Category Archives: Super Bowl XLVI

11/30/2012
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Craig's List, Huffington Post, IDS, John Mellencamp, Lucas Oil Stadium, Marilyn Monroe, Meg Ryan, Motel 6 Bloomington, Orgasm, Orgy, Super Bowl XLVI, Twilight Saga, When Harry Met Sally

The Pencil Today:

HotAirLogoFinal Friday

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THE QUOTE

“Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul.” — Marilyn Monroe

Monroe

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A CAST OF THOUSANDS

Dig this: Yesterday, the Electron Pencil attracted its 75,000th hit. Honest!

We’ve been online for almost a year and already we’ve outdrawn Super Bowl XLVI, held at Lucas Oil Stadium in Indianapolis last February.

Super Bowl XLVI

70,000, Hah!

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And believe you me, we have yet to ask the State of Indiana and the City of Indy for the +$666 million that the NFL Colts did for their home, although The Loved One and I are putting together a request for $666 so we can paint our garage, in which the world headquarters of this communications colossus is located.

So, whoever Ms. or Mr. 75,000 was, thanks. The rest of you must now work doubly hard to become acknowledged as the 100,000th happy EP reader.

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O COME ALL YE FAITHFUL

Surfing through senseless interwebs flotsam and jetsam, I came across a rumination on truth and obfuscation on Huffington Post.

Headlined “12 Things You Should Never Lie About,” the piece tells us the average schmo lies three times a day, which makes me — as usual — an outlier. I’m not going to say which side of the average I come down on; that’s your problem.

EWTN Nun

“Never Lie, You Little Bastards.”

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Anyway, number one on the list is never lie about having an orgasm. I’ll proudly state that I’ve never lied about having an orgasm, which I’m certain will be warm comfort to the multitudes of citizens with whom I’ve shared a sheet.

I noticed, though, that the list is meant to be a verisimilitude template for women. Okay.

Quite frankly, I’ve never suspected that any women has ever lied to me about the Big O. This is not meant to be a boast that my technique should warrant a chapter all its own in the latest sex manuals. The roster of females I’ve flexed my muscles in front of haven’t felt a need to stroke my ego, either because the state of my ego wasn’t of great concern to them or, more likely, they weren’t the type who felt a need to playact in their lives.

Which brings us to the obligatory reference in the list: The fake orgasm scene in the deli in the movie, “When Harry Met Sally.”

Scene from "When Harry Met Sally"

You Know, This Scene

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I’ve never thought Meg Ryan’s “orgasm” in WHMS was all that realistic. It was, in fact, the orgasm of an actress pretending to have an orgasm.

Lovemaking in general on the screen bears as much similarity to reality as fistfights, gun battles, and, well, everything else that Hollywood spends hundreds of millions of dollars on trying to convince you is the real deal.

Ask yourself this: Have you ever kissed anyone the way, say, Bella and that goofball she costars with in the “Twilight” family of TV shows and movies do?

Bella and the Goofball

Screen Kiss

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Has anyone ever kissed you the way Angelina Jolie has kissed Antonio Banderas?

Try as I might to have been a Herculean lover in my day, no woman I was ever with raised such a racket as Meg Ryan did in that deli scene. In fact, if any woman had, I probably would have had second thoughts about a second helping. I mean, I’ve never had the desire to be faked to or lied to.

After all, I’m not a Republican.

Now, this: After that iconic scene, how can anyone who exposes his underwear to Meg Ryan ever trust her when she does have an orgasm?

No matter how fab the romp has been, no matter the toys, positions, incantations, substances, and prayers employed, whenever Meg Ryan hoots and hollers with the lights out could her lover ever be certain she wasn’t doing a Sally on him?

I hope John Mellencamp doesn’t read this. I’d hate to ruin things for him.

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THE BEST LAID PLANS….

Speaking of sex, The IDS today reports that an orgy went screwy in a room at the Motel 6 on North Walnut Street.

