The Oppenheimer Report - 12/31/06

“HALFWAY”

“It’s a rainy New Year’s Eve, and it’s so hard to believe
That the woman I used to hold so tight won’t be spending tonight with me
From my high rise I can see all the parties in the street
But the joy and celebration seem so far away from me

‘Cause I’m halfway through this bottle, halfway through my blues
Halfway to oblivion, but I’m nowhere near halfway over you.

Headlights on the highway heading downtown for the count
But I just want to fly away, take me out of this crowded town
And the rain outside is timely, because I’ve recognized that finally
When I lost you, and I’ve lost you, that was such a foolish move

Now I’m halfway through this bottle, halfway though my blues
Halfway to oblivion, but I’m nowhere near halfway over you

It’s a rainy New Year’s Eve, and it’s so hard to believe
That the woman I used to hold so tight won’t be spending tonight with me
In a moment this year will end, and you’re out with some other man
And it tears me in two to think about you giving your love to somebody new … so

Cho: repeat

I wrote that song back in the late nineties on a particularly blue New Year’s Eve. Shauna was not feeling well, and we decided to order some Chinese food and quietly usher in the New Year at home. Contrary to the tone of the song, it actually turned into quite a pleasant evening, but that moment in time inspired me to write one of my better blues songs. I don’t know why I used to feel impelled to celebrate on New Year’s Eve. I’ve had and been to some good New Year’s Eve parties, but as often as not, I would have been better off at home, with the woman I love, eating Chinese take-out and watching the world’s oldest living teenager announce the ball drop in Times Square. I’m not sure Dick Clark will be involved this year, but that’s probably how we’ll welcome in 2007.

There seem to have been a lot of notable casualties this past week so, before the birth of 2007, I will begin with the Grim Reaper. Dubbed “The Godfather of Soul” and the “The Hardest Working Man in Show Business,” R&B legend James Brown died Christmas Day at the age of 73. I never could understand much of what he sang, but it’s hard not to move when I hear his music. When I think of James Brown I am reminded of that Eddie Murphy “Hot Tub” spoof from Saturday Night Live. A Rock and Roll Hall of Famer, Brown had more than one brush with the law. I recently read somewhere that he got his start in the music business after a stint in reform school. It’s sad that the most common file photo shown on the news before he died was his mug shot, taken following an aggravated assault charge in South Carolina. I think he and Nick Nolte had the same mug shot photographer. Another notable obituary: Gerald Ford, dead at 93. Ford will probably best be remembered as the President by default who pardoned Nixon, and historians will likely debate that decision until the end of time. Often depicted as clumsy and not-that-bright when he served (Chevy Chase did my favorite impression of him on Saturday Night Live), Ford probably looks like a rocket scientist now, especially when compared to our current Commander-in-Chief. Other notable obituaries: Steve “The Crocodile Hunter” Irwin, Peter Boyle, Shelly Winters, and the annoying old man down the hall who, every time we rode in the elevator together, asked me if I’d found Jesus (to which I almost always politely replied that I wasn’t looking for him). Former Iraqi tyrant Saddam Hussein was executed last Friday night, shortly after his desperate Hail Mary appeal was denied to become a legal resident of California. The arguments will linger on about the legitimacy of Hussein’s trial, as will the debates in the international community about the U.S. influence on his public vilification and swift execution. In this day and age, it was strange to see anyone with a hangman’s noose around his neck, given the North American aversion to capital punishment. I’m glad Hussein is gone, as I’m sure are many Iraqi countrymen who suffered under his oppressive rule. Still, his death underscores the hypocrisy of U.S. foreign policy. We used to feed that monster.

Finally, I don’t know where to begin with my resolutions. I’ve had so many meltdowns in the past two months, I suppose one of my resolutions should be to remain calmer in crises. Patience is always good, and I could use a lot more of that, especially with my long-suffering wife. I’d like to learn more about Muslims, and especially about the differences among them. I hope to see more of my parents in the coming year and in general, to be a better son to them. I want to write at least five good songs in the upcoming year. I’d like us to see one Academy-nominated film before the awards are announced in 2007. In 2006, I was not consistent in writing this report weekly, and I want to get back to that schedule. Overall, I hope to be more understanding and less judgmental. And, as I do every year, I vow not to say nasty things about the French. Shauna, Jasper and I wish you a happy, healthy, safe New Year … and if you’re going to get schnockered, do it at home or take a cab. Until next year!

