Albert Speer: His Battle With Truth

Albert Speer: His Battle With Truth, by Gitta Sereny.  Albert Speer, as Adolf Hitler's architect, designed many of the gargantuan architectural monstrosities of the Third Reich and orchestrated some of the massive and spectacularly eerie Nazi rallies, such as the 1934 Nuremberg Party Congress, which as been dubbed *The Cathedral Of Light.*  However Speer's greatest contribution to Nazi Germany came when Hitler appointed him Reichminister of Armaments and Munitions.  Speer used his organizational genius to keep the Nazi war machine running full throttle long after it became obvious Germany could not win WWII.  Sereny's biography examines Speer's accomplishments in these areas, but, of course, as in any account of a high-ranking Nazi, it is his relationship with Hitler and his knowledge (or lack of knowledge) of *The Final Solution to the Jewish Question* that becomes the dominant area of inquiry.

Today, when one hears the term *revisionism* in association with Nazi Germany, one immediately thinks of those strange little lunatic fringe historians who insist through their poorly written pamphlets that the mass extermination of the Jews did not take place.  But there is another form of *revisionism* as well. Perhaps the most valuable contribution of Sereny's 800 page biography (first published in 1995) is that it corrects the commonly accepted revisionist error that Nazi Germany is solely to blame for the mass murder of the Jews.  While Germany must perform an endless penance, the other guilty parties have never truly faced their responsibility for their crimes against humanity. This is one of the privileges of being on the winning side of war.  So while it is true, of course, Germany must accept the overwhelming majority of guilt, it is also true other nations, including America, England and Switzerland, must also be held accountable—for they denied Hitler his *first solution* to the Jewish question.  As Hitler wrote in Mein Kampf, and continued to advocate for most of the 1930s, his preference was to deport all Jews from Nazi territory.  But as Sereny notes:

Developments between the late 1930s and the beginning of the war in Russia led Hitler to the dreadful Final Solution of his problem.  The first, recognized before the outbreak of war, was that, given the refusal of other nations to accept anything but minimal numbers of Jewish immigrants, an enforced total emigration of Jews from Greater Germany would be impossible.  Alternative means would have to be found to get them out of Germany (p. 251-252).   

And even in the actual murder of Jews, the first mass killings were not done by Germans, but by Lithuanians and Ukrainians.  As Nazi Germay rolled through the Baltic countries:

They found that there were in these countries many wildly anti-Semitic locals thrilled to have license to kill Jews.  While this in no way diminishes Hitler's responsibility, it now seems probable that the first wholesale killing, particularly of women and children, began in the Baltics and was welcomed but not originated by the Germans.  It started the night of June 25 - 26, 1941 in Kovno, Lithuania's second city, four days after the Germans invaded (p. 254).

These Lithuanians:

With encouragement but without German cooperation launched the first post-occupation pogrom in Kovno on the night of June 25, in the course of which the killings began.  By the end of July these men had proved themselves so effective that the German command organized them into what ended up being twenty police battalions.  About 8400 men, all volunteers, were charged with the wholesale murder of the Lithuanian Jews, under the supervision but not necessarily active participation of the Eleventh Battalion of the German Reserve Police.  These particular Lithuanian units were considered so outstanding that by the end of 1941, by which time all but a fraction of Lithuania's 265,000 Jews had been killed, they were posted to Belorussia and then Poland to continue their work.  Thus, most significantly, it was the Lithuanians on their home ground who, one might say, pioneered the killing of women and children.  In Kovno, German SS Gruppenfuhrer Friedrich Jecklin, taken aback by the ruthlessness of the Lithuanian units which, he reported, surpassed anything the Germans had so far envisaged, ordered films to be made of the Lithuanian actions so as to 'make clear it was the local population who spontaneously took the first steps against the Jews' (p. 255).

Unfortunately, however, Sereny's book fails in its essential form: as biography of the man Albert Speer.  Sereny was a European journalist who had largely made her career by investigating and researching Nazi Germany.  Though undeniably an outstanding and fair historian, she has one glaring weakness, and it is a weakness which, in the final analysis, ruins her biography of Speer.  And it is the same weakness that was evident in her earlier and better *Nazi book* about Treblinka kommandant Franz Stangl, Into That Darkness: Sereny insists her subjects are lying if they do not confess to the sins which she judges them guilty. Thus, Albert Speer: His Battle With Truth is reduced to Gitta Sereny's Battle With Truth, for in Albert Speer, Sereny repeatedly states as fact, without offering a shred of evidence, that Speer knew of *The Final Solution,* though Speer always maintained he was not aware until the Nurember War Crimes trial (indeed, there are eyewitnesses who have given sworn affidavits that Speer was not at the 6 October 1943 assembly of Nazi Party Ministers at which Heinrich Himmler revealed *The Final Solution* to the Nazi Party hierarchy.  The purpose of this meeting:

Was part of Hitler's determination to make sure that his supporters were all implicated in the catastrophe he was bringing on Germany.  Hitler had told his closest army advisors months before that the 'bridges behind us are burnt,' but he now charged Himmler with making the most faithful in the party privy to the guilty knowledge (p. 388).

