Tales of the Invisible Ben

Cue-Be-Rab!

Today in my modern American history seminar, we were discussing cultural politics and the rise of the New Left and somewhere along the line the Black Panther were mentioned as an example of a radical organization whose extreme political views risked alienating its intended audience. My professor is something of an expert on the history of the American civil rights movement and popular responses to it, and his enthusiasm for the subject was contagious.

It was perhaps a result of this that I, someone with far less historical familiarity with the subject, mentioned shortly before our regular coffee break that I had actually met one of the leaders of the Black Panthers.

Yes, it's a heretofore untold tale of the Invisible Ben! Way back during my first year of teaching, in the time before the auditorium's roof collapsed under the weight of decades of shoddy maintenance work, the social studies department, the social studies department at Underwood High arranged for Bobby Seale to come and speak to the students. When the school had an auditorium, such assemblies were commonplace. Musicians, motivational speakers, etc. They were par for the course.

This was in the late spring...maybe May or June 2004. I'm relatively certain of this because the students crammed into the auditorium's balcony (Yes, Virginia...the auditorium DOES have a balcony! If you visited in the past few years you might also be surprised to learn it had a stage.) spent most of their time: a. sleeping b. fanning themselves c. rubbing sweat off of their faces using their school shirts d. complaining about the heat

You'll notice that there was a distinct lack of "e. listening to the historically significant personality"! But why should that be expected?

It's not like the majority of the students there were in a history or social studies class...

(Oh wait...they were!)

And it's not like the speaker was culturally relevant...

(Oh wait...he was!)

And it's not like they wouldn't get to see a nationally recognized member of the Black Panther party again soon...

(Oh wait...they wouldn't!)

In fact, only the teachers seemed to be paying attention throughout the whole talk. Maybe that was why I was invited to attend, along with my freshmen...there was a chance of increasing the listening audience by a whopping 10%, assuming I didn't doze off. (which I didn't!)

At the end of the talk, which covered about what one might expect regarding civil rights in the 1960s and 70s, Seale did two things which I brought up in my history seminar this morning.

1. He signed an autograph for me which I now keep wedged inside the autographed copy of Crisis by Henry Kissinger which the Invisible Sister obtained for me. What can I say? I enjoy irony!
2. He mentioned his new brand of barbecue sauce.

A few people didn't believe me when I mentioned that Bobby Seale, formerly of the Chicago Eight and the New Haven Black Panther trials, had attached his name to a line of fine barbecue related condiments. A quick trip to Bobby Seale's website, however, reveals the truth, alongside an array of tasty looking recipes. (Saucy Hickory Pit-Qued Chicken anyone?)

But more importantly, Seale has taken it upon himself to codify the unspoken zeitgeist of America's grillers, smokers, and outdoor cooks of all stripes. He has written and published online the ultimate manifesto of the barbecue chef: The Barbeque Bill of Rights.

Just like the writings of Jefferson and Madison, this document speaks pretty much for itself. And just like the original Declaration of Independence, it is a decisive fight for freedom, not from tyrannical government, but rather the "over commercialized bondage of "cue-be-rab," which for those not in the know, is barbecue backwards. No longer should Americans feel bound to buy sauce in the bottle when they can make their own using tastebud-tingling recipes. And Bobby Seale, revolutionary to the end, can show us the way.

I urge you all to read the Barbecue Bill of Rights and follow its teachings. People have fought, been imprisoned, and even died to preserve your ability to properly pit-smoke a chicken and properly glaze a homemade sauce on a meat entree. Do not let their sacrifices be in vain.

Fight the power!

Rain of Terror

As a graduate student, my normal weekend routine is not particularly exciting and rarely varies significantly from those weekdays when I have between zero and one seminars to attend. Wake up, shower, get dressed, quick breakfast and then pack up my reading for the day and head over to the library to slam through several hundred pages of historical analysis. Emerge a few hours later, go home, eat dinner. Lather, rinse, repeat.

But not this weekend. No, this weekend, I changed things up and brought all of my work home. Why? Because I had heard news of a potential rain storm and rather than slosh through puddles and end up having to dry my socks on a study room radiator, I decided to hole up and ride out the storm. And lucky I did too, because this was a doozy. The entire back yard of the Invisible Commune has turned into a very large puddle or a very small lake depending on one's point of reference.

Granted, it's not exactly the most thrilling story to tell about a Sunday. (I spent all day reading about the development of anthropology and the use of technology to establish colonial empires. Oh, and I showered!) But, sometimes I think it's better not to have a slightly more sedate weekend. Sure, I could have been like one of my classmates and had an exciting story about how an excursion to a nearby city which would normally be a three hour drive ended up being a nine hour ordeal thanks to frequent traffic jams, flooding, and route closures. Or the fun one undergraduate had in a lecture I sit in on...her flight was forced to land at an alternate airport due to the weather and then the rail lines home were flooded! Miserable stuff. As my professor joked in lecture today, with all the main roads in or out of campus, Old Ivy was, for all intents and purposes an island. And indeed, non-essential personnel were told not to come in today.