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2006 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Happy Holidays! - The OppenheimerReport - 12/24/06

The Night Before Christmas (In a Crumbling House)…

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
Not an appliance malfunctioned for me or my spouse
The sewer was augured, the fridge was replaced
The dishwasher’s new in its stainless steel case
The electrical panel is expanded and new,
Now we can turn on the microwave and not blow a fuse
The fifty year-old furnaces were torn out and scrapped
Now the new ones are efficient and they don’t blow out crap
The toilets that exploded have now been removed
The new ones are perfect with less water use
The carpets are up and the floors have been sanded
The bids are all in to have the bathroom expanded
The lights have been checked, and the faucets don’t leak
Indeed all of these problems are beyond our belief
And as I lay down to sleep having written this spoof
I’m just praying that Santa doesn’t screw up our roof

It always seems to me that this time of year is stressful for a lot of people. Indirectly, I’ve always picked up on the materialism and enforced gift-giving, and consequently, I have always rued the Christmas season. This is probably because I am so truthful and good that even a hint of insincerity sends me into a tailspin. Ironically, this year I haven’t had the time to notice the holiday mayhem. The other day, I suddenly realized that Christmas was upon us, when I was wandering around in Home Depot, for about the tenth time in a week, and there was very strange Christmas music playing over the P.A. I think I’ve been in a stupor of shocked disbelief for the past four weeks, expecting a new crisis to surface at any moment. The Christmas music was merely haunting background noise.

Though I’ve never been much of a fan of the holiday itself, I am a big fan of the music it has spawned over the years, particularly the comedic songs. Certainly, one of MY favorites – and I’m not even sure if I know the proper title – is “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer”. Speaking of laughter, I got a belly laugh out of some pictures in this week’s Saturday Toronto Star. On page B4 there are 9 photographs of Santa with children, and only three of the thirteen kids aren’t crying. For some reason, the photos reminded me of a very funny David Sedaris story, which I am sure I have mentioned in this report before, called “The Santaland Diaries”. In it Sedaris recounts his experiences as a hired elf at Macy’s in Manhattan during the Christmas season. It is one of the funniest things I have ever read. I realize that the real Santa is busy at the North Pole, and that these impersonators / helpers are perhaps not as jolly and comforting as the real deal, but come on folks. Is forced exposure to this parade of pseudo-Santas really good for your kids? Most of them don’t know this guy from an ax murderer. I suppose it is a holiday tradition to snap a photo of your toddler with Santa, crying hysterically, then to throw that snapshot back in the child’s face when he or she is old enough to find it embarrassing. I think it has something to do with a subliminal desire by the parents, after having sacrificed everything for their ever-demanding children, to mess with their self-esteem. Come on Mom and Dad, be nice … (the real) Santa remembers everything.

Anyhow, I hope to be back to my weekly missives soon … if the dust settles (we just had the hardwood floors sanded). May your holidays be peaceful and filled with friends and family. Jasper, Shauna, and I send you a collective hug from Toronto.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2006 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The OppenheimerReport - 12/15/06

This has been a particularly bizarre four weeks, and I’m not sure where to begin. We stopped off at the Taylors' to pick up some food on our way to the cottage, and we’ve been here ever since! Dr. Taylor just came home from the hospital today, almost four weeks after we began the lengthy and frustrating process of getting an Ontario doctor to properly diagnose his ailment. He is still far from 100 per cent but greatly relieved to be out of isolation.

Shauna and I have been living at the Taylor residence since Dr. Taylor went into the hospital, and it has become obvious to us that the Taylors have been overwhelmed for quite some time. They have not been properly maintaining their house, and the myriad of little problems and hassles began to pile up. Somehow, Shauna and I have been deluding ourselves into thinking that everything was O.K., and that her parents were taking care of their needs. Unfortunately, that has not been the case, and it has become painfully apparent that Mom Taylor, pre-occupied with the task of attending to the needs of her husband, has put off some desperately-needed repairs to their house. During the past three weeks since we moved in to this house, the sewer backed up, we discovered that there are serious plumbing problems which caused, among other things, damaging leaks in the finished basement, the alarm system has malfunctioned, more than once, and we realized that the house has had some very serious electrical problems.

It all started when we noticed some work had been left undone in their bathroom. An irresponsible plumber, hired to address the afore-mentioned leaks, had torn a big hole in their shower stall and then simply left the job unfinished. It became obvious, after consulting several other contractors, that there was a serious leak coming from somewhere in the floor. Perhaps it was a drain problem, or a water supply line, but whatever it was, it was a bigger job than originally anticipated. Then we noticed there were leaks coming from the kitchen sink, which had damaged most of the ceiling directly below in the basement. Then the sewer backed up, leaving the laundry room in the basement filled with raw sewage. This all happened within a week of our arrival. Several days later, the security alarm went off for no apparent reason, cutting off our phone line as we were getting an important update on Dr. Taylor’s progress in the hospital. Then the fridge died, and in the process of replacing that appliance, we came to the realization that the electrical service in this house was in need of some extensive repairs, which turned into a decision to replace the 25 year-old electrical panel down in the basement.