At Nuremberg, Speer readily admitted his guilt that:

As Reichminister for Armaments and Munitions he bore responsibility for the decision to recruit by force, and for the use under brutal, inhumane and degrading conditions of foreign civilians and prisoners of war in the manufacture of armaments and Munitions, the construction of fortifications, and in active military operations (p. 303).

For this crime, Speer was sentenced to twenty years imprisonment.  Speer also accepted guilt in a general sense for the crime against the Jews, because, as he always maintained when asked about *The Final Solution,* he "should have known, he could have known, but he hadn't known."

He knew Jews were being transported from all over Europe, and he sensed "dreadful things were happening" (p. 706), but he always maintained, and with a high degree of support from the available historical records, he was never aware of the specifics of those "dreadful things."  

This is not enough for Sereny, who harangued Speer throughout their four year collaboration for a confession to knowledge of the gas chambers.  What is most revealing in this book is Sereny's surprise at one of her final letters from Speer in which he stated:

He had been terribly hurt by my article, he had expected me to have a different attitude from all 'those others' who had been trying for so long to 'catch him out and pass judgment' on him.  The question of his 'knowledge' was absolutely central to his life, he said, and it was a great disappointment to find that after all the time we spent together, I had tried to accuse him of 'knowledge' without mentioning any of his counter-arguments (p. 709).

Sereny's surprise at Speer's reactions shows her to be as blind to her own peculiar *historian's vanity* as Speer was blind to the "dreadful things." 

Layne Staley: Death Of A Hollow Man

Layne Staley, the 34-year-old lead singer of the grunge band Alice In Chains, lay dead for two weeks in his Seattle apartment before his stinking decomposed corpse, surrounded by heroin paraphernalia, was discovered by a relative on 19 April 2002.  Mr. Staley was a knock-off Kurt Cobain, an imitation of the Nirvana original created by Columbia Records to grab some grunge cash.  Whatever one thought of the hapless suicide Cobain (who was never as disdainful of *Stardom* as he claimed to be), it cannot be denied that his personal life was rooted in, and his musical ambitions were true to the aimless , depressed Northwest White Trash culture which spawned the Seattle sound that dominated American music from the late 1980s through the mid 1990s.  Mr. Staley, on the other hand, appeared more typical of most young American males who seek a *career* in music: Staley simply wanted to be *famous.*  And to that end, he would ape (skillfully, it must be admitted, for Staley was a fine mimic and crafted an effective grunge snarl/wail) whatever style was in fashion.

Cobain never *became* grunge. . .Cobain was Cobain, and grunge was, in large part, just the co-opting reaction of Seattle scenesters to Cobain.  The scenesters came from the same doleful culture as Cobain, but didn't have any talent or poetry of their own, so they co-opted Cobain's, which, of course, cheapened the whole scene, much like pseudo-punks in Britain co-opted Johnny Rotten's authentic punk expression in the 1970s.  Layne Staley *became* grunge because Columbia Records told him it was the thing to do if he wanted to become famous.  Prior to transitioning to grunge, Layne Staley was a laughable figure, a frosted front man named Candy Layne for the homoerotic glam hair band Sleze, whose trademark song was titled Lipstick Rock.  The A&R folks at Columbia ordered Staley to cut his hair and wipe off the rouge and lipstick and buy some plaid shirts.

Unfortunately for Layne, once he achieved his life's ambition, to become famous, he had no genuine identity to sustain himself. So once again, he simply followed fashion.  What do famous grunge vocalists do?  Heroin.  Staley got hooked and could never beat it.  How could he?  What could this Hollow Man call upon?  Nothing.  Kurt Cobain became as big a *star* as there was in the music industry, he ascended to the heights, and still found nothing to burn away the depression of life in America—but he did retain his own authentic identity and the ability to choose a course of action: he killed himself.  To Cobain, better to be dead than live in the phony atmosphere his music created.  The poor fellow was too talented for his own good, his music made him bigger than anything his poor depressed Northwest White Trash spirit could handle.  One could imagine Cobain living happily on only if he hadn't been so successful, if he had been, say, the Lemmy Kilmister of grunge.

As for Layne Staley, once he became a *star* and then embraced heroin out of fashion, he lacked the ability to take control of his life because his life was never truly his own.  He spent his few adult years role playing.  So Staley simply existed as an *star* for six or seven long years as a pathetic addict.  Wild rumors surfaced from time-to-time, such as the one depicting Staley living like a grunge Howard Hughes, isolated in a fleabag hotel with only a few trusted aids to bring him his daily dose of smack, wasting away to nothing, with a needle-scarred arm as hideous as that of Harry Goldfarb's in Requiem For A Dream.  The truth turned out to be quite a bit less colorful.  Staley lived a comfortable addict's life in a comfortable north Seattle apartment.