It seems a randy fellow from Alabama came to Bloomington for the festivities after being recruited through a Craig’s List ad. Apparently, the man and his special gal made the trip here so that the woman could, well, explore bisexual themes with the special gal of another man. The men, per agreement, were only to serve as an audience as the sizzling scene took place.

Motel 6, Bloomingon

Field Of Screams

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Problems arose when the local man couldn’t restrain himself and, shall we say, ran onto the field of play. The Alabama man’s standards of fair play were violated, it is presumed, and he attempted to convey his displeasure by beating the hell out of the other man as well as his own special gal who, it must be noted, is his fiancé.

Bloomington cops slapped the bracelets on the Alabama man after guests in neighboring rooms phoned to report sounds of the scuffle. The local man and his special gal had hot-footed it out of the motel before the cops arrived.

The Alabama man is expected to be charged with domestic assault and strangulation. His fiancé told the cops he’d tried to strangle her and she sported a swollen face and scrapes. She has since recanted her story and now says she suffered her injuries in an accident.

The story did not include details about the gift registry for the upcoming nuptials.

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02/11/2012
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al Qaeda, Alex Straiker, Chicago, David Brent Johnson, Death of a President, Dick Cheney, Finch's Brasserie, George W. Bush, Grammy Awards, Indiana University, Jessica Lucas, Just You & Me, Kurt Elling, Louis CK, Netflix, NPR, Paula Poundstone, Roseanna Vitro, Super Bowl XLVI, Syria, UN Food and Agricultural Organization, Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, WFIU

The Pencil Today:

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THE QUOTE

“I can’t understand looking forward to seeing a commercial.” — Paula Poundstone

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A NATION OF AD PIMPS

A word of explanation about the quote above. Poundstone on this morning’s “Wait Wait… Don’t Tell Me!” was talking about how a grocery checkout clerk was shocked that she had neither watched the Super Bowl nor cared a bit about the telecast. “Not even the commercials?” the clerk gasped.

Poundstone later concluded, “No wonder we’re going downhill.”

Guess what — she’s freakin’ right!

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LAND OF THE FREE(-ISH)

Like many Americans, I complain a lot about many things.

Admittedly, there’s much to complain about and I needn’t run down that list here for the three thousandth time. If you’ve been reading these screeds, you know where I stand on everything from “Two and a Half Men” to the corporatization of this holy land.

The Golden Arches-Spangled Banner

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We’re a complaining bunch, we Americans. Louis CK does a terrific bit about how impatient and demanding we are. He talks about a guy saying he hates — hates — Verizon because a couple of his calls had been dropped. He refers to a woman saying she was once forced to sit in an airplane on a runway for 40 minutes before it took off, and described it as the worst day of her life.

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Louis points out, correctly, that both cell phone technology and human flight are virtual miracles that we should be amazed to partake of. He challenges the person who hates Verizon to create his own cell phone network and see how close he can come to perfection in its operation. Then he riffs on the woman, saying the airplane, of course, did take off and she was sitting in a chair in the sky like the Greek gods did, moving from New York to Los Angeles in a matter of hours, a trip that at one time took years.

High Above Omaha

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We do forget what a special time we live in, especially in this very, very privileged nation.

Even in the wake of the Great Recession, we have plenty to eat, we have cars, we have warm homes, we have cable, and, yes, we have cell phones.

The latest estimate by the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization holds that in 2010, 925 million people were hungry in the world. That’s a shade below one of every seven human beings alive.

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Even in these hard times, we’re doing pretty well here.

So, I figured I’d say something positive today.

I woke up in the middle of the night Wednesday. I couldn’t get back to sleep and yet I was too tired to read, so I clicked on Netflix to watch a movie. I selected something called “Death of a President,” a pseudo-documentary that was made in 2006.

The movie deals with a trip of then-President George W. Bush to Chicago to deliver a speech to a gathering of big shot business leaders. As he walks out of the Sheraton Hotel after the speech, he is shot twice in the chest by an unknown gunman. He is rushed to the hospital where he dies after several hours of surgery.

