The Oppenheimer Report 12/26/07

Boxing Day in Burk’s Falls … it’s a shopper’s dream! Too bad I already paid too much for my goofy trooper hat a few weeks ago; I probably could have found a real bargain today. Hope you all had a happy holiday, spent with family and friends. My Christmas present last week was a clean bill of health. Last Thursday, I had my first colonoscopy, and while the twenty-four hours preceding the test were no picnic, the actual procedure was painless, thanks to a general anesthetic. The doctor says I won’t need another one of those tests for a long time, and I can focus my hypochondria on some other imagined ailments for the next decade. To my great disappointment, I did not receive a sucker after the procedure was over.

After the carpenters left last Friday afternoon, I spent an hour or two shoveling slush off the second floor of our still-open-to-the-elements log home. My concern was that, if I didn’t get rid of some of the piles of slush, everything would turn to solid ice as soon as the weather turned again. They can shovel the snow away, but chipping out blocks of ice is a little more time-consuming. While the majority of the house is now covered, the central living area is still essentially exposed to the weather. There are four valley logs (which run at 45 degree angles down from the peak ridge beam) which remain to go up before the roof can be completely closed in. For anyone familiar with log home construction, the logs which make up the roof structure are complicated and time-consuming to place. Those four valley logs need to be notched perfectly, and will likely be placed (with a crane) and taken down several times before they are perfectly fitted. All of the cutting work is done with chain saws, sometimes high up on a scaffold. Certainly, that work isn’t any easier when it’s very cold, the snow is falling heavily, and the wind is blowing hard. Actually, these log-framed roofs require a lot of time regardless of the weather conditions. Our head carpenter estimated that they would need about a week to complete their work on the two turret roofs, and that job took them closer to four times the amount of time he’d allotted. I can’t say enough about the carpenters on this job; their work ethic is fantastic and the quality of their work is excellent. Really everyone involved in building this house has been great; we have been very lucky to have chosen the builder we did.

With the New Year approaching, I’m quite sure that, barring any unforeseen circumstances, Shauna, Jasper, and I will be spending a quiet evening here in bucolic Burk’s Falls, and perhaps I will indulge in the attitude-adjusting benefits of a sparkling malt beverage or two. A few weeks ago, I wrote a tongue-in-cheek wish list for Santa, but I truly do want most of those things for mankind. I’ll settle for a little less hatred and misunderstanding, and I resolve to work on that goal where it concerns my behavior. For those of you who choose to partake in the ubiquitous, mind-altering festivities of First Night, by all means, knock yourself out … tie one on, paint the town red, smash that piñata, hoot, howl, spread your wings; drive the porcelain bus … but if you do choose to get conflobulated, take a cab, or let a sober person drive you home. I, Shauna, and Jasper wish you all a Happy New Year!
- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 12/17/07

As I write this week’s report, with HGTV on in the background, I’m listening to a recording of the Rat Pack live at the Sands Hotel in Vegas, and Jasper is curled up next to me, snoring. Outside, the snow is piling up. Apparently, Toronto is getting a much more intense version of this snowstorm. I’ve already shoveled our driveway twice today, and it looks as if I’ll be doing it again before the day is done. The snow is beginning to blow horizontally, which probably isn’t a good thing.

So far, I have stubbornly refused to buy a snow blower, but my resolve is weakening. For the last forty years of my shoveling career, I have somehow managed to survive my winters without a gas-powered machine. The driveway of our rental home is only about sixty feet long, and I’m not giving in to an expensive, “labor-saving” device just yet. I am still an able-bodied young man (hah!), and I am capable of shoveling my own friggin’ driveway. The other day, I went to the local hardware store and bought one of those honker snow shovels, more designed for redirecting snow than actually shoveling it. It has a push bar, not a handle, and I simply push the snow where I want to … mostly out into the street and towards my neighbor’s driveway. Keep in mind we’re renters. Once I got the hang of using this manual snowplow, I found that I can clear our driveway in about fifteen or twenty minutes. As I said, so far today, I have been out twice.

I’ve been watching other people on our street – the ones who own snow blowers, and who have already been through my standard period of denial - and each one has his or her own unique style of snow removal. One woman stops every ten feet to inspect her progress (which tends to be a meandering path), one guy doesn’t seem to know how to direct the snow spout, and shoots it at his car and house. One guy has a little plastic booth in which he stands while he blows snow, so as to avoid the elements. He probably has a stereo set up in there too. The guy with the most interesting technique, blows his driveway in the conventional manner, then packs it down by doing donuts in his driveway with his snowmobile. Or maybe he’s just bored. Brief aside: snowmobiles are omnipresent here, and, much to my surprise, it is legal to drive them on most roads. There’s another mechanical device I will resist with vigor.

Yesterday, just for kicks, I did a little snow blower due diligence. I went over to my community post office to pick up our mail. Our post office in Katrine also serves as my marina, lawnmower repair shop, and Toro snow blower dealer. They had a real beauty on sale, complete with all the bells and whistles. It had six forward speeds and two for reverse. Why does one need two reverse gears for a snow blower … my car doesn’t even have that?! I wonder if one can get after-market headers and chrome exhaust pipes as well. If I do purchase a snow blower, I’m painting flames on it. Everyone I talk to up here advises me to get a blower with at least an 8HP engine and a 26” cut. No sense pussyfooting around up here; this is snow country. When I returned home, Shauna was rapt in a website advertising serious snow handling equipment. There was even heavy metal music playing in the background. I’m not interested in entering a monster truck competition here, I just want to clear the snow off our driveway. And I want the flames … . and maybe the chrome exhaust pipes.