When the refrigerator died, we decided to replace the dishwasher as well. It hadn’t totally quit working yet but was in need of repair as the dry cycle was weak so we felt that the machine had reached the end of its useful life. The crowning blow occurred the other day, when we had the furnace guy come in to replace what we thought was a faulty thermostat. As it turned out, the problem was with the furnace. The repair man took one look at it and asked me somewhat astonished: “How old IS this thing?” I called the Taylors in the hospital to find out that they had lived in the house for 48+ years and had never replaced the two furnaces. Those furnaces were likely over 50 years old. Upon further investigation, the furnace guy looked at me and said, and I paraphrase: “Heat exchanger’s gone, I’m gonna have to red tag this one.”

“Excuse me, what does that mean?” I asked somewhat desperately.

“I have to shut this one down for good, by law, I cannot fire it up again …. too dangerous. I can’t stop YOU from doing it, but I’m telling you not to do it, for your own safety.” Actually, firing it back up was not an option, because I wouldn’t know how.

Keep in mind that by that time, Shauna and I had been coordinating additional health care for her father in the hospital, dealing with deadlines for the new log home, attending to Shauna’s business, shuttling Shauna’s mom to and from the hospital, dealing with the constellation of other house-related disasters, and averaging less than four hours of sleep per night. When this furnace repair man told me that we would now be without our heat source, I practically flipped out. Then came the sudden realization that, yes in fact this WAS happening and we would now need to scramble to get a new furnace (probably two, because the basement furnace was just as old) … all before the next cold snap rolled in. The next two hours featured a frantic series of phone calls to investigate our options. Those furnaces were not going to be easy to remove, because a room had been built around them AFTER they had been installed. Just before Christmas is not the best time to be shopping for this kind of work, but Shauna managed to convince the Taylors' furnace repair people to do the job quickly. Luckily, the owner of the company was a family friend, and he really helped us out when he found out what was going on in the Taylor family. Within four days, we had the furnace room wall partially knocked down, the old furnaces demolished and removed, and the new furnaces, new air cleaner, and new humidifier installed in the basement.

Just as we were breathing a sigh of relief, believing that we had fixed all the problems in the house, the two main toilets in the house malfunctioned.

Now that Dr. Taylor is finally home, I think Shauna and I might sleep for the entire weekend, confident that Dr. and Mrs. Taylor will not die of carbon monoxide poisoning or in an electrical fire. Next Tuesday, the electrician comes back to finish some of the elective rewiring work. On Wednesday, we’re moving furniture out of the way, having wall-to-wall carpets pulled up from 3 large areas, having the original hardwood floors sanded, stained, and varnished, and we will hopefully get started on the work to remodel the ensuite bathroom. I’m beginning to feel like a general contractor!

Happy Chanukah, Merry Christmas, and Seasons Greetings to one and all.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2006 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The OppenheimerReport - 11/28/06

Did you ever have a song rumbling around in your head that you can’t seem to shake? Right now, I can’t get Elvin Bishop’s “Fooled Around and Fell in Love” out of my head. I recently bought a CD of Elvin’s greatest hits, and it’s a genuine toe-tapper. My favorite Elvin Bishop song, and there are quite a few, is “Travelin’ Shoes”. On my new blog site, there is a section for my profile (enough about me, what do YOU think of me?). The truth is, there is so much music I like, it’s hard to pick favorites … and in what category? Favorite songs? Favorite albums? Favorite songwriters, singers, musicians, style of music? “Yummy Yummy,Yummy (I’ve Got Love in My Tummy)” by Tommy Roe is my favorite vacuous pop song, but how many people even have a category for that?