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The FBI and the Chicago police beat the bushes to to find the shooter and after a couple of weeks settle on a Syrian-born, nationalized American citizen.

This fellow, Jamal Abu Zikri, once traveled back to the Middle East to study Islam at an ill-defined camp which turned out to be an al Qaeda training center. He was threatened with death if he attempted to leave the camp but eventually found a way to escape and returned to his home and wife in Chicago.

In the hysteria following the assassination, authorities cobble together some iffy evidence and, depending mainly on Zikri’s supposed connection to al Qaeda, get him convicted of the crime. In the meantime, new President Dick Cheney pushes through a third Patriot Act that allows the government even greater latitude in spying on and detaining suspected terrorists. Cheney also pushes the CIA hard to find connections between the Syrian government and the assassination.

I’m not telegraphing the ending by saying doubt is cast on everybody’s motives.

The movie is more about emotionalism, fear, rage, prejudice, xenophobia, vengeance, jingoism, radical hyperbole, and, essentially, every destructive trait that exists today in these Great United States, Inc. than the actual act of killing the president.

These destructive traits threaten to grow exponentially until they suffocate us.

“Death of a President” is not flattering to us. The US Chamber of Congress did not push it for an Oscar.

Still it ran in theaters here. And it’s a standard offering on such an innocuous service as Netflix.

That says a lot about America — maybe as much as “Two and a Half Men” and the corporatization of this holy land do.

I refer back to Louis CK who cracks that people in certain other nations wake up some mornings and say “Uh oh, today’s the day we get our heads cut off.”

Can you imagine movies depicting the killings of Hu Jintao, Manmohan Singh, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, Dilma Rousseff, Yousaf Gillani, Vladimir Putin, Sheikh Hasina, and Yoshihiko Noda?

“Nyet.”

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They are the bosses of the ten most populated nations on Earth, minus the United States. The people they boss constitute fully 53 percent of the people on this planet.

These 3.7 billion people, I suspect, would not be permitted to view a movie of such an uncomplimentary nature, much less one that allows the possibility that any of those nine dear leaders could be offed.

And keep in mind I haven’t included several billion other souls who live under a rogue’s gallery of minor despots, tyrants, and sadists.

I don’t like where we’re headed in these United States. I also know we still have a hell of a lot of freedom and latitude.

It’s worth remembering that now and then.

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THE ART OF THE MICROSCOPE

Brain scientist Alex Straiker’s microscopy-based artwork will be on display in March at Finch’s Brasserie here in Bloomington. He’ll share the stage (or, more accurately, the easel) with award-winning botanical microscopist Jessica Lucas.

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Straiker studies the effects of cannabinoids on the brain at Indiana University’s Department of Psychological and Brain Sciences. Lucas is a researcher and outreach educator in the Shaw Lab at IU’s Biology Department.

Jessica Lucas’s Image Of A Fast-Growing Seedling

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Alex and his lab-mates treat mice to mega-doses of THC and then check their brain structures to determine, among other things, why they crave White Castle sliders for hours afterward.

Straiker’s striking images have appeared on this site several times already in our short history. Watch this space to find out the date of the opening reception for his show.

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JAZZ TIMES

Tune in to WFIU Monday afternoon for David Brent Johnson‘s “Just You and Me” daily jazz show.

DBJ And His Special Gal

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DBJ tells me he plans to feature the jazz Grammy award winners Monday. The Grammy awards will be presented Sunday night in New York.

“Just You and Me” begins at 3:30 and runs for an hour and a half. It’s a good bet DBJ will be spinning loads of Roseanna Vitro and Kurt Elling.

