Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co.

Recently, while eating out at a neighborhood place, we noticed a new storefront down the street. The main sign said “Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co.” Another sign advertised, “Capes, masks and shrinking gas. If we don't have it, a superhero doesn't need it. Ask inside! We can custom-order alter egos." The sign advertising Antimatter was particularly curious.

Since the store had not yet opened for business we could not go inside to look around. During dinner we speculated about what exactly this place was and whether it served as some illegal front to some criminal enterprise. But the marketing seemed a little too extreme for a criminal enterprise and way too edgy to be anything mainstream. We toasted to its success, if for no other reason than it made us smile knowing we had a centrally located source of antimatter.

I put the place out of my mind until yesterday. I finished David Sedaris excellent short story anthology, Children Playing Before a Statue of Hercules and was reading Sarah Vowell’s epilogue. Mr. Sedaris, it turns out donates the proceeds of the book to 826NYC, a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping students, ages 6-18, develop their writing skills.

826NYC is housed in a storefront hidden behind a secret passage within Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co.

Mystery solved. What a great idea. Besides offering tutoring, 826NYC also offers free writing workshops, which cover a wide range of topics, including comic books, SAT essays, journals, short stories, and more. They host field trips and also offer in-class support for teachers.

We’ll be making donations to and buying all our secret identity kits from 826NYC from now on.

Cake

As hesitant as I am about sharing personal information I feel compelled to write about this: I bake cakes – scratch cakes, big ol’ glossy, over-decorated, sweetly frosted and iced cakes. I make simple devil’s food chocolate diner counter cakes and extreme genoise with blood orange curd filled, seven layer cakes. I make a cake with Jack Daniels. I make banana bread that fills the house with such perfume that my teenagers will wake up on a Sunday morning before 8:00. On Christmas morning the house is filled with the aroma of fresh baked cinnamon sweet yeast rolls.

I bake cakes for my children for their birthdays each year. They try to pick intricate or difficult cakes to see to what extremes I will go to make them. One year Mihijita picked a Rose Levy Birnbaum cake that was covered in spun-sugar lacework. Another year Hija asked for one covered in chocolate roses. I buy them birthday presents of course but it’s the cakes they remember.

I have been commissioned to make theme cakes for friends’ parties and for relatives’ events. I once made a cake that looked like an old 45 record player complete with records cast from tempered bittersweet chocolate.

When we married, I baked our wedding cake – three tiers – fresh baby roses on top. During the 6 months leading up the wedding I made almost 40 test cakes in a 4 ‘ by 3’ kitchen. We invited friends over every weekend to taste test the recipes and take home cake. My cholesterol shot up 15 points.

I make my own rolled fondant.

Notwithstanding my schedule, or the demands of work or all the other intervening interruptions, I make time to make the cakes. The cabinets and drawers in my kitchen overflow with cake pans, molds, icing tips, pastry bags, scales, decorating stands, cake boxes and rounds, frosting knives, cake cutters and coloring gels. I use everything.

Cookbooks fill the baker’s rack in the kitchen. Most of the books cover baking and cake decorating. Mrs. Soto in the baking department of Broadway Pan Handler knows me by name.

I’m convinced my wife married me because early in our relationship, I made her an over-the-top chocolate raspberry torte for her birthday.

My youngest daughter had another birthday this week. I made her a golden butter/white chocolate cake with neo classic butter cream.

I really love that kid.

Thanks Gilbert

During the summers while I was in college I worked for the US Forest Service as a GS-4 fire fighter. We worked along with the county and state guys (CDF) on local fires and with other USFS crews when they shipped us out of region. I spent time on a line crew before finally moving up to an engine. I was stationed on Engine 310 - Green Valley, Western Region, in the Angeles National Forest. Three of us lived at the station. The foreman, Gilbert, lived with his family in a small house and I lived in a trailer with another crewmember; I think his name was Tommy Thompson. Yes, I know, bad parents. Bygones. Tommy had the stereo so who was I to complain? We worked six days on, one day off. For the most part we spent long, hot days clearing brush, beating weeds, building cisterns and training. From time to time we fought fires.

By the way, if you ever get the opportunity to ride in a fire engine on the way to a fire with the sirens blaring, by all means take advantage. It is surely one of the most extraordinary experiences of my life. We drove a standard USFS green, International dual cab unit. We washed it daily. It was beautiful. Whenever a spotter sighted smoke or, in most cases dust clouds, we rushed for the engine, changed into Nomex and headed out towards the fire. Sometimes we arrived quickly and had first shot at the flames. Mostly, County units beat us and we set up the perimeter.