Shauna and I saw a commercial for PetSmart pet stores the other day and it gave us both a belly laugh. In it, a Dachshund is obviously enamored of a special toy which looks like a long, furry, stuffed hot dog. The dog carries it everywhere, and it’s hilarious to see this little wiener dog trotting along furiously with this 18” long furry hotdog in its mouth. We, the presumably dog-loving-and-would-do-anything-for-our-beloved-pet consumers, are led to believe that the dog is inseparable from its toy, but when it’s time to replace the toy, the owner sneaks in while the dog is sleeping (upside down, I might add), extricates the ratty, saliva-saturated toy from the obsessed pet, and throws it in the trash can. The next scene is of the owner and her pet at PetSmart, procuring an exact replacement. The final scene is a rear-end shot of the happy pet, merrily trotting out of PetSmart, little tushy wiggling, carrying the replacement toy in its mouth. What a sales pitch that was! Of course, we had to get one of those hotdog toys (loofah dog toys I believe they’re called) for Jasper, and it was not false advertising; Jasper loves that thing and sleeps with one paw draped over it. If you’ve never been to one, and you need pet supplies, PetSmart is worth a visit. It’s not your average pet store. Whereas most pet stores probably allow you to bring your pet inside, PetSmart actually encourages it. I went on a Saturday, and there were dogs all over the place, some who were obviously not very well house-trained. In the middle of the store, there was a dog training class with a circle of hopeful dog owners and their disobedient pets. From what I could tell in my brief observation of the class, there was much to be learned, and the pupils seemed to be a bit attention-challenged. There was also a section where dogs were being groomed, and there was a lot of barking and howling going on in that store. In this petdamonium, I had a hard time finding my hotdog toys, so distracted was I by all the crazy animals and their owners. For people and pet-watching, it doesn’t get much funnier than a pet supermarket.

We are still at the Taylors' house, almost two weeks after Dr. Taylor fell ill. He is still in the hospital suffering from a bacterial infection known as “C-Difficile”. This illness is quite serious, and can, if left undiagnosed, be fatal. Apparently, we all have good and bad bacteria in our bowels. C-Difficile is one of the bad ones, and if allowed to flourish, it can cause all sorts of problems. Most of us are healthy enough to ward off the bad stuff, but in Dr. Taylor’s case, the combination of his age, his compromised immune system, and a dose of antibiotics he took for some dental work, allowed this opportunistic bacteria to grow and take hold. Right now, he is participating in a study designed to test a new polymer drug which essentially wraps itself around the bad bacteria and prevents it from releasing its damaging toxins. At present, the conventional therapy for C-Difficile is more antibiotics – the very treatment which can cause it in the first place! Dr. Taylor is in isolation and visitors must wear rubber gloves, a mask, and a gown each time they enter the room.

Once again, our lives are on hold as we attend to the needs of our parents. At present, we are arranging for health care and dealing with a myriad of deferred maintenance issues at the Taylor home. We were supposed to have our revised plans to the log home builders two weeks ago, but that will have to wait. One of my favorite quotes (I heard it in a John Lennon song), and I paraphrase: Life is what happens to you when you’re making other plans.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2006 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Mayberry Revisited - The OppenheimerReport - 10/10/97

It’s time to play “Where are they now?”. This week, we return to Mayberry RFD to see how that sleepy little town has fared over the past twenty-five years ....
Remember Clara? She had to be institutionalized after, in a state of dementia, she was discovered flashing schoolchildren at a local elementary school. Lost without her best friend, the lovable Aunt Bea becomes a compulsive gambler, and eventually loses her house and all her worldly possessions betting at the track.

Helen Crump catches Andy (to whom she is now engaged) in bed with the town slut, dashing any hopes she might have had of marital bliss. Betrayed and jaded, she becomes a waitress/table dancer at the local biker bar, subsequently losing an eye trying to break up a vicious knife fight. Sporting her signature black eye patch, she becomes known as “One-Eyed Helen”, the meanest barmaid in Mayberry.

Unable to cope with the pressures of student life at NYU, Opie flips out one day and, before he can be subdued, sprays automatic gunfire across a crowded floor of Christmas shoppers at Bloomingdales. He is sentenced to life in prison with no chance of parole, and Andy disowns him.

Still the town drunk, Otis becomes a successful real estate entrepreneur, buying up 300 acres of farmland on the outskirts of town and developing it for industrial use. When some of the property is sold to a large landfill operation to service a nearby big city, the resulting pollution and groundwater contamination virtually decimate the once pristine Mayberry, landing it on the state toxic waste hit list. Otis profits handsomely and buys a seat on the N.Y. Stock Exchange with the windfall.

Now married, Thelma Lou and Barney raise eyebrows in the little town when they are caught in a bizarre sex scandal. In a heated session of kinky sex, they accidentally handcuff each other to their bed and, because Barney’s keys were in his pants pocket across the room, they are forced to remain in that compromised position until they are discovered the next morning by the cleaning lady . That Barney.

Howard Sprague, the honest, mild-mannered, and kind-hearted accountant grows weary of being Mr. Nice Guy. Using his computer skills to siphon off state aid targeted for Mayberry, he loots $375,000 from the town coffers, then runs off to the Caymans with Floyd's wife. Humiliated and unable to face the embarrassment of being a cuckold in a small town, Floyd stabs himself to death with his barber’s shears.