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02/07/2012
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American Cowboys, Black Cowboys, Cowboy Poetry, Ernest A. Finney Jr., Friendship 9, Gene Autry, Indiana University, Indianapolis, Jean Cocteau, Jonny Lang, Mitt Romney, Myth, National Book Award, Nikki Finney, Nikki Giovanni, Ross Gay, Super Bowl XLVI, Talladega College, Tip O'Neill

The Pencil Today:

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THE QUOTE

“Man seeks to escape himself in myth, and does so by any means at his disposal. Drugs, alcohol, or lies. Unable to withdraw into himself, he disguises himself. Lies and inaccuracy give him a few moments of comfort.” — Jean Cocteau

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THE COWBOY WAY

Ol’ Willard Romney wuz campaignin’ in one of our bee-yoo-tiful, wide-open western states t’other day. Some folks wuz havin’ theyselves a big shee-bang fer Cowboy poetry.

Now, Willard (y’might know him as Mitt, but his god-given name is Willard, shore ’nuff!) knows how how to make hisself feel right t’home, doncha know?

(Aw, for chrissakes, enough of this hayseed, six-gun patois.)

Now then, Romney appeared before a Nevada crowd, many of whom wore cowboy hats. Romney himself would not deign to don a Stetson, probably because his coiffure has landmark status and must not be altered or marred in any way.

But the Republican aspirant for president did sweet talk the crowd. He told them they were just like the cowboys of our holy land’s lore. He told the crowd they possessed “…(t)he heart of the cowboy, the love of freedom and the outdoors and nature being celebrated this week….” The crowd, natch, went wild.

You know, because cowboys were rugged individualists who carried sidearms, were loyal to their horses, and roamed this great land looking to right wrongs and dispense common sense justice. The cowboy is America, see?

Gene Autry, American

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Um, not so fast, Mitty-baby.

The truth about cowboys is that many of them were society’s outcasts — Mexican immigrants, blacks, and native Americans. They wore rags, slept on dirt, and served as ranch hands because, well, there wasn’t anything else for them to do.

Here’s a physical description from a dude ranch website:

In reality, the Cowboy didn’t dress like the Cowboys of the movies. A Cowboy wore whatever he could get his hands on. Cowboys and other laborers wore what was called “ready-to-wear” — “hand me downs” — second-hand clothing that had been discarded by the higher classes…. The typical Cowboy hat would have been pretty much any hat of the era. The wider brims were to keep the Sun out of their eyes…. The origins of the Cowboy boot are well-researched and started life as riding boots for the marauding Mongol tribesmen…. (All sic.)

A Real American

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Here are some more facts about cowboys:

  • Cowboys worked boring 18-hour days
  • They were small men because speedy horses couldn’t bear the weight of big lugs like John Wayne
  • They rode any horse they could get their hands on
  • They were startlingly young
  • They didn’t have gunfights with native Americans, desperadoes, or each other
  • The word “Cowboy” was derived from Mexican Spanish.

Former Speaker of the House Tip O’Neill once said, “All politics is local.”

That present day philosopher and hot air issuer — me — says, “All politics is theater.”

Then again, perhaps the only truth is, “All politics is bullshit.”

And it probably will continue to be so as long as people swoon when they’re bullshitted. Imagine some pol of the future telling a crowd, “You have the spirit of the homeless and the pluck of illegal immigrants!”

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NON-COWBOY POETS

That local poet — not a cowboy, though — Ross Gay roamed the streets of Laredo…, er, Bloomington yesterday passing out flyers for the Indiana University Creative Writing Visiting Writer Series.

The ink-stained gang will welcome noted rhymer Nikky Finney Thursday, at 7:00pm, at the Neal-Marshall Black Culture Center Grand Hall.

Finney

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Finney is one of America’s most celebrated black poets — hell, she’s one of America’s most celebrated poets, period. She copped the 2011 National Book Award for Poetry for her latest collection, “Head Off & Split.”

Finney grew up in an activist atmosphere. Her daddy-o, Ernest A. Finney, Jr., was the defense attorney for the Friendship 9, a group of black college students who’d tried to desegregate a South Carolina lunch counter in 1964. Finney herself became an activist for progressive cause around San Francisco after graduating from Talladega College. She also wrote poetry and worked as a photographer.

