Category Archives: Great Books

Our Arc

Boomers came of age and enjoyed the hell out of the American Century. We thrived during its apex. No apologies!
We hoped to pass this plateau along to subsequent generations of Americans then watch them continue what had been “American Exceptionalism.” Why, maybe they could launch a Second American Century. Instead, Boomers get to witness the abrupt end of the nation’s once undisputed prominence.

Yes, there was once such a phenomenon as the American Century. Some might consider that view self-grandiosity. Certainly, the envious, jealous populaces who crowd the planet beyond our shores would plainly complain of our at times of light hogging grandeur upon the stage. Grandeur, yes. Thankfully, our still young Republic has yet to mature into hauteur.

We’re not France.

Our ascendence came much too soon. The previous holders of global preeminence needed several centuries until their cultures and societies could clamber and preen as recognized and respected dominators. The United States never climbed to the summit. After initial reluctance, and the decay of Old Powers which led to their dissolution, American found herself spying an opportune spot. The catbird seat. Into which she vaulted. No rivals. No contenders. Athwart the world alone.

In the first quarter of the past century, American opportunists behaved in a manner their sail and wagon train forebearers would’ve recognized. Heedlessly. Post Colonial Americans invented and chased the notion of Manifest Destiny from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The seafarers among them skipped maritime protocols in pursuit of overseas markets.

Both landlubbers and seadogs were hellbent. On land pioneers nearly eradicated the native people and tried devilishly hard to expand slavery into “virgin” territories. At sea, only America ships ever left harbor already under full sail, eager to reach the next port, the next opportunity for commerce and the wealth it could bestow.

The older, more established societies saw those 19th century Americans as uncouth. Okay. They were.

Their 20th century successors were better educated, more refined after a fashion, but they retained the earlier generations’ rambunctious nature. It burnished American self-image immensely. Not only had they rescued a crumbling Old World but also escaped the Great War unscathed. Nonetheless, a sizable, vocal, ardent portion of then Americans preferred their familiar corner to striding upon the world stage. For better or worse, depending who was asked, Americans themselves, those who America “saved,” or those America subjugated under the pretense of “saving,” World War II ended this nation’s preference for global aloofness.

Again, exiting another global conflagration unscathed instilled in our adolescent country a new, bigger sense of itself. Let’s imagine how inflating the effect of rescuing the civilized world a second time inside a score of years might affect those who’d managed the deed. No doubt those Americans considered themselves all but bulletproof. Yes, they were omniscient. Therefore, why not add omnipresence?

During the 80 years of our Atomic Age, the United States has built an empire whose all-reaching extent has surpassed those of the Romans, Mongols, and British combined. How many generations around the world know nothing but Yankee dominance? Thankfully for most of this epoch ours has been a benign rule. Americans have somehow been fortunate enough to have had leaders and systems which were seldom overbearing. For the most part, they didn’t chafe the softly ruled into arousal.

If only the disintegrated Soviet Union had offered Levis besides Lenin, might it still exist today?

Although the polarized world that marked Boomer lives has become multifaceted, thus shed of its black/white absolutes only separated through gradients of gray, and the non-aligned can no longer being ignored, “American rule” seemed poised to navigate sometimes turbulent seas and manipulate restive peoples to theirs and, of course, our advantages.

Say this for the evolution of American statesmanship, long a hard slog as it’s been, we’ve gradually elected, nominated, confirmed, appointed men and women who see the world as it presents itself and the people within those spheres as they wish to be seen. Until now.

We’ve fallen backwards. Present leadership sees much of the old days favorably. It was period that possessed too many Americans in the solid thrall of jingoism and chauvinism. Then, Americans saw the more “exotic” others as however we wanted. Outside of willful blindness, that left a lot of room for wild misinterpretation.

As its revival will today repeat.

Americans either confused movements or never bothered differentiating them throughout the mid-20th century. Nationalist aspirations elsewhere the United States ought have regarded as mirror homages to our own Revolution were mistaken as tenacles of communism. If these turned red it’s because obstinate arrogant Americans drove them into welcoming embraces.

A favorite piece of either unknown or suppressed American history involves Ho Chi Minh. Long before he embodied what Americans believed just another “yellow devil,” he resided and worked for a time in Brooklyn USA. During Ho’s years in the Borough of Churches, he found much to admire in American life. A natural progression had Ho return to French Indochina. There, he sparked a Vietnam for Vietnamese movement. That’s nationalism, not communism. Just ask the Irish.

Who knows how World War II delayed or sped the inevitability of Vietnam? Throughout Southeast Asia, really.

Afterwards, when it would’ve been a fine moment for the exhausted European colonial masters to reassess the worth and effort behind maintaining overseas territories, thereby conceding notions of “empire,” they instead returned intending to restoring these outposts as “white man’s lands.”

Having watched the Japanese humiliate the “masters,” be assured the locals in the French, Dutch, or English colonies didn’t hesitate to deliver Round Twos. Which was just. The native peoples wanted self-determination.

It’s still astounding that no American in authority at the time saw the obvious parallels between aspiring people (you know, the yearning to be free kind) in mid-century African or Asian European colonies and us. Journalists and writers, surely. While The Quiet American (1955) by Graham Greene is the reflexive go-to in this instance, the real reference book should be The Ugly American. In this 1958 Eugene Burdick and William Lederer novel, the observations are better and prescient. If there were any independent minds in the State Department or heavy-duty academics holding contrary views, hiding behind the facade of McCarthy Era groupthink kept them safely in line.