Goober is nabbed by the Feds when it is revealed that for years he had been running a “chop shop” out of his small Mayberry garage. Widely believed to be a simpleton by the local townsfolk, Goober turns out to be the most feared and respected crime boss in the state. All told, his net worth is estimated to be in the neighborhood of $23 million. He is tied to the Hoffa disappearance and several other conspicuous hits, but law officials are unable to make any charges stick. When all the witnesses in the investigation disappear without a trace, Goober gets off with a fine and a warning.

To make a long story short, Mayberry went down the crapper the day the show went off the air. Needless to say, I was shocked to hear about Aunt Bea ... and who knew about Goober?

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c1997 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The OppenheimerReport - 11/13/06 - I Have a Blog Site!

The big news this week is that I have finally entered the 21st Century and am now the proud sponsor (or whatever one calls it) of my very own blog site. If you travel to: http://theoppenheimerreport.blogsite.com/ on the Information Traffic Jam, you will find a better alternative to the emails I have been sending so far. There are photographs on the site, and text will be, perhaps for the first time, properly formatted. Unfortunately, the site is somewhat unorganized at present. Right now, there is no rhyme or reason to the order of the posts. I have included some of my favorite reports from the past fourteen years for your perusal and/or comments. I will also be able to archive past reports, which is a big plus. Most important, it is much easier for me to post now, and I hope all of you will continue to read my musings when I no longer spam you with them. In any event, you will no longer need to delete me from your email box after this report. This is a long way from the post cards I used to type up when I first began to write this weekly report to my “twelve loyal readers” back in 1992. In my first report, then President George H. Bush vomited all over some important Japanese guy. Who knew his son would be a bigger bozo?

Shauna, Jasper, and I are back in the big city for a week or so, and we will head back up to the cottage this week to sew up some loose ends. Permission to build our new driveway should be granted as soon as the town superintendent of roads returns from his hunting trip, and hopefully work will begin on that later this week. So begins Phase One. The plans for the house have been all but finalized, environmental authorities have given the project the green light, land severances should be finalized early next year, window sizes and locations have been determined, electrical and lighting locations are under consideration (log homes present a challenge in that wiring must run through log walls, and decisions tend to be final once construction drawings are completed), etc. etc. There are a lot of etceteras! The dilemma at present is whether or not to level the existing cottage. Shauna feels that all or part of it can be moved to the side while the new place is being built, thus providing us with a living space during construction, a storage facility, as well as buying us some time to salvage the paneling and other (debatably) useful building materials for use in the new place. She then anticipates using part of the old cottage as our storage shed. While I sympathize with her desire to remember the old cottage, I say, “out with the bad air”. If you go to the blog site, you will see some pictures of our property in Katrine, as well as some photos from our various mountain trips. Once I get things organized properly, new posts will appear at the top of the page.

Finally, as for the political bloodbath which recently took place in the States, I’m not at all surprised. Though I am a registered Republican (easy now), Bush and his ultra right wing conservatives lost me a long time ago. In his crusade to finish what his father started, or whatever myopic vision was his motivation for invading Iraq, he has squandered any goodwill America once had around the world. His Neanderthal views about science and right to life are crippling medical progress. How do the ethicists justify “saving” an embryo, but not a mother of three dying of cancer? The “architect” of the Bush administration, Karl Rove, has pushed the party to the far right and he has alienated moderate Republicans like me. One of my more conservative friends wrote me the other day in response to “Blue Tuesday” and he basically said “throw the Republican bums out”. Does anybody in politics ever admit they were wrong? How about that evangelical religious leader recently accused of fornicating with a gay male prostitute, AND purchasing drugs from the guy? Oops. Preach what you practice! One of the great things about democracy is that the system can and does self correct. For a couple of years, we may have a Congress that leans too far to the left, but then the pendulum will swing back. I hope.

Goodbye to 60 Minutes journalist Ed Bradley, who died last week of Leukemia. I wonder if a stem cell breakthrough might have saved his life. And thanks to our friend Zura for finally setting me up on a blog site!

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2006 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

My Beautiful Wife Shauna Leigh

Doe Lake (Old Cottage, New Dock, Jasper, etc.)

 
 
  

 
 
 
  

 
 
 
  

Doe Lake Dusk

Assiniboine Hike with Shauna

  

Canadian National Exhibition Air Show 2006

 

Avalanche near Sentinel Pass - Alberta

 

Santa - The OppenheimerReport - 12/13/98

The OppenheimerReport - 12/13/98
Most people don’t know this, but Santa and I are old buddies. I first met him back in ‘79 at a Shriners convention in Milwaukee, and we became fast friends. I’ve partied with him a few times. Santa was a real womanizer, and he had a thing for super models. It almost cost him his marriage, which is no great loss, if you ask me. In my opinion, Mrs. Claus could guard a bridge. Anyhow, I don’t enjoy chronicling Santa’s gradual physical and spiritual decline over the past several years, but better it should be me than say, Geraldo. Briefly, here’s a four year review of some of the problems that have plagued the “Teflon Elf,” leading up to this year’s nail in the coffin...