The noted poet Nikki Giovanni helped her get her first book of poetry, On Wings Made of Gauze, published in 1985. Since then, Finney’s become one of America’s biggest things in the field of meter.

Hey, her reading the day after tomorrow is free. Do yourself a favor and lend her an ear.

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IF A TREE FALLS IN THE WOODS AND NOBODY’S THERE…

Now that the Super Bowl orgy/holy mass/satanic ritual/football game is over, does the city of Indianapolis still exist?

Indianapolis, Before It Was Razed

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Just wondering.

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LIE TO ME

A good liar depends upon a victim who’s perfectly willing to be lied to.

As an example, I had a brief, fiery fling about 15 years ago with a woman who I later learned had lied to me about everything up to and including what she liked on her pizza. (No lie — I’d told her I preferred sausage and green peppers and she said, “Oh my god, this is so spooky, I do too!”)

The first gift I ever gave her was a CD by the then teenaged Jonny Lang, mainly because it featured this song. BTW: where’d that little petzel (Yiddish — go ahead and look it up) get that voice and that knowing outlook on life?

Anyway, once I became honest with myself, I realized I knew she was lying from the very first word she’d ever spoken to me. I loved every lie she told me.

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02/05/2012
5 Comments
Baseball vs. Football, Frank Gifford, George Carlin, NFL, Nuclear War, Pornography, Soma Coffee, Super Bowl XLVI

The Pencil Today:

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THE QUOTE

“Pro football is like nuclear warfare. There are no winners, only survivors.” — Frank Gifford

Gifford (Recumbent)

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AN L OF A DILEMMA

Anybody who knows me even a little bit knows of my deep and abiding hatred for football.

Ergo, today, for me, is pretty much the most loathsome day of the year.

I quote from that renowned thinker and opinionator, me:

The Super Bowl, of course, is this holy land’s holiest event. I’ve long endorsed the idea that Super Bowl Sunday should be declared a national holiday. Football is a game that is run by men, involves violence, employs strippers disguised as cheerleaders, and rakes in literally billions of dollars a year for teams, television, bookies, athletes, anthem singers, halftime entertainers, orthopedic surgeons, criminal defense attorneys, and many more.

What’s more American than that?

(This gem of cogitation originally ran Friday.)

Anyway, Betty Greenwell, a sometimes-lapsed member of the Women’s Auxiliary of the Boys of Soma, reminds me that the statesmen and philosophers who run the NFL are in a quandary these days, what with the fiftieth Super Bowl a mere four years off.

As you know, Super Bowl branding — which was bestowed upon mankind by god — decrees that each Super Bowl be designated by Roman numerals. Today’s sacred rite is number 46, or more properly XLVI.

Number 50 presents a problem, though. The Roman numeral for 50 is, of course, L.

Now, L is the sports equivalent to the the biblical 666. It is the mark of Satan as well as those evil souls who have scored fewer points than the opposition.

The NFL reptilian-brain trust will not have the single most important date in their canonical year be smutted by such a sinister figure.

Super Bowl L? The horror!

BTW: The 30th Super Bowl didn’t seem to ruffle NFL feathers:

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Football and porn — perfect.

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“… FOOTBALL IS A 20TH CENTURY TECHNOLOGICAL STRUGGLE….”

George Carlin explains it all.

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01/23/2012
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@10fortebow, Abortion, Apathy, Battle of Michigan Avenue, Birth Control, Bloomington Rally for Life, Chicago Transit Authority, Conrad Hilton Hotel, Dead Kennedys, George Tiller, Gerald R. Ford, Helen Keller, Jerry Sandusky, Jimmy Carter, Joe Paterno, Laura Dekker, Legalized Marijuana, Mayor Richard J. Daley, Mitt Romney, Newt Gingrich, Operation Rescue, Peter Cetera, Prayer, Puppy Bowl, Randall Terry, Robert Lamm, Sophia Brugato, Super Bowl XLVI, Super PACs, Tom Hayden

The Pencil Today:

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TODAY’S QUOTE

“Science may have found a cure for most evils; but it has found no remedy for the worst of them all — the apathy of human beings.” — Helen Keller

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THE ABORTION WAR RAGES ON

I voted in my first presidential election 35 years ago. I pulled the lever for Jimmy Carter over Gerald R. Ford. That November, 1976, I felt heady and powerful, having helped sweep the stink of Dick Nixon out of Washington.