Final notes … Gazillionaire “Lord ” Conrad Black was sentenced to six years in the gentleman’s slammer, convicted of defrauding his Hollinger stock holders. Willie “The Pig” Pickton received twenty-five to life for his ghoulish prostitute murders in B.C. . Singer songwriter Dan Fogelberg died at fifty-six, and a few weeks ago, the ever-whiny V.P. Al Gore won a Nobel prize, for being a whiner. Here’s a dilemma Al: Do not snow blowers contribute to global warming? Do more snow blowers mean more snow? Discuss.

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 12/10/07

As most of my regular readers already know, I have been a close friend of Santa Claus for over twenty years now. He had some personal problems a while back, and I suppose that, in some small way, I helped him. I recommended a good lawyer in 1987 when he was slapped with that class action lawsuit over roof damage in New Jersey. ‘87 was a bad year for Santa. Rudolph fell “off the wagon” again, and there was the crippling elf strike. I got him into rehab after his FWI (flying while intoxicated) charge in Greenland. I advised him not to leave Mrs. Claus when she had that fling with the Kuwaiti arms dealer in 1994. My wife called it “menaclaus”, but whatever you want to call it, “the missus” really went off the deep end there for a few months. It just seemed a shame to let 438 years of marriage go down the tubes over one little error in judgment. Between you and me, Santa could probably do better; I think Bea Claus is uglier than E.T.

Anyhow, Santa and I have this bond, and I’ve never really asked him for anything… before now. This year, I’m breaking that tradition, and I have a list of simple requests for the main elf. Most of them are unselfish wishes -- I’ve got just about everything I need – but, I think these things might make good emotional “stocking stuffers” for mankind… here goes:

1.No more “Head-On” commercials!
2.No more CNN coverage of O.J. Simpson…inquiring minds DO NOT want to know, and seeing that guy’s arrogant smirk on television is just aggravating.
3.No more civilian Humvees in North America. As much as I applaud the excessive waste and consumption of our Western society, no one really needs an assault vehicle in North America, with the possible exception of the residents of Detroit.
4. Obama maybe, but PULEEEASE, not Hillary. I’m all for change, but Americans need a Democrat for whom we can vote. Just because she isn’t a boneheaded, right wing war-mongering freak, doesn’t mean she can’t screw things up worse than Baby Bush has.
5.The usual: world peace, no more hate crimes, no more bigotry, or hatred in general
6.Some kind of effective international system of monitoring and checking the poisonous by-products of religious fundamentalism. No matter whom you are, God is not telling you to murder each other.
7.Mandatory stun collars (set to “char”) for all bloodthirsty despots, especially the ones who use children to fight their wars
8.A more balanced trade deficit,
9.More global accountability for human rights violations
10.More food with less chemicals
11. A renewable source of energy which uses saltwater for fuel and leaves potable water as its by-product … then Al Gore can start whining about the shrinkage of our oceans.
12. A pay hike for all workers in Asia, India, and Indonesia; let’s even the playing field a bit.
13.A universal cap on all lawyers’ contingency fees
14.Face recognition software to monitor all airports and public places. The heck with our right to privacy … let’s get real; we lose that privilege as soon as we walk out the door of our house
15. More funding for medical R&D, a cure for all terminal illnesses, including AIDS, all forms of cancer, ALS, MS, FMS, Malaria, ADD, and the PTA
16. With reference to that last request, an altruistic drug company
17. Healthy national, or perhaps international debates on the subjects of euthanasia, abortion, and gay rights, not dictated by the boneheads of the religious far right
18. More movie remakes of 1970’s T.V. programs. We can’t have enough of those.
19. Less stupid people in government
20. Less stupid people in general
21. O.K., this one IS for me … more public officials and members of the media who can and do speak the King’s English.

And Santa, if you’re listening, get something nice for Mrs. Claus … maybe some make-up, or a paper bag to put over her head.
- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 11/30/07

Another U.S. Thanksgiving has come and gone. I loved seeing George Bush pardon a turkey. Who should be pardoning whom?! Thanksgiving has historically been my favorite holiday, and this year, to my great delight, dinner included only the immediate family. As is tradition, Shauna and I showed up in Buffalo around 3AM on the morning of Thanksgiving, and, as usual, when we walked into our room at the Holiday Inn, our room was unmade. The good news is that we were then upgraded to a better room on the top floor, which appealed to Jasper (because she now had higher vantage point from which to bark out the window). We turned in around 4AM and were then awakened at around 8AM to the yelling and screaming of crazy joggers, participating in the annual Buffalo “Turkey Trot”. As I whisked open the drapes, the first thing I saw was a group of joggers, dressed up like Pilgrims, trotting along in a tight formation and pushing a table with a mock turkey dinner down Delaware Avenue. It was all a bit surreal. I sleepily watched the thousands of joggers below stream by, many of them dressed in goofy costumes. When I took Jasper down for her morning constitutional, she barked at them all. That showed them … how dare all these people exhibit boundless energy, while I had none. Anyhow, I have much to be thankful for. Besides the fact that Shauna was able to attend this year, I was able to see my sister, brother-in-law, all my nephews and their wives, and we had my octogenarian mother and nonagenarian father at the dinner table with us. Family is everything.

At present, we are back in Toronto, but we have not unpacked, because we will soon be heading back up to Burk’s Falls. We understand from our builder that the roof trusses are up in the two front turrets and, as you can imagine, we are eager to see that roof go on. Hopefully, the roofer will begin work installing the steel roof next Monday. The most recent delay has been getting the spray foam insulation guys to do their work before the top deck of the roof goes on. Trying to get construction work done on time is difficult, because many of the best contractors are extremely busy. This Fall, the weather has been a factor as well. Now, with Christmas fast approaching, the push is on. Another delay to the “closing in” of the house, is that the first of two window shipments arrived the other day, damaged. We can now expect that replacement windows will likely not arrive until after the first of the year. Perhaps we will just tarp the whole house in and forget about windows and doors.