It all began to unravel for Santa after he received an FWI (flying while intoxicated) back in 1993. It had been a particularly stressful year, and Santa had been deluged by all the requests for politically correct toys, not to mention a potentially crippling elf strike. One night, after a major bender with several of his upper management elves, Santa was pulled over for driving erratically ... he was trying to mow down birds with his sleigh. To rub assault into the wound, he punched his arresting officer. Using every last ounce of his North Pole clout, he managed to avoid jail, but was sentenced to a 36 month probation along with two hundred years of community service. Worst of all, he was grounded for Christmas that year, and everything had to go out Fed Ex. That was a financial nightmare for the Clauses. Then in ‘94, there was the class action lawsuit, initiated as a result of sixty-two sleigh-damaged roofs on Long Island (that was a bad year for the reindeer... Rudolph had had them all out late the night before, and they were very rusty on the approach). This culminated in a $12 million settlement. His insurance company reluctantly covered the claim, but of course Santa was dumped right after the settlement. Now he’s completely uninsured. In 1995, perhaps suffering from “menoclaus,” Mrs. Claus had an affair with a Kuwaiti arms dealer. That whole mess was extremely embarrassing, especially when this lover was caught selling weapons to the Iraqis. Talk about pond scum! Because of all the bad press, Santa had a nervous breakdown. I won’t go into the sordid details, but let’s just say Santa desperately needed some quiet time. I’ll wager that, if it hadn’t been for the combined efforts of Dr. Ruth and Tony Robbins, Santa would today be a drooling cretin, incarcerated in a mental institution and living day to day for his paper cup full of anti-depressants. That Tony Robbins is a god.

On top of all this there was the major elf problem in 1996. A bloody elf turf war over drugs practically shut down the whole toy making operation, and three of Santa’s main elves, Guano, Horker, and Merkin, were slaughtered in a rain of bullets from a fly-by shooting. Santa never really recovered from losing them. That was also the year of the ugly copyright dispute with Disney, SPCA allegations of reindeer abuse, problems with the IRS, charges of mail fraud, toxic toy litigation, and stricter FAA regulations on air travel. In short, over the past four years, Santa has been swirling head first down the toilet of misfortune. Now, just when he’s starting to get back on his feet, scandal rears its ugly head again. In September of this year a fourteen year-old gymnast named Tiffany Kaputsky came forward claiming she can prove Santa sexually abused her last year. It’s possible this is yet another Republican smear campaign, designed to take down what is widely considered to be a Democratic icon. Of course, Santa denies everything, but apparently somebody has uncovered a pair of gym tights with Santa’s you-know-what on them and well, I think you know where this is going. I don’t know how Santa gets into these situations, but this one could turn ugly. Why anyone would want to bring down Father Christmas is beyond me, but Santa has always been a bit of a hound dog. This could be the toughest scandal he has ever faced. Somehow, through it all, he has remained focused, and every Christmas Eve, he has managed to deliver toys to boys and girls around the world. The naughty and nice have been duly recognized and coal has been put in all the appropriate stockings. Amazing if you think about it. By the way kids, no cookies for Santa this year, OK? He has a blood sugar problem.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c1998 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Lost in Space - The OppenheimerReport - 3/3/96

The OppenheimerReport - 3/3/96
More Fluff. At two o'clock this morning, while in a semi-comatose state, I was flipping around the dial for some golden nugget of late night television to watch, when I was rewarded with an episode from “Lost in Space”. Have you ever watched this show? Before it was banished to the catacombs of really late night TV, I used to watch “Lost in Space” a lot. Yeah, yeah, I know, get a life ... I tell you, this is good stuff!

Last night’s episode was, as usual, predictable (like “Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea”, wherein Kowalski always gets turned into a sea monster, but never gets killed, because they need him for the next show) ... Dr. Smith, who, in case you didn’t know, is a total jerk in every episode, once again endangers the whole family, this time by giving away one of their thrusters (no, not June Lockhart) to some bad guy from “Andy of Mayberry” who was playing a careless miner and who, in the process of digging for cosmonium (which comes in a little bottle and looks like a urine sample, but which is really the essence of life as we know it), causes the planet to become unstable and to disintegrate. It was so funny, I had tears streaming down from my eyes.