I looked forward to a future that would include peace, a home and plenty of food for all my fellow citizens, affordable higher education for all, unfettered access to birth control and abortions, legalized marijuana, and, of course, jet packs.

What A Cool Future!

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So here we are in 2012, fighting a war that makes Vietnam look like a historical hiccup, hunger and homelessness rampant, yearly college tuitions reaching $50,000, still no legalized pot, and anti-abortionists in charge of one of the two major political parties of this holy land. Oh, and no jet packs.

Anti-abortionists gathered outside the Monroe County Courthouse yesterday afternoon to proclaim to the world how much they love, love, love every human being on this planet — as long as those human beings are not comprised of any more than several hundred cells.

“We Love You.”

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The annual Rally for Life has been going on for more than a decade around Courthouse Square. Yesterday, the anti-abortionists were met with counter-protesters who shouted, waved signs, and painted slogans on their bellies.

The fun came to an early halt when the so-called Lifers decided it was too windy and misty to testify about their adoration for embryos any longer.

My fave sign at the rally? One guy held a placard proclaiming, “My sperm is not a person.”

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THE COUCH POTATO PARTY?

So, Mitt Romney and his super PACs used TV advertising to knock the hell out of Newt Gingrich in November and December. Then Gingrich used TV ads to knock the hell out of Romney this past week.

Now nobody knows who the Republican candidate for president is going to be. Nor can anybody figure out why the primary race so far has been such a roller coaster ride.

Has it occurred to anybody that Republicans just might be more dedicated TV watchers than anybody else in these Great United States, Inc.? Couldn’t it be that — despite their protestations to the contrary — if they see it on TV, it’s gotta be real?

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Of course, the only things Republicans don’t trust on TV are science shows and the news (except for you-know-which channel).

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PRAY FOR GUIDANCE

Joe Paterno, we learned yesterday during the sickening post-mortems following the child-sodomy-tolerating football coach’s death, used to lead his teams in prayer before every single game.

Answered Prayer

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So prayer, we must conclude, is a worthy activity when one hopes to score more touchdowns than Ohio State but ain’t worth the effort when trying to decide if one should call the cops after being confronted with eyewitness evidence that a pal was busy anally raping a ten-year-old boy in the shower room.

And prayer certainly didn’t help JoePa decide to bar Jerry Sandusky from using Penn State facilities for further May-December trysts (oops — I meant February-December).

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FIRE WITH FIRE

If you live in one of a dozen or so primary election states, the prayer set is going to shove gory images of fetal body parts in your face in a couple of weeks. That is, should you decide to waste several hours of your precious life by watching Super Bowl XLVI.

The Puppy Bowl: A Better Usage Of Your Time

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Yep, extremist Randall Terry, who is running for president (he’s expected to come in first in the Martian primary) has bought ad time in 13 primary-state TV markets during the big game broadcast on February 5th.

Terry, you may recall, founded Operation Rescue, the terrorist organization whose Kansas branch greased the way for the 2009 assassination of Dr. George Tiller.

The Terry “campaign” is running the explicit ads in response to pro-choice blogger Sophia Brugato, whose 10fortebow Twitter page donated $10 to abortion rights groups every time Denver Broncos quarterback (and prayer fanatic) Tim Tebow scored a touchdown this past season.

So, What Is It With Football And Prayer?

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The “candidate” says if Brugato can raise dough for “killing babies” then he and his fellow mobsters must “fight fire with fire.”

BTW: Does it come as any surprise that a fellow like Terry might be averse to homosexuality, so much so that he has essentially disowned his son for the sin of being gay?

