I don*t hate the West, oh no!

How could I? I love Zwieback and Freedom, I love Baseball Caps and Fish and Chips, I love Los Angeles and David Foster Wallace. This is a thin line, Bobby said, we were sitting at the Don Xuan Center in Berlin-Lichtenberg, sipping Vietnamese Coffee, which is dripping into some very sweet sort of milk from a small metall can, and talking, among other things, about the Vietnamese habit of getting married and hair-styles. I knew what he meant, and I did not resent him saying it. He was wearing the cap he bought in Telluride at a fishing store, it was light blue and had a fish in front. What is the thin line though? And what is it seperating? Right from wrong? Is there a certain distance of critique of the West that you can go – and after that it becomes, what, criminal, wrong, reactionary? I like talking with Bobby about these things, although today he seemed distracted. He said that Moritz was fancying the waitress, he was thinking ahead to his trip to Munich, he said something about visiting the IAA, the car exhibition in Frankfurt. What? Well, whatever. But hate of the West?! It is sometimes hard to read Bobby, but he has generally a good instinct. So what does he mean? Just turning the tables, looking from the outside in, taking other positions seriously? Is that enough? Bobby himself admires certain sceptics of the West, from Heidegger to JG Ballard and back. How thin is the line? Is it a red line? Bobby, you look good in your baseball cap.