We are taking this time in Toronto to investigate some of the many options for plumbing fixtures. The other day, I was amused by something that Shauna and I noticed while we scoured the internet for the best buy on toilets. I couldn’t believe how many different models there are to choose from! We found toilets that cost up to $5000. That seems like a lot for a toilet, but then again, it’s more practical than jewelry. Toto (our front runner toilet at the moment) offers dozens of options, and each comes with a ridiculous name. Take for instance the “Carusoe”, the “Plymouth”, the “Soiree”, the Pacifica”, the “Guinevere”, the “Drake”, or the “Lloyd”. How does one come up with “Guinevere” as a model name for a toilet? Do they have toilets for all the different Knights of the Round Table? And how would you feel if your name was Lloyd? Do they offer a “Fred” or a “Charlie” Here’s a good name for a toilet: the “Evacua” or perhaps the “Plungemaster”? Why would someone name their toilets anyhow?

Now that we are almost into December, don’t get stressed. I spoke to Santa the other day, and he told me that plumbing fixtures are the gift that keeps on giving. If you’re stumped, buy the one you love a new toilet. May I suggest the “Evacua ” … available in mauve or lime green?
-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 11/19/07

It always seemed as if the goofy commercials for Christmas began shortly after the American Thanksgiving, but lately they are starting well before Halloween. Did you ever see the one where Santa rides a Norelco cordless shaver down a snow bank? I like the commercial wherein a giant M&M scares Santa so badly that he faints. I’m not sure traumatizing Santa is the best way to sell children’s candy, but it’s a funny commercial nonetheless. In the booming metropolis of Burk’s Falls, the Christmas lights are beginning to pop up around the neighborhood. One guy up the street shines two red floodlights on his house, and that’s it. You all know how I feel about people who don’t “go the extra mile” in their celebratory holiday decorations. Shining a red light on your house at Christmas time is a little like buying a plastic hatchet at Shoppers Humongous Warehouse for your Halloween costume … it’s a weak effort. If you’re going to do Christmas lights, there is an unwritten rule which states that there must be ladders, high voltage, and at least a modicum of danger involved. If the other lights in the neighborhood don’t dim when you plug yours in, something’s wrong. Final note in the Christmas front lawn decoration rant … There must have been a sale up here on white wire reindeer with electronically controlled bobbing heads, outlined with little white lights. Up one block from us there’s a whole herd of them, flanked by two giant plastic Santas. Now THAT’S a Christmas display. As soon as I can figure out how to affix it to the front lawn, I will install our giant, revolving, flashing pink neon Star of David. I hope nobody mistakes it for a pentagram.

We are settling in to our new home away from home quite nicely. Phil, our landlord, tarped in our carport the other day, so as to make it more like a garage. This project had mixed reviews, as the tarp has come loose and the tarp flaps noisily in the wind. It was a nice idea though. Phil is a nice guy. I have been building makeshift furniture for this place, as most of our furniture is either in Toronto, or tightly packed in a storage trailer on the jobsite. The other day I made a drafting table/ desk out of a cut off section of our tongue and groove roof decking, and we have various shelf units scattered around the place made from log ends. This house is beginning to look a lot like our apartment in Toronto has come to look: like a construction office, with plans scattered about and files boxes full of files covering everything from roof materials to floor manufacturers. What is ten times better about this winter than last winter, is that we actually have a forced hot air furnace. No more stoking the wood stove in an un-insulated cottage at 3AM.

Final note. I watched a segment on 60 Minutes on the “Millennials” a week ago, and it really riled me. Millennials are today’s twenty-somethings, who are now entering the workforce in droves. The gist of the story was that many of these coddled brats, used to being praised and pampered by everyone from their Boomer parents to their modern age teachers, expect Shangri-La in the workplace. If they don’t find it, they simply move on to the next job. Demand for their skills is so high that the employers are forced to kiss their spoiled little hineys, offering them games, playrooms, and various other incentives. There is even industry which has built up around catering to this generation of soft, over-praised Nintendo-heads. There are consultants, and playroom designers, and psychologists in feel-good workplace relations, etc. The workplace is being transformed into a daycare center! If these youngsters are leading us into the next century, heaven help us. They may be tech savvy, but I suspect that their capability to cope with the hosejob which is life will make them lambs for the slaughter as soon as the next “great unpleasantness” foists itself upon mankind. Here’s a wake up call to all you Millennials … learn how to say “Do you want fries with that?” in Chinese.
- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 11/5/07

Over the past weekend, Shauna and I moved out of the so-called “fifth wheel” camper trailer in which we have lived since May. I think Fate gave us a bit of a nudge, because shortly before we moved out, the furnace motor gave out and began to make a noise similar to fingernails across a blackboard whenever it was turned on. We were then reduced to two little ceramic space heaters, which were not particularly effective as the mercury dropped below zero. As well, one of our next door neighbors, who had so generously supplied us with a water source all summer long, closed up their cottage for the season, and along with it, our water supply. In the last week, I was carrying five gallon pails of water up from the lake, mixing them with anti-freeze in a garbage can, and then pumping the mixture into the camper in order to ensure that the pipes didn’t freeze. That in turn meant that we needed a separate supply of water with which to wash our hands and our dishes. I have a great deal more respect for those who live without the comforts I take for granted: electricity, running water, indoor plumbing, etc. There is no better way to appreciate how much water one uses than to be required to carry it by hand from some distance (in my case only about 200 yards). For so many people in the world, running water is a luxury.