In the end, Staley couldn't ape Cobain one last time by committing suicide.  That action requires a certain kind of honest self-awareness and inner resolve that the chameleon Staley never developed.  So Layne Staley loitered about for 6 or 7 years, doing nothing, simply existing, like some Bartelby with a monkey on his back.  In the end, Staley died an addict's natural death, another burned-out *star* collapsing into eternal blackness. 

Detroit Sports Spectacular

A couple of weeks ago, in an attempt to *have fun,* I attended the Motor City Comic Con. It was mildly amusing. Pleasant. At the low end of the fun scale. This past weekend the same venue hosted the Detroit Sports Spectacular. I thought to myself: I might as well go. I might as well try again to *have fun.*

The Detroit Sports Spectacular featured vendors selling trading cards (the most expensive one I saw was an old Babe Ruth card priced at $15000), autographed helmets, jerseys, balls, pucks and other assorted memorabilia. 25 athletes also appeared in person to sign autographs and pose (clothed) for photographs with fans. The list of celebrity athletes was of a higher rank than the celebrity entertainers at the Comic Con. There were many Hall of Famers and current A List athletes. But despite the impressive array of jocks, the attendance at the Sports Spectacular was considerably lower. At best, the Sports Spectacular had 1/4 the number of guests as the Comic Con. Well, that suited me just fine. Far more breathing room, shorter concession stand lines, and empty urinals in the shitters. Less people is always better, except at the nude beach.

One of the big name jocks signing autographs and posing (clothed) for photos was "Mr. October," former Oakland A's and New York Yankees legend and frequent World Series Hero Reggie Jackson.  Reggie is now 79-years-old.  More "Mr. December" than "Mr. October."  He appeared quite frail.  I have no doubt I could easily blow three fastballs past him, and I did consider challenging him, but charitably decided against embarrassing him in front of the fans.  I was surprised so many fanatics were willing to spend $180 to get a photo or autograph when they could just wait a few months and go get a free picture with him at his gravestone.

On the other hand, 64-year-old Dennis Rodman still looked sprightly and ready to party all night long with Kim Jong Un.  The Worm was asking *only* $99 for a picture or signature.  Not surprisingly, white women of all ages seemed eager to stand near the African-American wild man.

The most popular guest at the Detroit Sports Spectacular was legendary National Championship winning University of Michigan and current Minnesota Vikings quarterback J.J. McCarthy.  J.J. commanded a hefty $200 per photo and autograph, which must have pleased the attractive young lady who accompanied him.  Another Hermès bag on the way, no doubt.  McCarthy, clad in cap worn backwards, was in good spirits, smiling and energetic with all his admirers, particularly this broad who was literally bursting from her maize-colored Michigan crop top.  It's good to be a *star* QB.

All-in-all, a little more *fun* than the Motor City Comic Con.  A suggestion for next year's show: maybe get some of the sexy girl athletes, Olivia Dunne, Cameron Brink, Jordyn Huitema, etc.

World Book Of He/Shes

World Book Of He/Shes, 2025 Edition, edited by Jim Gonad: Exhaustive compendium of notable he/shes compiled by leading transvestigation researcher Jim Gonad. Also included is an introductory chapter explaining the various rituals associated with the Elite Gender Inversion process performed on he/shes targeted by groups such as The Process Church, Bohemian Grove, Daughters of the American Revolution, Las Poule Mouillée and the Hollywood Media Complex. This fascinating book is chock-full of the shocking trans secrets of elite boy/girls such as:

Michelle Obama (“the He/She Queen is a dominant top with an insatiable appetite for submissive white bottoms”). 

Jamie Lee Curtis ("Paramount Studios pioneering efforts in the trans-formation of America began with their 1984 film Trading Places with the casting of trans addict Eddie Murphy and Curtis.  Similar efforts took place in Europe with Penta Films/ADC casting Curtis' 'sister,' fellow he/she Kelly Curtis in The Devil's Daughter").

Jennifer Lopez ("Jefe Lopez was discovered by Keenan Ivory Wayans dancing at a West Village foam party in 1990.  Wayans renamed and regendered Jefe as Jennifer and cast 'her' as a Fly Girl on In Living Color").

Taylor Swift ("the NFL originally wanted the pop he/she phenom to beard for its biggest homosexual star Aaron Rodgers, but at their initial rehearsal Swift was repulsed by Rodgers body odor.  The NFL, however, realized the amazing star power of Swift, and came up with an entirely new script.  They cast Kansas City Chiefs effeminate tight end Travis Kelce as the lesbian Taylor's beard, made Swift the 'leading man' and, voila!, overnight the NFL had an entrée into the nonbinary audience").