You know, family values, and all that.

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REMARKABLE DEEDS

Parents these days are afraid to let their teenaged kids walk to the convenience store, right? Soccer moms (remember that term?) today must drive their precious spawn a block and half to the Circle K for their weekly supplies of Red Bull, condoms, and rolling papers.

That’s why this 16-year-old Laura Dekker chick’s just-completed excellent adventure is so jarring.

With the blessings of her parents, little Laura took a solo, around-the-world trip in her sailboat. She’s the youngest person ever to do such a thing, which may or may not help her advance in the business world when she becomes an adult — a landmark, I remind you, that is still some five years in the future.

Laura Dekker Got To Break Curfew 517 Nights In A Row

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I’ve beaten this horse time and time again but it refuses to die. These narcissistic “accomplishments” are of zero value to anyone on this good, green (for the time being) Earth.

Celebrating these deeds and honoring their perpetrators as if they’d discovered a cure for autism is flat-out nuts.

I have a suggestion for the next pre-teen who wants to climb Mt. Everest or newlywed couple who wants to spend their honeymoon bonking high above the ground in a trans-Pacific hot air balloon ride: How about volunteering to work in a food bank or helping bring bedpans to elderly patients in your local hospital for a few weekends instead?

Now that’s heroic.

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DIALOGUE

Mortgage banker Kathe Elliott-Doremus (one of the good ones — yes, such creatures do exist) FBed a fascinating nugget from the vault, Chicago’s “Dialogue, Part 1 and 2.”

Amazing, isn’t it, how nearly great that band was for a tantalizingly brief moment in time?

In fact, it was a Chicago Transit Authority (its original name until the real CTA threatened to sue) song that first introduced this aspiring teen radical to the term, “The whole world is watching.” The band’s eponymous debut album featured the twin-track “Prologue, August 29, 1968” and “Someday, August 29, 1968” which begins with raw audio from the Battle of Michigan Avenue. I stared at that convulsive event, rapt, on television when I was 12 and dreamed I could be there at Michigan and Balbo, in front of the Conrad Hilton Hotel, slugging it out with Mayor Daley’s cops.

Wishing I Was There

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I was too young to make that scene. I would have had my skull dented, sure, and who knows where I would have headed after that. I could have become just another drug casualty or I might have been the next Tom Hayden.

Anyway, CTA seemed a harbinger of everything good and cool about pop music in the very early 70s. Lots of horns, a healthy dose of jazz, a political echo seemingly in each of its songs. But then — and I have no idea why — they turned to saccharine. It’s said Chicago is the second-most successful American pop band in terms of record sales after the Beach Boys. Most of those sales were of the treacly crap from their endless succession of unnamed, Roman-numeral-designated albums issued after that first release.

And then lead singer Peter Cetera struck out on a solo career, the output of which made Chicago’s pablum sound like the Dead Kennedys.

Chicago Transit Authority, Before They Turned Rancid

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“Dialogue Part 1 and Two,” strangely enough, comes from Chicago V, showing that the band’s members still entertained a hint of the notion that music could be exciting.

Appropriately, Cetera’s is the voice of the Dialogue’s apathetic college student. He and co-lead singer Bobby Lamm talk about the state of the nation. “Don’t you ever worry,” asks Bobby Lamm, the socially-aware student, “when you see what’s goin’ down?”

“Well, I try to mind my business; that is no business at all,” Cetera responds.

Later, eerily presaging our times, Lamm asks, “Don’t you see starvation in the city where you live, all the needless hunger, all the needless pain?”

“I haven’t been there lately, the country is so fine. My neighbors don’t seem hungry ’cause they haven’t got the time,” blathers Cetera.

Finally, Cetera advises Lamm, “Well, if you had my outlook, your feelings would be numb. You’d always think that everything was fine. Everything was fine.”

And isn’t that the perfect crystallization of what passes for thought in the this holy land in the year 2012?

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