Our new home away from home is a bungalow in nearby Burk's Falls. We have rented it on a month to month basis from a guy named Phil, whose wife recently passed away. Phil and his wife had lived out on nearby Three Mile Lake, and when she passed, he purchased this little bungalow in town, because it was closer to his friends. Fortunately for us, Phil has not yet sold his home on the lake, and the timing was right for us to rent it short term, until our home is finished. More and more, that finish date is looking like early Spring. Phil is an older guy – I think he’s over eighty -- but the other day, he helped me move some of his furniture into this bungalow, and he’s as strong as an ox. During the weekend I got to meet some of his friends, and I must say the country codgers up here are tough as nails. Anyhow the new digs are just fine, and allow us to remain close to our building site. Because water had to be rationed in the camper, showers were infrequent and necessarily short. I took the longest shower I have ever taken in my life as soon as we moved into the bungalow. As I write this, Shauna is doing the same.

One final comment about our new residence ... Shauna and I have never lived in a “neighborhood” together. Since we have been married we’ve lived in the relative anonymity of a high rise apartment. Even the job site we were on is comparatively secluded, and our neighbors there are spread out. Now, we look out the window, and we have a lot of neighbors. Most notably, across the street we see two rather strange families in a duplex. We have become somewhat pre-occupied with what I like to call “Kravitzing”. For all you “Bewitched” fans, this term should be self-explanatory, and for those of you who are not, well, let’s just say we are nosy, bordering on obsessively so. I think we’ve been locked up so long we may have lost our minds. We’ve been watching the duplex people carefully and have decided (for no good reason) that they are up to no good. I think it they might be running a meth lab; or, at the very least, a grow-op. In Toronto we used to live across the hall from a crazy German drug dealer. I used to see him down at my bank depositing suitcases full of cash, and he was quite a nuisance, until Manulife finally kicked him out. He sabotaged his apartment when he left, and even tore out the kitchen cabinets. I suppose one kind of expects that sort of thing in a big city like Toronto, but Burk’s Falls?! I will be keeping and eye on these duplex people. Thank goodness we have Jasper for protection.

Hurricane Noel just walloped Nova Scotia. Hillary Clinton is falling prey to the Democratic front runner curse, the Canadian dollar is worth $1.07 U.S., and I live across the street from potential (given my twisted imagination) drug dealers. Maybe the sky IS falling.
- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/29/07

A pre-emptive Happy Halloween to all of my readers. As often happens these days, I lost track of time, but I was quickly reminded of the season last Saturday when I walked into a Shoppers Humongous Drug Warehouse in Huntsville. There, in the seasonal “crap-you-don’t-really-need” aisle, was a young couple, presumably on their way to a costume party, rather poorly dressed up to look like vampires (I would have taken a little more care and pride in my application of white face makeup and fake blood) inspecting plastic hatchets. I overheard the guy say to the girl “I’m not f-ing paying ten bucks for a fake hatchet!” My opinion is that anyone who goes to Shoppers Humongous Drug Warehouse for their Halloween costume needs isn’t trying hard enough. One of my favorite costumes, which I saw in a bar once in Buffalo, was a guy dressed up to look like the San Francisco earthquake. He had the Trans America building jutting out of his midriff. Some people just “get” Halloween, and some don’t. I’ve been out of the Halloween loop for quite some time, but I’m thinking of getting back into it next year. I made a tiny step back into the ring this year; I bought a pumpkin.

I have reached that age when my doctor recommended that I have a colonoscopy. Colonoscopies are sort of mile markers for middle age. Of course, I am thrilled about this. I made an appointment to have the test done by a Toronto specialist, and I was immediately put off by the guy’s receptionist. I don’t need to love to person who books my colonoscopy, but this woman was like a drill sergeant. She immediately began to bark orders about how I will “prep” for the test, and how severely I will be penalized for failure to comply with her strict rules. Anyhow, I booked the test, and shortly thereafter, I received an email from this unpleasant woman, with a three-page list of preparatory instructions. I was to begin cleaning myself out Monday morning, for a test on Wednesday! On Monday, clear fluids only and in the afternoon, my first glass of human Drain-O. Tuesday, some Roto Rooter, more clear fluids, and to top off the day, a nightcap of Citromag. Then, on “game day” I was to give myself an enema an hour before the kickoff, presumably just before I purged myself of my intestines. The whole thing seemed a little harsh, and, the other day, I cancelled that appointment. I have elected to have the test up in Huntsville, and as it turns out, the specialist up here is considerably more reasonable about the pre-test regimen. I might only be miserable for 24 hours instead of three days. My father had a photograph taken of his colon years ago. I use it for a bookmark. Kind of looks like the Holland tunnel, decorated by Cristo.

I’ve got a great idea for a Halloween costume. It may be bit of a challenge, but I have a year to work out the details. I’m going to dress up as my sparkling clean colon. It’s amazing what you can do with latex these days. It will need only to meet my one rule for a Halloween costume: I must be able to drink beer comfortably without removing anything.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/22/07

There should be an award for the funniest name of a pro athlete. My mother-in-law, who is a big baseball fan (who, sadly, was rooting for Cleveland), called the other night in hysterics over the names of three major league baseball players: Asdrubal Cabrera, Yorbit Torrealba , and Chone Figgett. What do you want to bet that Asdrubal got a few wedgies in grade school? I was watching a Toronto Marlies game the other night (farm team for the hapless Leafs). They were playing the Lake Erie Monsters (who came up with that name?), and I’m not sure which team it was, but one player had a name so long it went from the bottom of one shoulder pad to the bottom of the other. It was unreadable, because the folds in the jersey hid several letters. Back in the Sixties or Seventies, I think the Buffalo Bills had a player named Preston Riddlehooper.