The first time I fought a fire with Engine 310, Gilbert saved my life. The fire started on a hillside and moved slowly up-slope towards the summit. We worked from below. A line crew cut a break between the burn and the grass and our crew followed with live hoses. Basically, our job was to try not to piss off the line guys and connect as many trunk lines as we could to the main line that snaked its way up the hill. If we were not spraying water we humped hose up the hill from the truck. The hose packs weighed about 40 lbs. The clamps, Elkarts and spanners added five or ten more. The hoses tended to burst so the battle was as much with the hoses as the fire. I was at the head of the line with an Elkart, sweeping water across a flare up. Gilbert stood behind me yelling instructions. Fires are amazingly loud. Most of the noise comes from the combustion of grass and brush. Add to that the crews yelling, engines pumping water, bulldozers cutting fire break and overhead aircraft making water drops and the sound is deafening. I was pretty far into the burn, couldn’t really see much because of the smoke and just kept sweeping the water across the base of the flame. I felt Gilbert let go of me and didn’t think anything of it. What I didn’t realize was that Gilbert had been yelling, “wind shift, wind shift” and, thinking I was right behind him, had headed down the slope. The flame had crept around the water spray and I was standing in a pocket of flame about to be “ate”. Gilbert saw I was in trouble, ran back up the slope, grabbed me by the belt and pulled me out. Once the light went on in my thick skull, I joined Victor running down to avoid the advancing fire. We laughed, he called me an idiot, but, really, he saved my life.

Gilbert, may he rest in peace, died in 1981, trapped by a fast moving brush fire near Elizabeth Lake trying to save his engine crew. Gilbert’s brother George also died with his helitack crew when their Jet Ranger crashed in the 1970 San Gabriel Canyon Fork fire. Bad luck. There’s a nice fallen firefighter's memorial in Sacramento with George and Gilbert’s names inscribed on it.

Thank you, Gilbert.

Apologies to Masaoka Shiki

I.

Kraft macaroni

Autumn cheeses golden hue ---

Grace, please use your fork


II.

Two scoops in a cone

Her summer prayers are answered

Ice cream, sidewalk, tears


III.

Please just try a bite

The treat you long for awaits

No bites, all is lost


IV.

The whining must stop

You will eat the things we eat --

Failure, more fish sticks

V.

Bright red sippy-cup

Cooling winter grape Hi-C

Juice sprays out your nose

Christianist Rant

I am dismayed by the disturbing amount of homophobic information on the Internet. A wonderful example is found on “Focus on Your Child dot com.” Among the more blatant examples are the pages dedicated to protecting your children from becoming homosexuals. In his particularly scary book Preventing Homosexuality: A Parent’s Guide, clinical psychologist Joseph Nicolosi, Ph.D., offers some guidelines to combat raising a homosexual child (e.g., Recognize that most homosexuals “were not explicitly [so] when they were children. More often, they displayed a ‘nonmasculinity’ that set them painfully apart from other boys: unathletic — somewhat passive, unaggressive and uninterested in rough-and-tumble play. A number of them had traits that could be considered gifts: bright, precocious, social and relational, and artistically talented.” Tip: Discern whether your boy struggles with feelings of “not belonging.” If he does, seek help.) .

What a bunch of crap. Excuse my outburst. Predictably, Dr. Nicholosi represents the Christianist right. Without starting a rant on the trouble with organized religion – yes, I lump them all together, Christianists, Jews, Moslems, Catholics, etc. – I find it really exasperating that the basis of so much of christianists faith is tied up in their righteous beliefs in how others should behave. All religions also seem to utilize fear as a tool to thwart independent thought, personal discovery and freedom.

This past weekend we attended a lovely party to celebrated my cousin’s ten-year anniversary of being in a committed relationship with his partner. They serve as a shining example of what a fulfilling, loving relationship can be. Among our extended family, they also represent one of the more successful and stable relationships. They’re also productive, wealthy, tax paying, democratic, outspoken, funny, voting Americans.

If my children are or turn out to be gay I will embrace and love them for their character, not for their choice of sexual orientation. If someone holds a different point of view, I will respect that view and will not try to impose my beliefs. But if you try to tell me I am wrong for what I think or in what I believe, you take away my choice. So far I have not found the ultimate arbitrator who can decide what is right and what is not. Until and unless that woman steps forward, we really should each decide for ourselves don't you think?

Travel Ice Hockey

How can I best describe the colossal madness of youth travel ice hockey? How can I possibly convey to non-cult members the extreme level of depraved insanity we share?

The enterprise started out innocently enough. My then youngest child asked if she could attend an early morning ice hockey clinic in the park with her friend Christian. Having zero ability to ever say no to my children, (more on that later) I consented to the clinic. After a few phone calls I learned that all participants would be required to provide their own equipment.

Now for those with no notion of ice hockey you should know that it’s a game played on a frozen surface by twelve heavily padded, helmeted players wearing skates. Notwithstanding the fact that the clinic was for 7 year olds, there were no exceptions to the “provide their own equipment” rule. After a trip to the sporting goods store for the first in a long series of equipment purchases I was lighter by about $200. The clinic fees added another $50 or so.

Mihijita took to the ice immediately and I watched from the stands with her older sister; completely oblivious to what had just occurred. Over the course of that winter, she attended nine or ten early Saturday morning clinics. We rose before dawn, dressed in the dark and made our way to the outdoor rink sometimes in single digit temperatures. She was happy, so I was happy.

