college freshmen sitting on the boardwalk strumming their acoustics in the damp nighttime breeze. I will see many moronic traffic maneuvers completed by individuals who should have their licenses revoked for being too stupid to drive. I will lament once again that Days Inn swallowed up the French Quarter motel, a true dive, and turned the once sparsely populated and inexpensive bar into some travesty called, of all things, "The Dungeon," which while it seems would be a fetish S and M bar, or at least a Goth bar, actually subtitles itself a sports bar.

Would you go into a sports bar named "The Dungeon"? No, I wouldn't either. I'd wonder what sort of sports they were talking about and be half afraid it was something like "Medieval Times," where you'd have some jousting tournament in the middle of trying to get your drink on.

Jesus, the sooner I get a box of claws in me the better.

Long story with a brief point.

Yesterday I went to get my car inspected. At least that was what I left the house to do, since inspection is due in about two and a half weeks and we were going to be out of town next week. However, on my way over to the wonderful DC inspection center I sort of figured out that the car probably wouldn't pass inspection with its passenger side mirror sheared off at the base.

So I called the dealership and got the car out to Brown's Honda where the problem was remedied quick fast in a hurry and I got the oil change and servicing that was due anyway. And seriously, it was only half past ten. I stopped for a drink and threw some change in the Honda's built-in change tray for the parking meter later on.

I got to the inspection center down on Half Street SW and sat in the line that came out to the curb. But hey, I was sitting in air conditioned splendor just thinking about how crappy this queue must be for the environment with all of us sitting there in our idling cars cranking up the A/C. I felt real bad though for the woman who rode up behind me on her motorcycle, because she had the full thick padded gear that looks like a winter coat. The DMV guys took pity on her, thankfully, and let her cut to the head of the line after making her sweat a while.

As for me, I finally got into the place where you leave your car with the inspectors. I don't know how many personnel were in my car. No less than three. Maybe as high as six. There was pulling forward and backing up, running the car onto some skids and hitting the brakes sharply. More pulling forward. More backing up. Then they pulled it into another bay and a different driver repeated the maneuvers.

So I leave and I drive to my office and hunt for parking -- I probably drive the car to work about once or twice a year. I simply see no point in living in the city and driving a car to work. Maybe if I carried a microwave with me everywhere I went or was in some remote location, but we're talking Adams Morgan and Foggy Bottom here.

But here's the point of the story: I got to the metered parking spot and pulled in, then I went to the little built-in change container and it's empty. Utterly, completely, bereft of any sort of coin. Twice that morning I had actually thrown a few quarters in on top of the ones that were already there, so I know that it had had meter change in there. Not anymore.

Some asshole at the Inspection Center helped themselves to my change. The asshole probably got about $2.50 in quarters, nickels, and dimes, so I hope he or she got a nice bottle of coke or two with it.

I did a once-over the rest of the car and discovered thankfully that my iPod was still there, the few CDs we have in the glove box were still there, and my bag still contained its checkbook -- and yes I counted the checks.