Shauna and I have been watching a lot of HGTV, and for those of you unfamiliar with the channel, that is one of a myriad of home improvement channels available on satellite and cable television. There are three or four shows I like the most, but in general, it’s a good channel to watch when you’re in the process of building a home. The show we watch the most is called “Holmes on Homes” and consists of a general contractor by the name of Mike Holmes, who goes in to people’s homes to repair failed construction jobs. The show is pretty much the same each week; Holmes comes in and interviews the featured homeowner, who has had some shoddy work done, then proceeds to repair the defective job, all the while grumbling and ranting about disreputable contractors. Sometimes the problem presents as a leak in the ceiling, sometimes it’s a sagging roof, but one thing is for certain. In every show, what appeared to be a minor problem turns out to be something much more serious. The leak in the ceiling turns out to be a major fault in a shower installation, which has caused major structural damage. While investigating the sagging roof, Holmes discovers improperly installed joists, illegal electrical installations, improperly installed insulation, which in turn bred toxic mold, etc. In almost every show, he finds repairs or new construction which does not conform to the local building code. Another show we quite like is called “Restaurant Makeover”. In that show a guest chef and designer turn a failing restaurant around in six days, for around $30,000. The best part about that show is watching the designer fight with the general contractor. Inevitably, no one shares or understands the designer’s vision for the interior design, and no one is shy about offering an opinion. I love watching designers throw hissy fits. Another show that I like is called “Junk Brothers” and involves two brothers who drive around and pick up other people’s discarded junk at the curbside, take it back to their shop, convert it into some unusual alternative piece of furniture or equipment, then return it to the people who threw it out. The thing I enjoy most about these shows is the same thing I like about many cooking shows. We the viewers are walked through the process and get to see how all this work is done. Of course, we’ve been fortunate enough to watch the process firsthand for the past several months.

Though rain was predicted for much of last week, our workers were able to put in almost a full week, and quite a few logs went up, most notably the ridge purlins (the logs that make up the peak of the roof). One of our subs suggested that, once the roof is on, perhaps we might want to go home for a while, to retrieve our sanity. When the electricians, the carpenters, the plumbers, the HVAC guys, AND the kitchen people are all here bumping into each other, it might get a little crazy. Perhaps we’d do well to disappear for a while; I’m sure they’d all prefer it!
-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/15/07

Last Monday, we investigated an alternative dwelling to the RV in which we presently reside, perched above our job site. We’ve been living here since mid May, and we owe our builder a big debt of gratitude for providing us with this opportunity to be on the construction site, 24/7. That said, the weather is changing, winter is coming, and this RV is not properly set up for cold weather. Water lines can freeze, and the little propane furnace is firing up more and more frequently. One frosty night last week the propane supply ran out (this particular RV has two 30 gallon tanks), and I woke up in the middle of the night because the temperature in the RV had dropped to about 52 degrees F. As well, the RV holding tank must be emptied on a regular basis, we do not have a clean water supply, so water must be rationed, and the bathroom is VERY small. These limitations are much more acceptable when the temperature is seasonal, but become exponentially more inconvenient once the mercury drops below say, 50 Degrees F. In any event, we would have needed to vacate by December, and the house will not likely be completed until February (hah!) at the very earliest. That said, we have located a bungalow for rent in beautiful Burks Falls, and that will be our home away from home come November. Believe me, it will seem like the Hilton compared to the camper.

Ontario re-elected their incumbent premier, Liberal Dalton McGinty, who weaseled his way into office the first time with a myriad of broken promises. I’m not entirely clear on why, having proven himself to be a run-of-the-mill bureaucrat, he once again pulled off a win in Ontario, but then again, I’ve never understood Ontario voters. It was Ontarians who, back in the 80’s voted in that “New Democrat” (give-the-candy-store-away socialist) Bob Rae. Rae is apparently a bright guy, but was perhaps the most deleterious Premier ever to lead Ontario. On his watch, and some would argue, due to his policies, Ontario’s booming economy tanked. I understand that Rae was voted in largely because Ontarians were annoyed with the previous administration. Apparently, the hot button issue that sunk John Tory, McGinty’s Conservative opponent in last week’s election, was faith based funding for schools. Tory committed political suicide by opposing said funding, which, I understand, primarily, if not exclusively, benefits Catholic schools. Guess where McGimpy’s kid goes to school? Canadian politics are so boring. South of the border, it’s a different story. As I write this, U.S. Senator Larry Craig is explaining to Matt Lauer why he was playing “Twister” in an airport bathroom. That’s what I call “hard” news. I never knew that a person could get busted for playing footsie in a public bathroom. Apparently, not all the vice squad policemen are looking for coke dealers or child pornography purveyors; some of them are running sting operations in airport bathrooms. … pull your pants up sir; hands where I can see em!

The roof purlins are almost all up, and last week the steel roof was delivered. I’ll feel a lot more secure when the roof is on. Winter’s coming, and the race is on.
-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/1/07

My dad is in the hospital right now, after a rather serious bout of congestive heart failure. A couple of weeks ago, he whooped it up for my mom’s birthday and woke up the next morning gasping for breath. I’ve been talking to him on the phone every day, but I knew I had to drive down to see him in person. I didn’t like the idea very much, but reluctantly, last Wednesday, I left Shauna and Jasper alone in the RV and drove down to Buffalo. They were alone in the camper for three days and two nights. That was the first time I had ever left Shauna alone up North and, while I tried to make sure she’d have everything she needed, it was still tough to leave her. I figured I’d go down midweek so she’d at least have the workers here for company during the day. Apparently, they teased her a bit about how dangerous it is for a woman to be living alone “in the bush” …with all them dangerous critters and whatnot. Very funny … no more employee appreciation barbecues for those guys.

When I arrived in Buffalo on Wednesday afternoon, I found my father in fair condition at the hospital. He was by then in a rehabilitation wing, building up his strength so that he could return home. He improved noticeably during my stay, but probably not because of it. I simply visited him a few times, sorted out and paid some of his bills, and dealt with some of the ever-escalating issues of geriatric health care. This is a strange time for me because, like many of my peers, I am watching my parents grow old, and I am somewhat confused, now that our roles have reversed. While I am very happy that they are still around, I wrestle with my feelings of responsibility and my inclination to watch out for them, while living my somewhat complicated life at a distance. I left Buffalo last Friday with ambivalent feelings. On the one hand, I was relieved to find both of my parents in pretty good shape, relatively speaking, with better than average health care coverage, good nursing care, etc. On the other hand, I foresee imminent problems which might crop up in my absence, and which I will have little or no ability to resolve from a distance.