My oldest daughter was not so happy. Hija noticed her little sister getting lots of new stuff and receiving a fair amount of attention because of hockey. The following winter, Hija requested her own equipment and tuition for the clinic. Again, there is no no so Hija joined the clinic that year. I could have put an early end to the whole business and knowing what I know now, maybe it would have been for the best. Bygones, water under the Zamboni I suppose.

I should say at the outset I never played ice hockey. Growing up in Los Angeles, we didn’t spend a lot of time looking for pick-up pond hockey games after school. The smog would have prevented it even if the weather had allowed for such recreation. Everything I know about the sport I know because of my kids.

As they grew older, and worked up through the more advanced clinics, my kids developed their skills and moved along a predictable path (not that I would have predicted but – again, what did I know about hockey?) towards something called “travel hockey.” Travel hockey means playing for a team that plays games against other teams. The teams are scattered around the globe, hence the travel part. And while I’m sure there are teams in places like Minnesota and North Dakota where a kid can just walk down the block to their local rink and attend practices and ride on team buses to games – not so in New York City. Although New York has recreation leagues, the level of competition was not commensurate with my kids’ ambitions. OK, they developed into really, really good players.

At this point I should say something about the whole idea of girls playing ice hockey. My mom always told me I could be whatever I wanted to be. Whether that’s good advice or not, I’ve automatically relayed the information to my children. If Mihijita wanted to be an ice hockey player, she got to be an ice hockey player. Title IX of the Educational Amendments of 1972 also didn’t hurt. Girls did not play sports when I was growing up. Girls played with Barbie Dolls and helped mom in the kitchen. Today you are as likely to see girls playing soccer, hockey, lacrosse or even football as you are to see boys. This is a direct consequence of Title IX. Even-steven for everyone. Yet, there came a point during a recreation league game (this is primarily boys mind you) when Hija took a very hard check into the boards and did not get up on her own accord. After that we realized why girls only played ice hockey along with the boys only until they were about 14. At age 15 boys develop certain testosterone driven characteristics that prohibit their association with girls – on the rink or otherwise I might add.

I was not aware at that time that there were girls-only teams out there. After one of these co-ed rec-league games another parent (cult member) came to me to say someone was looking for the parents of Hija and Mihijita. I found the guy and discovered he’d been scouting my kids for a state tournament team – a really big deal in the hockey world – and needed my consent for them to play for the New York City Girl’s Team. I knew they were good, I just didn’t realize they were that good. They tried out for and made the team, played that summer for NYC and returned from the summer tournament looking for higher levels of competition.

By this point Mihijita had moved up to goalie. At the tournament Mihijita faced and turned away shots from at least one player who represented the USA on the Olympic Hockey Team at Salt Lake City. Their mom and I were in awe of our kids.

The closest suitable girls team was based at a rink that was at least an hour’s drive. The girls tried out for and made the team no sweat. I attended the parent orientation (indoctrination) meeting and learned what it means to be a hockey parent. They would attend at least two practices during the week and would play 2 to 4 games each weekend. No team transportation available. Be on time or lose a game.

I was in. I let them cut my palm and I joined my blood with that of the other parents in an oath to travel hockey. And for the past few years I have spent the winters and parts of each summer traveling around the eastern united states supporting my kids’ pursuits. I’ve survived snow storms in Philadelphia, hostile opposing parents in Buffalo, screaming coaches in Washington D.C. and the winds off the Great Lakes in Oswego. All this while my kids beat around a rubber puck at hundreds of ice rinks. My kids have played with and against former, present and future Olympians. They have been featured on TV and in newspapers. I’ve driven as much as 1,200 miles in a single weekend. I have eaten food that I would normally run away from. I have met some remarkable parents and some horribly misguided ones. It’s such a strange strange world.

A word here about the stress this type of activity puts on a marriage. M and H are my kids from a previous marriage. New and improved wife2 has shown incredible patience and support towards her step kids and undeserving husband. She has given up virtually most of her weekends with me during the season. She should be nominated for sainthood. Balancing the wellbeing of M and H with the wellbeing of the marriage has challenged us. Off-season is better but not all our hockey issues have been fully worked out. I worry that until M gets to college, we’ll hash these problems around endlessly. Good news - my kids are two of the top women’s ice hockey players in NYC – Bad news - my kids are two of the top women’s ice hockey players in NYC. Bottom line is it has taken a lot of work on our part to get to this point.

Now for the payoff - H will be playing in the NCAA this fall when she starts college. Three colleges offered her very generous financial aid packages to play for their teams. She had the luxury to choose among colleges she had selected to recruit her as well as the colleges that did not. Her younger sister will probably receive even more attention from colleges because of her size and goalie skills.

I am a very proud father. I am also pretty much ready to be committed but still, proud. The madness associated with this type of parental sacrifice is undeniable. Would I do it all over again? I can’t say. Have my kids benefited and grown closer to their father? Certainly. I never in a million years would have predicted this.

Back from the Island

Each summer we vacation on a narrow island. This year we rented a house right on the beach. At night we could hear the waves crash as they rolled in and feel the ocean breezes as they blew across us as we slept. With little to do other than read, sleep, cook and run, I renewed my life subscription and reaquainted myself with ...well, myself. Here's to ocean breezes.