And yes, despite my minimal contributions, I am apparently part of the university's essential personnel.

But it was weird walking to class today. Shops had signs on their windows announcing they were either closed or opening late. The local library closed its doors on account of the weather. Did I mention there was snow? Or at least it was snow until it melted on contact with the ground. I love April.

They say the sun will come out on Thursday, and frankly, I say it's about time. Not that I mind a little bit of rain, especially when I can just stay curled up in bed or read a book in my recliner. But the lack of effective drainage and my distaste for wet socks mean that tramping about around campus is a lot less pleasant after a particularly heavy deluge...and I think this qualifies.


Postscript: My complaints about the weather were meant to be lighthearted and frivolous, but I feel I would be remiss if I did not at least mention the tragic events at Virginia Tech this afternoon. Although the full details of today's shooting, the deadliest such incident in American history, have not yet been revealed, it is frightening to consider that such violence can take place anywhere in this country, much less on a college campus. I heard the news before attending a department-wide meeting, but the full impact didn't set in until afterwards when I went to the library and read the news reports online. And I sat there, stunned, in the computer lab on the library's basement floor, realizing that it could just as well have happened at any other campus. I wondered then, and still do now, what kind of a world we have made where tragedies like this can happen and what historians looking back on what happened in Virginia today will say about our society and its values. For my part, I have no idea of what those future textbooks will include, though I'd be willing to bet they won't give a damn about the weather. There are more significant things to consider than a little bit of rain.

God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut

Listen:

You know how sometimes you'll get into a conversation with someone and they'll ask you something like "What's your favorite movie?" and you don't want to sound stupid so you say something safe like Citizen Kane or something popular like The Godfather or something more obscure like The Rules of the Game ? Of course you do. It happens to us all.

That's what life is all about.

Well, for me, as a bibliophile, I have a tough time ranking books. I've read lots of books. Not as many as you, but still a bunch. And because I'm in graduate school, I'm sure that one day the conversation will come up as I sit in a bar with a bunch of aspiring historians, engineers, and literary critics and someone will ask me "What your favorite American novel?"

And a part of me will hate that person. Even if it's you.

Because I shouldn't have to choose one. One book shouldn't define a person's whole life. It's glib and condescending to even ask the question.

But that doesn't mean I won't answer it.

I'll probably say something like All the King's Men or, if I'm feeling a little less like explaining myself, The Great Gatsby. Both really great books. I can defend either one. The former answer may even be true.

However, it may also be false.

Because there were other times and other books, and as I look back I can see how my favorites changed over time. And there was a year or so in the middle of high school, a good year or so, where my favorite writer was Kurt Vonnegut.

I've been told it happens to most teenagers who like to read.

Doesn't mean I feel guilty about it. I spun through Cat's Cradle. I ate up Breakfast of Champions. I thrilled to The Sirens of Titan. And I loved it. I even had the chance to portray Harrison Bergeron in a high school one act. (Yes, I think I was miscast too.)

No one was more effective at combining satirical prose, political satire, and emotional pathos then Kurt Vonnegut.

Which is why I was so saddened to read of his loss late last night.

I know it had to happen. And it's not like I'm a friend or family member. He didn't know me and in all likelihood, he probably didn't know you either. But in a way we knew him and knew him well, and it's sad when a friend dies. It's not fair, but neither is life.

I'm sure Kilgore Trout would agree with me.

And so does the bird outside my window.

Poo-tee-weet!


The most important thing I learned on Tralfamadore was that when a person dies he only appears to die. He is still very much alive in the past, so it is very silly for people to cry at his funeral. All moments, past, present and future, always have existed, always will exist. The Tralfamadorians can look at all the different moments just that way we can look at a stretch of the Rocky Mountains, for instance. They can see how permanent all the moments are, and they can look at any moment that interests them. It is just an illusion we have here on Earth that one moment follows another one, like beads on a string, and that once a moment is gone it is gone forever. -Slaughterhouse Five

R.I.P.
Kurt Vonnegut, 1922-2007
So it goes...

Passed Over Cuisine

For those not in the know, Passover ended yesterday night, so I was finally able to splurge on some delicious starchy foods. You can trust me on this, you never know how much you miss things like rice, corn, peanut butter, or...you know, BREAD.

Still, I really can't complain too much. After all, I don't mind the taste of matzah that much. With butter it makes for a delicious breakfast, and with a good supply of cold cuts in the fridge, lunch is a snap. (Personally, my favorite is ham and cheese. It's trafe-tastic!)