The invented Cold War bugaboos did a good job of distracting from the true menace – the Soviet Union. Through our skewed lenses, we saw a lot of independence seeking nations as Moscow proxies. We transformed them into Moscow proxies. We pushed them towards Moscow’s phony benevolence and strings attached benefits.

America and the West may be repeating earlier follies through Donald Trump. The Convict will be the exclamation point that concludes the American Century.

While Felon No. 1 won’t return the United States to the same degree of isolationism that swaddled our nation until World War II, he is nowhere in the internationalist vein as every president since FDR. That will be bad for America … and the world.

Copyright (C) 2025 by Slow Boat Media LLC

Random December

This last post of 2024 could be an homage to John Dos Passos. The early Dos Passos. Before life soured him rightward into becoming a reactionary. Until then, let’s consider him a “lost generation” writer alongside Ernest Hemingway. As did Hemingway, Dos Passos also reported from Spain during its 1936-39 Civil War. There’s where the pair diverged. Before the war, Dos Passos had established solid progressive cred with his 1925 novel Manhattan Transfer. He followed that with his USA trilogy (titles published in 1930, 1932, 1936, respectively) comprised of The 42nd Parallel, 1919, and The Big Money. Throughout his USA fiction, he dropped in biographical elements and reportage. No need for fiction in 2024. Just real life that should sicken conscientious Americans. What follows has been plucked from a month of Slow Boat Media social media observations and commentary. It is who we’ve allowed ourselves to become. Continue reading Random December

We Have Plenty Yet We Are Poorer

As has been written elsewhere, Thanksgiving is the best of all American holidays. It commemorates nothing. Especially now that the indigenous North American people are letting the rest of us know they regard the arrival of Europeans on these shores as a parasitic invasion.

Columbus Day, anybody? Continue reading We Have Plenty Yet We Are Poorer

Useless Clouds

August is the Mojave Desert’s most challenging month.

While unavoidably sweltering, it’s generally less torrid than July. August actually starts letting residents kind of imagine autumnal respite in ways July absolutely forbids.

Until the last several summers, July counted as the “monsoon month.” Indeed, rain in quantifiable measures wetted if not outright soaked this region. Away from Las Vegas in the desert proper one might’ve believed he or she heard the parched dirt greedily gulp whatever rain had fallen. Continue reading Useless Clouds

Precipitating Violence

Why, Americans randomly shooting ourselves has become so common the sting that once pierced us, the outrage which once consumed us upon hearing the news, has dulled. That news has gotten short-lived, too.

Quickly now, name the last wanton outbreak of death delivered by an asocial man who’s shattered a peaceful day with his assault rifle. One we’ve foolishly permitted him to possess. Perhaps killings are occurring or will occur while you read this. Doubtlessly shortly thereafter then. Continue reading Precipitating Violence

New Start at New Address

Those Metropolitan Museum of Art bulletins are having an insidious effect. They remind of what’s been left behind. That’s why I’m already looking ahead to August 2015 for a return to New York.

Of course one upside regarding this move to Nevada is finally being able to enter contests whose grand prizes are all-expense paid trips to New York City. Before, sponsors never failed stuffing my inbox or mailbox with entries. For trips to New York City. Maybe if I lived in Buffalo or Plattsburgh the excursion offered might’ve been worthwhile.

Instead, had I entered and somehow won, travel would’ve consisted of catching a commuter train to Grand Central Terminal, then, depending on the hotel, taking a subway or cab there.

That sojourn wouldn’t have provoked any bug-eyed, screaming gratitude. That just would’ve been another weekend downtown.

Strangely enough now that I live in Las Vegas, I’m receiving pitches whose big prizes are Vegas vacations. Like I said, strange. Continue reading New Start at New Address

Unwritten

    After rather involved February and March posts, the intent was to have been concise through April. Content will still be shorter but the subjects have changed.

    April 2014 is the centenary of French author Marguerite Duras’ birth. Best known here for her book The Lover (most guys watched the movie version to ogle a gloriously naked Jane March), Duras also collaborated on the Hiroshima, Mon Amour script, a cinematic feat that set intellectuals, and those who adore their brilliance, swooning. Continue reading Unwritten

Not Your Father’s Blue Carbuncle


    We’re dumbing down Sherlock Holmes. If the recent Robert Downey, Jr., efforts making “Sherlocking” more accessible for the earbud/self-absorbed set weren’t puerile enough, BBC TV has gone whole-hog to render Arthur Conan Doyle’s detective and his associate Dr. John Watson relevant for 21st century viewers.

    No need to wonder what Conan Doyle might’ve made of those revisions. He would’ve looked at them as if H.G. Wells had monkeyed with his template. On absinthe.

    The Downey reboots were jarring. Are jarring. Will be jarring. Holmes as imagined by Sax Rohmer. Or H. Rider Haggard. Ripping yarns instead of Victorian Age mysteries. Holmes mirrored his time. Downey’s Holmes distorts it. Continue reading Not Your Father’s Blue Carbuncle