Whoever dreamed this show up deserves ... well, something. I haven’t enjoyed TV this much in ten years. The family space ship looks like an overturned Tupperware dog dish - what happened anyway, did they let the robot drive? The costumes are 1950's ski attire, and the robot, who, by the way, is my favorite actor in the series, is a moody, wise-cracking, reconditioned gravity feed furnace, with all-terrain treads for feet, a goofy big flat lightbulb for a head, flailing pool vacuum hoses for arms, who sounds like the guy who used to announce for Letterman, and who yells, “WARNING! WARNING!” a lot. The family pet is a moon chimp with furry antennae that look a little like they were ripped off a giraffe. Instead of making normal chimp noises, this thing bloops like a pot of thick chili turned up too high on the stove. They must have had a stunt chimp too, because in one scene, when the ground begins to shake, that ape is literally catapulted off the set. I wish I had taped it, because, one second it was there, and the next, all I saw was an antenna and an arm at the other end of the screen. Let me tell you, that stunt monkey earned its bananas ... I’d rather have Jackie Chan’s job. And I think that chimp was Bubbles’ mother (you’ve probably read about her torrid affair with Cheetah), which would explain a lot of things.

The evil Dr. Zachary Smith is a truly complex character. A stowaway and unwanted guest aboard the big upside down dog dish, he flits about with Will (the little boy), and the robot, pining incessantly for Earth. The writers have chosen to make him an effeminate coward, which must have been how the writers in the early 70's viewed homosexuals ... evil, selfish, and cowardly. Of course to complete the stereotype, we have three women who are total fluff heads; pretty, but too stupid and frail to handle the heavy equipment and fun-to-drive moon vehicles. Presumably, they do their hair a lot, because it is always exactly the same in each show. A critical aside: June Lockhart’s hair was a lot better on “Lassie”.

What ever happened to the cast of “Lost in Space” ... are they still out there? Maybe they can find that $460+ Million satellite NASA just lost. Maybe they’ve just faded into obscurity. Perhaps they’re selling maps to the stars’ houses. Heavy sigh.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©1996 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Barbie - The OppenheimerReport - 9/14/96

The OppenheimerReport - 9/14/96
The other night, I was surfing the tube, looking for something to watch for half an hour that wasn’t completely depressing, and I was rewarded with a documentary on Barbie ... the doll, that is. Of course I had to watch.

Forget that Saddam Hussein is very close to provoking a war with the United States, forget about the increasing use of heroin among young American adults, as reported by Dan Rather ... we have some really important news here. Barbie has big boobs ... and Ken is a rich, apathetic twit without a pecker.

When I first started watching this program, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Admittedly, I came in about a third of the way through the show, but I think I caught the drift. Basically, it was a commentary by several so-called Barbie experts about what Barbie has “done” through the ages; what she was feeling, whether sex was on her mind (tough call, because Ken doesn’t have any genitalia), and who she “became” as time went on. Is she a gum-chewing, licentious, conniving (albeit well-dressed) she-devil, or a sensitive, intelligent wonder woman, preoccupied with helping others? Does she get depressed? People were actually discussing these “issues” with a straight face.

They even went so far as to cover interviews with women who sought to be Barbie. That was frightening ... that they have Barbie look alike contests ... with real women choosing to compete in them! I recalled seeing a show about some woman who had multiple plastic surgeries in order to make herself look like Barbie. I don’t know how any of my readers feel about this, but I think what we have here are some people with way, way too much time on their hands. Surely, Barbie has provided hours of fun and entertainment for her billions of adoring, young (and old) fans. Still, at the end of the day, is not Barbie a plastic doll, with detachable limbs, painted eyes, and synthetic hair punched neatly into her empty plastic head? I don’t get it. Does Barbie worry about world peace? I think not. Is she an insult to the feminist movement in America and abroad, because she represents everything that is shallow and superficial about women? I haven’t given it much thought, but what kind of person would? Does she “do” Ken? My goodness, is NOTHING sacred? Besides, I always thought Barbie was saving herself for marriage.
There are all sorts of Barbie Dolls, and Barbie has changed over the years to reflect the times. I have a few suggestions for Barbies that I think would typify these turbulent 90's ...

Since everyone is so serious about attaching real feelings and emotions to this doll, how about ... “Pregnant Teen Barbie”, “Crack Whore Barbie”, “Single Mother on Welfare with Six Kids Barbie”, “Dominatrix Barbie”, “Wasted Rock Star on Heroin Carrying the Ashes of Her Dead Husband Around in a Backpack Barbie” ... you get the idea.