From longevity to a flash in the pan … tabloid train wreck Britney Spears lost custody of her two young children this week. If you ever had any doubts about the pitfalls of celebrity, just catch a few minutes of her notoriously bad performance at some recent music awards ceremony. Clearly, money ain’t everything.

As I watch the U.S. presidential primaries unfold, I am following the Republican race with some interest. Rudy Guiliani seems to be one of the front runners, but only because he so diametrically opposes the religious conservatism of the past two Republican administrations. I heard him say the other day that he is the best Republican opponent to Billary, whom he obviously sees as the Democratic front-runner. Careful Rudy, don’t underestimate Rock Star Obama. Obama is shrewdly referring to Billary as a successor in the Clinton “dynasty” and, in so doing, has cleverly linked the Clintons to the failed Bush “dynasty”. His message: America has had enough of dynasties. In other words, Bush dynasty equals Clinton dynasty, equals bad politics. Twisted logic, but smart politics.
Frankly, I think the Democrats could put up Charles Manson and still win this one.

Get better Dad, I love you!

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 8/27/07

Our social life this summer has consisted largely of talking to the people working on our house and, while that is certainly more stimulating than, say, an isolation cell in a maximum security prison, it is hardly a night out in the theatre district. As well, these people work for us, so there is the remote possibility that they are more likely to treat us differently than would our friends. Last week, we had a visit from one of my oldest and dearest friends, Bob. He and his wife Laura were up in the area picking up his daughter from camp in a nearby park, and they all stopped in to catch a glimpse of the new house. A few weeks ago, another good friend and his family visited for a few days, and these visits were much-needed breaths of fresh air. I’m not saying I don’t love my wife, I adore her, but three months in a small RV, with a bathroom the size of a phone booth, has been a bit trying for both of us. To boot, Jasper always steals the best chair.

I’m sure that many of you reading this report are thinking to yourselves, “what a cakewalk … they’re living in a beautiful area, for an entire summer, and they have the unique opportunity to watch their house being built!?” While this is true, let me explain why this project is not a walk in the park.

Our day begins about 6:45 AM, when Jasper barks frantically at the first trucks arriving. By 7:15AM, the chainsaws and hammering begin and by 8:30AM, we are on the phone or the web, researching everything from bathroom fixtures to floor coverings. Shauna leaves nothing to chance and researches every finish and design option. As well, we are personally designing our railings, bathroom cabinets and sinks, fireplace surrounds, ceiling treatments etc. All of this requires a lot of time. We go through a pad of graph paper per week. By 10AM the phone is ringing off the hook, the contractors are dropping in to ask for alternatives to an electrical outlet location, or one of a hundred other design glitches which present themselves on an ongoing basis. Because this is a custom design, one the log supplier has never before created, there are little surprises at every turn. For instance, last week, we learned that a frame wall dividing our master bathroom from our bedroom had inadvertently been placed in such a way as to hide an important log feature of the bedroom. No change can be made without consulting all (electrical, plumbing, structural) plans which could be affected by the change. I’m sure the builder could have made a decision without us, but very possibly it would not have been what we chose to do. A log home owner whom we interviewed early on in the process told us that building a log home is an organic process. Things can change in the design as the home goes up, but timing is everything. In truth, the home continues to “grow” and develop long after it is up. While many people leave all the decisions to their builders, we are heavily invested (emotionally and otherwise) in this house. For better or worse, when the home is finished, we will know that we were actively involved in its creation from beginning to end.

You won’t believe how we plan to use the Guelph wood stove from the old cottage.
-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Me with shop truss under construction

New truss on shop

The Oppenheimer Report 7/31/07

When we first contemplated the building project in which we now find ourselves immersed, we realized that we needed more land if we were to achieve our goal. When my father-in-law bought the property, back in the 1960’s, the lot size was only about 6000 square feet, with little or no actual water frontage. Our original cottage stood on a small, pie-shaped parcel of land, and the way the house was positioned on the lot, the Taylors only owned about ten feet of land off their back door. Over the years, my father-in-law managed to acquire from the town what was known as the shoreline allowance, providing him with water frontage and bringing the lot size up to about one half acre. To make a very long story short, after three years of meetings with the Township of Armour, to close a road allowance abutting our property to the rear, and after much negotiation with our ever patient next door neighbors to swap land involved with that road allowance, including over a year of dealings with surveyors, lawyers, accountants, planners, marriage counselors, psychiatrists, witch doctors, etc., we acquired the additional land we wanted. The land swap was mutually beneficial, because we increased our lot size to conform with new town guidelines for minimum lot size, and in turn, our neighbors acquired a good deal of valuable water frontage to improve their lot. As any cottage real estate expert will tell you, water frontage is gold. Although the actual land acquisition and site plans were approved by the town months ago, the final recording of the deeds did not take place until several weeks ago.