The real challenge would normally be dinner, especially since unlike every other university campus in the country, Old Ivy has no cheap fast food places for me to grab french fries. But this year, during my pre-Passover shopping trip, I discovered that the local supermarket had me covered. Which is why this past week I've been dining on:

1. Cheese Blintzes
2. Buffalo Wings (most of the normal ones have breading)
3. Pierogies (Filled with tomato and cheese--Pizzarogies!)
4. Ravioli

And my favorite

5. Pizza (Yes...pizza. The crust was a touch dry, but the cheese and sauce were quite good. And the whole thing fit in my toaster oven, so it was evenly heated and not at all soggy.)

There's a lesson to be learned here, and not just about how slavery is bad and drinking four cups of overly sweetened wine is good. That lesson is as follows:

When in doubt, check the kosher frozen food section. Don't settle for just the regular.

Use this knowledge wisely, readers. You know...the next time you suddenly find yourself unable to eat leavened bread.

Hokey Smokes, Bullwinkle!

Rodents and I have never really gotten along. Whether the mice who used to scurry around in my Underwood classroom or the bat that invaded my bedroom here at the Invisible Commune, I have to admit, I'm not a huge fan. Contrary to what my students might have claimed after surveying the array of specimens mounted above my desk, in actuality I am not bound by some sort of vendetta against the bright-eyed or the bushy-tailed. So long as they do not invade the spaces where I live or work, I have no major gripe with most of nature's creatures. The trees and bushes surrounding the Invisible Commune are fair game. I leave them alone and they leave me alone.

But my faith in my nonaggression pact with the area's fauna was thrown into serious jeopardy this afternoon. After a long afternoon of reading in the library, I was looking forward to getting home, making dinner, and because I'm in graduate school, doing even more reading. As I stumbled wearily up the driveway, however, I suddenly heard a strange noise about a foot and a half ahead of me.

There, lying on the gravel driveway ahead of me was something disturbing. It was a squirrel. A twitching, bleeding, and hairless squirrel which had apparently lost the fight against gravity rather severely and was still alive, though barely.

My first thought was something along the lines of an expletive followed by "That was very close to hitting me. " After wondering if I had committed one offense too many against rodentkind, I started pondering what exactly could lead to this squirrel's sudden appearance. After all, this squirrel didn't suddenly wake up after an afternoon nap and decide to pull out its hair and launch a kamikaze attack on me. Things like that just don't happen outside of Far Side cartoons. I thought. Clearly squirrels don't just plummet out of trees for no reason. But there didn't seem to be any large birds of prey around to have dropped it from fifty feet up and thanks to basic rules regarding how electrical circuits are completed, the power lines running up to the house were not responsible either. There wasn't even an anthropomorphized moose with a penchant for puns.

My reverie on the subject of flying squirrels was cut short, however, by the sudden appearance of one of my housemates wearing a pair of light blue rubber gloves. After I informed him of what was going on, he burst out laughing...and once he filled me in, I started to get the joke. Apparently, with the onset of spring, the household cat has taken to going hunting. Sometimes, as a sign of good faith, she'll bring back her prey and lay at the feet of own of us like a good vassal should. Over spring break, she left a dead bird on a bedroom floor. This week, it seems, marked the start of squirrel season. And what better way to celebrate then with a ceremonial gift to the lords of the manor (or...a contribution to the Invisible Commune, if you prefer).

So the squirrel in question was delivered, bloodied and broken upon my housemate's carpet. The obvious reaction? Dispose of it! But how...? There needed to be some way to get the animal outside with only minimum handling. Walking it down several flights of stairs would take too much time...and apparently there weren't any bags or what have you to put it in. No, the solution came (as I reconstructed it in my head later) like a beam of light through the nearby bathroom window. A window which conveniently overlooked the driveway...

I suppose you can guess what happened next. Yes, that's right. My housemate almost hit me with a half-dead squirrel he threw out the window. Fortunately, he was able to get over the humor of the situation to euthanize the squirrel, wrap it in some plastic bags (which he apparently found AFTER throwing it out the window) and drop the whole thing in the trash.

And that, apparently, was the end of the thrilling escapade of the Invisible Ben and the Menace of the Airborne Rodent. Be sure not to miss our next episode: "Acorn-ucopia of Riches" or "Congratulations, It's a Squirrel!"


Postscript: The following day I discovered that the story was not quite over. The squirrel had escaped and appeared to have clawed its way back to its former landing spot. When I left to visit my family in Philadelphia, it was still lying there. On my return it was gone. Perhaps the cat got hungry or perhaps another housemate noticed it and returned it to its garbage-can sarcophagus. In either case, it was clearly the last adventure for that particular flying squirrel.