At one point during this programming gem, it was suggested that Barbie might one day be responsible for world peace, and I do think this is possible ... in fact, I have a suggestion. Why don’t they paint Barbie onto all the missiles they’re about to lob at Saddam and his unfortunate countrymen. Then she can make her small contribution to world peace ... but Mother Teresa she will never be.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c1996 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Medieval Feast - The OppenheimerReport - 1/9/00

The OppenheimerReport - 1/9/00
I watched a commercial for one of those Medieval Feast places the other night, and by golly I want to go. For those of you who don’t live in a large metropolitan area, with a glut of entertainment options, you probably don’t even know what a medieval feast place IS. This is basically a fun-filled evening for which you pay an all-inclusive admission fee to sit in an auditorium, eat meat with your hands, and watch men on horseback try to spear each other in a mock jousting match. Occasionally, there is the odd hand-to-hand skirmish and maces and balls and chains are called for, but mostly, it’s just skewering. Picture yourself tearing apart an unmanageable slab of cheap, underdone cow meat (heaven knows from what part of the cow), as you watch chainmail-clad horsemen try to impale each other with giant pool cues. If that isn’t enough excitement, their galloping horses fling large gobs of mud and saliva up into your food as they race by. You have a front row seat for all the feudal carnage and savagery you can stomach. Relive the good old days for one, very reasonable, all-inclusive admission charge. Fun per dollar, I don’t know how you can do better than this.

Call me a testosterone-choked moron, but I love crap like this. It’s not that violence turns me on, it’s more that this is simply such a ludicrous concept. It makes about as much sense as watching the Foot Surgery Channel on TV as you sit down to your spaghetti dinner.

I am reminded of a funny experience I had a long time ago, when I spent a semester studying abroad in Dublin, Ireland. I and my classmates were taken on a field trip, as part of our cultural experience, and one of our stops was dinner at a place called Bunratty Castle. It was a genuine, ancient stone castle, dating back to Celtic times, which had been transformed into a rather bizarre restaurant. First, we were served mead wine by real wenches, and then, once sufficiently lubricated, we were led into a large banquet hall for a good old-fashioned throw-the-bones-over-your-shoulder medieval feast. They BRAGGED about this. The feastitorium seated about two or three hundred, but on the night we were there it was only about half full. The tables were long, seating between forty to fifty diners, and each place setting consisted of a serrated knife and a plate, but no other utensils. For the tour group of geriatric bible thumpers from Iowa, this must have seemed quite a primitive feast, but to my study group, made up in large part by scoundrels of questionable Irish decent, armed with their somewhat muddled interpretation of what was proper medieval decorum, this was a green light to party.

After several more tankards of mead wine, we realized that the folks at the next table were a rugby team visiting from England, and that they too were getting into the spirit of things. Once our slabs of animal flesh had been served, it wasn’t long before the mother of all food fights broke out. It was instant mayhem, the likes of which I doubt the managers of Bunratty Castle had ever anticipated or even imagined.

Entertainment during our feast was supposed to be a quartet of musicians playing music from the period, and they were all dressed in those balloon pants and those funny hats with big feathers. I’m sure they felt silly enough dressed like that, but no words can describe how silly they must have felt fending off projectiles of beef with their lutes and drums. Amidst the chaos - and let there be no mistake, this was CHAOS, there sat the Iowans, calmly eating their meals with as much dignity as they could muster, (remember they have only knives with which to eat), ducking occasionally to miss the odd incoming roll or slab of meat.

Needless to say, we, the School of Irish Studies and the rugby team, were summarily escorted out of Bunratty Castle before we could finish our medieval desserts, but not before leaving our indelible mark on the patience of these tourist trap imposters. Covered with food, we were bussed back to our hotel where we spent the next four hours drinking even more and embellishing what was already a slam dunk in the “memorable experience” department. By the way, I grudgingly admit that the rugby guys won the food fight. Now, whenever I see an ad for one of these Joust-O-Rama places, it triggers fond memories of that Bacchanalian orgy in which I was so blessed to have participated.

As I approach that stage in my life to which I loathingly refer as “approaching respectability” ... that point where I would never in a million years dream of behaving with such a careless lack of decorum, I look back on my Bunratty adventure as one of the high points in my Irish experience. Sometimes, while eating dinner with my wife at a fine restaurant, I’ll toss an olive at her, just for old time’s sake. In response, she will look at me as if to say “I married a single cell organism” ... or, worse yet, she’ll simply ignore my token nostalgic gesture. That hurts. In my mind there can’t be enough of these medieval feast places to satisfy the base needs of men all over the world. It’s in our nature to be this way, and all this rubbish about the rules of civilized behavior is totalitarian hogwash, foisted upon us by prudes like Emily Post and Miss Manners.
Oh, to be medieval again! Honey, do you know where I put my good feather? It’s time to feast!

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2000 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Pastel Sunset at Little Doe Lake, Katrine, Ontario