Barbara Bush ("homosexual Yale cheerleader George Bush needed a woman by his side to continue the family's political dynasty. Father George H.W. Bush, familiar with Project Monarch from his days in the CIA, recruited early Monarch trans Barbara, the former Robert Pierce.  The primitive hormone therapies and cosmetic procedures were evident in Barbara's mannish appearance"). 

Kelly McGillis ("Tom Cruise's favorite 'top gun' was a product of the Juilliard School's secret Ordo Hermaphroditus"). 

Well-documented, eye-opening account of the world's most famous he/shes.

Clown From Beyond The Stars

Clown From Beyond The Stars, by E.J. Nubbins: According to this dubious biography of fat funnyman Jackie Gleason, the obese *star* of The Honeymooners may have truly been from the beyond the stars, an alien being planted on earth by ETs to serve as a goodwill ambassador.  Nubbins *builds* his flimsy case around such *evidence* as Jackie's famed frequent Honeymooners threat to send his sitcom wife "to the moon," the fact that he built his house to resemble a flying saucer and named it The Mother Ship, and on the documented case of Gleason's Top Secret 1973 visit to Homestead Air Force Base, which was reportedly ordered by the gluttonous Gleason's close friend, President Richard Nixon. Nubbins proceeds to expand upon the facts with this highly speculative embellishment: Nixon sent Gleason, the Zeta Reticuli ambassador, to help arrange the friendly deportation of a captured alien (p. 66).  According to Nubbins, Gleason's second wife, Beverly McKittrick also believed Gleason was an alien.  The evidence: his testicles were the size of green peas (p. 83).  Like most UFO/Alien literature, this book lacks objectivity and logic, but is entertaining nonsense, nonetheless.

The Beach

The Beach, by Alex Garland: A bored limey Gen Xer travels around the world because he can find nothing better to do.  In Thailand, he runs into a mysterious figure who babbles incoherently about a legendary beach paradise populated by bohemian drop-outs.  The mysterious guy then kills himself, but not before leaving the limey with a map to the beach.  The opening of the novel, when the limey learns of the beach and then hooks up with a French couple to make the journey, is extremely well done—moody, with dark foreshadows of ménage à trois conflicts and a Garden of Eden-type fall. Unfortunately, once the plot reaches the beach, nothing of interest happens. The story drags through page after page of tedious description of the tedious beach life, before completely collapsing with a ridiculous out-of-left-field climax that is an absurd cross between Apocalypse Now and The Night of the Living Dead.

Bully

Bully, by Jim Schutze: A fat teenage girl lies naked on her bed, fantasizing about the semi-nude male hunks pictured on the posters which adorn her white trash bedroom walls.  The horny chubette aches to have a real flesh-and-blood boyfriend.  Unfortunately, she gets one.  A boy named Marty.  Marty has sex with her.  And beats her.  And ridicules her about her weight.  But the fat girl loves Marty.  She blames Marty's less-than-gentlemanly behavior on Marty's best friend, Bobby.  Bobby is even more of a bully than Marty.  Bobby and Marty *pump iron* together in a gym.  Marty is Bobby's punching bag when Bobby is having a steroid-induced homo-erotic rage—which is about every other day.  Bobby abuses Marty, Marty abuses fat girl.  Light bulb goes on in Fatty's head: what if Bobby was dead?  Then it would be: Marty and Fatty sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g, or so Fatty reasons.  So Fatty sets about assembling a *dream team* of mall rat killers: Marty, Mortal Kombat arcade slacker, two white trash teen girl prostitutes who whore for CDs, clothes and movie money, and a high school drop-out gangsta-wannabe who has to sneak out of his bedroom window the night of the murder (so mom won't get mad).  The juvenile delinquent posse gather at the local strip mall Pizza Hut to plan the murder—with only Fatty & Marty really taking it seriously.  The others, well, one of the teen prostitute girls "was excited.  Bobby was an asshole.  It was like witchcraft.  It wouldn't really happen.  But it would be fun" (p.97).  But then the murder really did happen, and Bobby's body was left for gator food in a South Florida canal.  When the nitwit punks were (quickly) caught by the police, none of them seemed to realize that, like, murder was a biggie.  Fatty was especially appalled that she had to stay in jail: "Why am I in here?  How come I'm not out?" she asks her lawyer.  He replies: "You are in here on a capital murder charge."  To which Fatty responds: "So what?  I mean, I've been in here for three months.  I've done the jail thing.  So what's the point in just keeping me here?" (p.250).  This true crime classic (which was later decently filmed by American teen connoisseur Larry Clark) thoroughly documents the total depravity of American youth: imbecilic creatures of pure carnality, for whom life has no value, and its only meaning is found in materialistic and hedonistic pursuits.