The Oppenheimer Report - 4/8/12

Last week, before heading down to Buffalo for the final push, I bit the byte and reluctantly procured a new LG Droid smart phone. As anyone who follows this blog knows, I do not willingly embrace new technology, but my 6 year old flip phone became unreliable and needed to be replaced. To complicate matters, my coverage plan is no longer offered, and the new plans typically offer features I don’t want. Heavens to Betsy there are a lot of plans! Do I want unlimited texting, and free weekends and evening calling? Do I want 500MB of data, or more, so I can read the NY Times on a 4 inch screen? Do I need 150 or 500 “anytime” minutes? And there are “apps” for everything. My Droid came loaded with 50 of them, none which I anticipate using. The other day I read that there is an app to let you know if you are too drunk to drive. Just plug in how many drinks you’ve had, your size and weight, within what time frame, and your phone will beep at you when you’re good to drive. Amazing. All those science fiction stories about the robots and computers taking over … as far as I can tell, it’s already happening. And I’m not sure why they call them smart phones, because they make me feel stupid. This new one certainly is more complicated than my old flip phone, and too big to comfortably fit in my pocket. I changed my cell phone carrier as well and am now one of Sir Richard Branson’s bitches. Within the next year or so I expect to be able to operate this new phone, but for now I’m a bit lost. I downloaded the 72 page phone book of instructions from the internet, and there are four pages devoted to safe cell phone use (i.e. if you develop a brain tumor, don’t call us … especially on your cell phone) but some of the most basic features are poorly explained. For instance, there is no proper description of how to enter contact information, an important feature for me. In fact I fooled around with the new phone for hours before I figured out how to move from one data field to another, or how to make a new entry. I’m sure that the nineteen year nose-bejeweled-skateboard-junkie-with-the-attention-span-of-a-Golden-Retriever writer of said manual assumed I was smarter or more intuitive than I am. That said, I have now joined the legions of the incessantly pre-occupied. Soon I will be a texting maniac. You will likely read about me in the newspaper when, completely oblivious, I step off a curb into heavy traffic, only to get squashed like a possum, probably while attempting to text someone some pearl of wisdom such as “R U O.K? Real ironic, huh?

I am writing this on Good Friday, or for us Jews, the first night of Pesach. Tonight we head down to Toronto to have our first night Seder supper with Shauna’s parents. Essentially, my side of the family is disintegrating, the glue holding us together having finally dissolved. Without “American” Thanksgiving to bring the Oppenheimer side together in Buffalo, I doubt there will be any future gatherings. I do have cousins, nieces and nephews scattered around the globe, many of whom I am fond, but in step with the relentless march of time, most of them have jobs, and lives, and families, and perfectly legitimate excuses not to keep in touch. One of the reasons I write this report is to send out the beacon that I’m still here, if anyone wants to know. Lately, I’ve been reaching out to more of my friends and relatives, sending them pertinent family photos or mementoes I salvaged from the Chapin clean out. I’m probably a more frequent correspondent that most people I know, and I still practice the ancient art of writing (in full sentences). I got that from my dad; he wrote wonderful letters. It used to bother me that only a handful of my recipients reciprocate, but it doesn’t so much anymore. I write because I love to write. That’s why I write songs. It's certainly not for a listening audience from whom I feel increasingly estranged. I’ve learned that communication is in and of itself a destination, and I suppose it gives me a sense of meaning at a time when I desperately need to find some.

If this week’s report seems a bit philosophical, or worse yet, self-justifying, my apologies. I kind of melted down last week, and had I not had the unfailing support of my wife and a few close friends, it might have turned ugly. All the grief I have staved off these past few years, subliminally repressed in my relentless drive to “do the right thing” has come welling up like a tidal wave of emotion, and now I cry like a baby at the drop of a hat. Here’s my shout out to all of my missing-in-action friends and relatives. I’m not much of a phone guy. You will not likely be receiving copious texts from me, nor can you expect a cell phone call, unless perhaps you live in Canada, or you call me (I no longer have the “North America Plan” ). I’m not a big Facebook user, I don’t tweet, and I’m not interesting enough to write a decent book. But to all twelve of you out there, I’ve been spilling my guts in this report weekly for over twenty years, and when cell phones become obsolete, I will likely still be doing this; that is, sending my inane thoughts out into the vacuum of cyberspace as if I am the last man on earth.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED