Sh*t City Chronicles: Tales of Pain, Passion, and Civil Wrongs in America's Recent Past

By Woodrow Sears

America is confronting the legacy of anger and hatred from the recent past. Citizens see illusions of unlimited futures against the reality that the social order needed to support those possibilities is fracturing. Probably things have always been as they are now revealed to be -- most of us just didn't notice. These memories mark the times when today's facts began to form. Sadly, fear reigns!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Woodrow Sears
• Release date: Oct 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465803207

Woodrow Sears

Semi-retired consultant, active college instructor, author (6 books for HRD Press in 2007-8), regular contributor to the Cincom "ExpertAccess" business e-zine. I hold one of the early doctorates in Human Resource Development, lectured extensively on project management on an international circuit, worked with clients to install systems, and was heavily involved in civil rights, supervisory, and management training. Came to Lithuania in 1998 as a volunteer, and never left. I live in Vilnius in a former monastery, heat with wood (by choice), and love cooking for friends. Living in Europe is special everyday!

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SH*T CITY CHRONICLES:

Tales of Pain, Passion, and Civil

Wrongs in America's Recent Past

A Rhyming Narrative

by

Woodrow H. Sears, Ed.D.

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY

Woodrow H. Sears, Ed.D.

Editorial/Design Support by

PleasantValleyPress.net

Sh*t City Chronicles

Copyright © 2011 Woodrow Sears

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal use and may not be re-sold or given away. If you want to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and didn't purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

~~~~~

Editor’s Note

If you’ve read any of the dozen Human Resource Development books Woody has published on Smashwords, you’re familiar with his style.

Sh*t City Chronicles is very different from the business books, but the style is the same. It is a both a celebration of the best and an indictment of the worst in American culture in the 20th and 21st centuries.

Woody doesn’t pull punches. He rarely (if ever) beats around the bush to soften a message or forces the reader to try to figure out exactly what he’s trying to say. As a matter of fact, he never tries to say anything. He simply says it!

That he can successfully translate this totally Woody work into A Rhyming Narrative without sacrificing his style is yet another testimony to his skill as a writer. The real Woody is present in every word: he is a keen observer of the human condition, but equally important, he shares with the reader not just his anger and frustration but also, his heart, his intellect, his own regrets, and his humanity.

Sunny Deuber Carney, PleasantValleyPress.net

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Provincetown

The End of a Fantasy

Harley-Davidson Dreams

The Second Full Moon in August

The Last Week Before School

Busted Locks

Captains

Bachelor Pad

Lascivious Tales of a Traveling Man

REAL

Gutless Wonders of the Western World

The Volunteer Fireman Speaks

Working?

In The Company of Heroes

Cops

Civil Rights: Untold Stories

Doing Time at the Five and Dime

The Griddle

The Dishonor Council

Hunting

King of the Gypsies

Parents Without Partners

The Tricycle Race

Rusty’s Tale

Mary T. and Me

Gulag on the Potomac

Priscilla and John

Working and Playing

Partners

Families

About the Author

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Provincetown

As a Californiac hopelessly smitten by the Golden State,

The Golden Gate, the golden grasses of summer and the great

Sense of freedom this polyglot population provides,

I was unprepared for Provincetown and the sunset that divides

The tip of that curvilinear peninsula so completely from

The distant mainland as to be cast adrift in some

Golden haze. Wow! I knew why the fretful drive from Boston

Was worth the effort. As a traveler I've learned too often

That getting there is the better part of the trip.

But not Provincetown, Cape Cod Bay being defined by that tip

Of land perched precariously out in the Atlantic.

But why speak of geography when I had expected a frantic

Autumn weekend of Indian Summer revelers catching the last days

Of summer before the harsh New England winter chilled the rays

Of a sun too paltry to punch through the humid hank of stone

Cold air straight from the Polar Maritime High traveling known

Courses and picking up moisture to become the howling Nor'easter

That savages the dunes and bends trees Thanksgiving to Easter.

What I found was a town full of gentleness because, by accident

Or by some effective underground communiqué, it was evident

That the town had been taken over by gay women for the weekend

At least. And the town was full of them, holding hands,

Touching, strolling, talking, laughing quietly. A few bands

Of six or eight, but mostly couples with none of the tension

Of male/female contenders for the boss role, no dissention

Manifesting itself in pouting, boorish behavior by either

Party, nor any of the hyperactive groping and giggling. Neither

Was there any drunkenness, unusual in so large a crowd

So late in the day, nor any dissonant music played loud

By tone-deaf hoodlums carrying boxes as look at me devices,

Nor any swaggering groups of adolescent punks to cause crises

At intersections and entrances to bars. None of that bother.

Just gentle women being easy with themselves and each other.

There's a lot of it around, they say, what with our culture

Having permitted women the emotional freedoms men were sure

Were harmless for women but emasculating for he-males.

What a laugh to see what has blossomed for females

Tired of the emotional suicide dealing with most guys requires.

That was the thing, that was the mood, the idea that inspires

These memories, a kind of collective knowledge of escape

From the threat of beatings, drunken rages, almost-rape

And more. The freedom from that braggadocio, flimsy, tinny ego

That keeps pathetic and uncaring guys afloat when they know

In their heart of hearts that there's no one there.

Empty shells, puffed with packaged soft porn and hot air

About baseball scores and quarterbacks or tennis and port tacks

Depending on their socio-economic levels. But all hiding the cracks

Of their shattered illusions about heroic deeds they never did

And powerful moves never made and choices from which they hid;

Knowing all the while that they were choosing but afraid

To own it. Resorting to that male solution, getting laid

And maybe drunk, too, using women as retaliation in their combat

With the shadows of the people they might have been but for that

Bitch, that shrew, that nagging c*nt who drives them, hag-ridden,

To perpetrate stupidities that can't be hidden

From anyone, mostly themselves, and that's what makes them mean

And spiteful and punishing to wives and children.

Obscene!

These are not women's issues but problems of a sick society

That permits tits and ass advertising without any propriety

Or sense that no girl child needs to grow up faster,

To be seduced into revealing clothes