When the transfer was finally a matter of public record, Shauna and I invited the neighbors, with whom we’d exchanged land, over to enjoy a celebratory glass of champagne out on our dock. It wasn’t a very fancy celebration - all our patio furniture is stashed away somewhere on this log-littered lot – and we used log ends for seats and a table. Champagne was served in plastic cups, and hors d’ouevres consisted of a bag of corn chips and some smoked oysters and cheese and crackers provided by the neighbors. The mood was congenial and we had a very pleasant time with our new found friends. As the sun began to set, and we were about to return to the claustrophobic confines of our trailer to make our dinner, we noticed a man and a woman on a jet ski, circling around in the lake in front of our place, presumably inspecting our unfinished home. We’re fairly used to curious onlookers at this point, because a log home under construction is really something to behold. Most folks in boats wave, and we wave back. These people were likely not from around here … perhaps they came from the nearby trailer park, or perhaps from the public beach. Not only did they not wave, but as they zoomed off, we all heard the man scream “F-CKING RICH SNOBS!!!!” And YOU have a nice day as well! The obvious lack of respect represented by this unprovoked and boorish comment was a reminder that settling in a small town is no guarantee that one will or can avoid mean-spirited people. That nasty comment reminded me of the big-city ugliness from which we are trying to extricate ourselves. Whether the comment was inspired by beer, or envy, or unfair judgment, or latent road rage rearing its ugly head at an inopportune moment, or a combination of all of these things; it was decidedly bad karma, and it was upsetting to all of us.

They say that karma is a bitch, and I believe that there is yin and yang to every action, Perhaps nothing that we do is absent the judgment of someone else who does not understand us or our actions. If I have learned anything in my 51 years, it is that there will always be someone out there to rain on my parade. I suppose I grudgingly accept this fact, and I’ll eventually shrug off this minor example of human ugliness. Nevertheless, it’s sad fact that, in some microcosmic way, just such a misunderstanding probably accounts for three quarters of the aggression in the world. Now, I find myself diffusing my anger with my imagination. I comfort myself by picturing, somewhere out in the middle of the big lake, night closing in and the warmth of the summer sun replaced by the cold, damp chill of the Northern Ontario night, that man and that woman, out of gas and helplessly adrift on their jet ski, unassisted by the throngs of otherwise friendly “f-cking rich snobs” … and I raise my plastic cup full of champagne to toast their well-deserved misfortune.
- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Log Home Photos up to 7/27/07

Second floor almost completely stacked. First floor with first coat of stain...Next week the final shipment of logs, and hopefully the commencement of the roof system.

Log Home Photos up to 7/27/07

The staining begins.

The view from our loft

"Taylor Trash"

See what YOU look like after two months of living in a small trailer!

More Log Home Photos 7/27/07

Second floor looking towards master bedroom

Photos (cont.) 7/27/07

Looking from rear of the house at the dining room and living room (to left)

Log Home Photos up to 7/27/07

The carport is begun

The OppenheimerReport

I was watching the Discovery Channel the other night, because I am a learning machine, and the show I watched was called “101 Things Removed.” It dealt with various objects doctors have extracted from human bodies. The stories of how the accidents occurred were fascinating, but the actual pictures were pretty grizzly. Among my favorites: an anchor embedded in a skull of a fisherman, a frog skewer through the cheekbone and eye canal of a frog hunter, a diamond necklace extracted from a jewel thief’s anus, a swordfish snout shoved through the skull above the left eye of a fisherman, a two by four through the neck of a tornado victim, a live grenade embedded in a soldier’s leg, an ice axe embedded in the leg of a mountain climber, and the piece de resistance: the calcified remains of a twin fetus removed from a man’s stomach. That might have been the strangest thing I have ever seen. What a nice change over what has been an almost steady diet of log home magazines and HGTV shows about unscrupulous contractors.

“Harry Potter and the Unbearable Flatulence” went on sale this week, and millions of hopeful readers are frothing in anticipation of this last installment of the wildly popular series. It never ceases to amaze me that there are groups of concerned citizens out there campaigning to ban the Harry Potter books because of references to wizardry and black magic. Let’s throw Mother Goose on the bonfire while we’re at it. Heaven forbid children should be inspired to read. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been noticing a substantial drop in communication skills among the 20somethings, and I think any literature which inspires kids to read is a good thing. I actually heard a guy say that he had been “conversating” with someone the other day. Forget the King’s English; we’re down to the court jester’s English. By the way, if you don’t feel like reading the book, I’ll tell you how it ends … Harry dies in a tragic methane explosion.

If any of you are still reading this “report” you may have reached the saturation point in discussions about our log home. As we spend almost every waking hour on this construction site, we may be reaching the saturation point as well. After the past week, we’ve reached that point in the building process where it seems as if we are pushing a rock up a hill. There have been a lot of unforeseen setbacks, and construction is far behind schedule. Two weeks ago, our stackers discovered that three critical logs were absent from the last load of logs, and this little setback held up the entire building process for almost a week. Unlike stick frame houses, wherein any 2x4 will do, logs must be stacked in sequence. We may begin to get back on schedule this week, if the rain abates. Weather has been the other deterrent, and we’ve had very unusual weather for the past two weeks. I may just post some photos next week of the progress to date, and skip the editorializing. Conversate amongst yourselves.
-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/2/07

A belated happy Canada Day to all my Canuckian pals, and a pre-emptive Happy Fourth to my Yankee friends. Every Fourth of July, I reminisce about the sweet old lady who used to sell illegal fireworks to us Buffalonians out of the back of her old pick up truck. She’d blow into town shortly before the Fourth and, like some rare seasonal wine, her wares were only available for a few precious hours, and only around the Fourth. For anyone who was serious about getting the most bang for their buck, she was the person to see. She really was quite adorable, wearing her asbestos drag racing hood. I remember the good old days when M-80’s were genuine, construction-grade M-80’s, and not just “poser” M-80’s, sold by opportunistic vendors out to fool the general public. Now you need a license to blow your fingers off. Our dogs hate the Fourth, and more than once, we had to pry one out from under the bed, when the cacophony of explosives became too much for her ears.

In anticipation of Canada Day, last Thursday, Dale, our crane operator, affixed a Canadian flag atop the 135 foot crane presently situated on our property. There were plenty of Canadian flags flying on the lake this past weekend, but I doubt any of them are as prominent as ours. I wanted to hoist a Jolly Roger as well, but I suppose that would have sent the wrong message.

Summer’s just flying by, and it’s been crazy weather up here in the Great White North. Last week it was hot enough to fry an egg on the hood of my car, and this weekend it was as cold and rainy as a typical Fall day. Fun fact: did you know there was a heat wave in Canada back in 1936 which lasted a little under two weeks and caused almost 1200 fatalities? Back then, 1200 people was about the population of Saskatchewan, so you can see that this was a no small catastrophe. I feel bad for all the city dwellers who, having endured the sweltering heat and humidity of Toronto all week, raced up to cottage country for their weekend of sun and fun, only to be greeted by rain and cold weather. Saturday was one of those crazy days wherein it rained every twenty minutes or so, but in between rainy spells, the clouds would part and the sun would shine, just long enough to fool everybody into thinking the bad weather had passed. Nature certainly can be a mother sometimes. Does anyone else remember that summer, back in the Eighties, after Mount Pinatubo erupted and spewed ash into the air, affecting weather patterns around the globe? During almost that entire summer, there was a cycle of bad weather wherein it would be beautiful all week, then around 5PM on Friday it would cloud up, only to remain miserable until dusk on Sunday. It was like clockwork, and a real ball buster for the weekend warriors.

The other day, while we were giving Jasper her bi-weekly ear plucking, suddenly we heard a loud crash outside. When we looked out, we saw that our propane-fired Skeeter-Vac had been tipped over, and there, amidst the scattered garbage in front of the RV was a small black bear licking an empty can of pop. Now I’m beginning to wonder if some of the mess we’ve attributed to the raccoon gangs (see recent report), were actually the signs of this little bear. Because the food supply is scarce right now, and the bears are hungry, they are becoming more “resourceful” in their foraging. So far this summer, there have been more bear sightings than usual up here in cottage country, and cottagers would do well to be vigilant. While black bears are usually not aggressive, we know of one incident in the past week where a problem black bear got into a friend’s house. The bear charged, and the residents ended up taking refuge in their car. That bear even chased them up their driveway as they drove off. Never a dull moment up here in cottage country! - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 6/27/07

Transporting logs from British Columbia is not without its share of complications. The most recent delay was a quality control problem from at the log supplier, requiring that their plant be shut down for several days while they addressed the problem. As well, last week, our log load number four was supposed to arrive in Katrine, Ontario, but there was yet another problem with transport. On its way to pick up our load of logs in Kamloops, B.C., our truck hit a bear, ripping off its fuel tank and severely damaging the vehicle. You should have seen the bear. Because that was the only truck available for our load out west, our logs will not even begin their journey East until the middle of this week ... just before a big long weekend. I think it is optimistic to assume that those logs will show up on Friday as scheduled, because the highways will be jammed with Canada Day and Fourth of July holiday travelers… not to mention the inevitable road construction delays.

Last Friday was a momentous day, as we watched two large sections of the first floor ceiling laid down on the log floor joists. The builder had already stained the tongue and groove ceiling before it was laid down, so we were able to see for the first time how the stain we’d chosen will look on the house. As with any color choice, it’s impossible to make a determination based on a small color chip. Until one sees it on a wall or ceiling, one is never really sure. I’m happy with our choice.

As I write this, the first vertical logs on the lake side of the house are being fastened to the wall. This procedure was not without its own complications, and some adjustments were required to ensure a proper fit. Someone with whom we recently spoke was astounded that this project will take 8-10 months to complete, but having observed the first 35+ days, I can easily see why it will take that long. Our builder explained that log homes are the most difficult to build, because every round log, no matter how straight and true, is a little different. Field cuts and adjustments are often required, and add considerably to the time required for stacking. I’ve watched many high rises going up in Toronto and, in my 25 year career in industrial real estate, I’ve seen quite a lot of construction. I don’t think I have ever been so interested in the construction process as I have been with this house. Granted I am not a disinterested party, but log home construction is fascinating to watch.

I flipped on the tube last night and was amused by the nonstop media pre-occupation with Paris Hilton’s release from prison (after what, 23 days?!). Will she go out and party on the town right away, or spend an intimate first night of freedom, alone with her immediate family, gorging on cupcakes and champagne? Yikes!I’m sure that every generation has had its share of celebrity nonsense over which to obsess, but the cameras and the coverage seem to be growing like weeds. How about a little hard news, like the growing Republican opposition to the war in Iraq, or the increasing likelihood that Hillary Clinton could be our next President? And what happened to Rock Star Obama … I figured an endorsement by Oprah was money in the bank? I guess one needs to be careful about admitting to past drug use. It’s difficult to say you “didn’t inhale” when the drug was cocaine. – Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 6/4/07 - Happy 97th Dad!

Today is my dad’s 97th birthday and I will start this report by wishing him a happy, healthy birthday. My dad has a disarming sense of humor, and that humor hasn’t failed him well into his nineties. We took him out for dinner to a fancy wood oven pizza place last year for his 96th, and he ordered a pizza with fresh basil as one of the toppings. When the pizza came, it was piled high with fresh green basil, and he said to the waitress who served him, with his typical dry sense of humor, “I ordered a pizza, not a G-D salad!” He’s slowing down a bit, but he’s still pretty sharp, and he can still make me laugh.

On the log home front, we have had a few minor setbacks. There was a potentially serious, (but luckily not serious) mishap off-loading the second shipment of logs, we noticed some mysterious black marks on some of the logs (traced back to a Bobcat loader in B.C.) which will need to be removed, and a downed telephone line, caused by a piece of construction equipment, cut off service to our next door neighbor for about a day. Hopefully, last week was just a speed bump, but I’m guessing there will be many more surprises in store for us. Building a custom log home is not for the faint of heart, and Shauna and I have had to make some quick and irreversible decisions. We spent a good deal of our anniversary last week on the first floor of our new home, with the builder’s designer, in the hot sun, resizing many of the first floor windows. What looked adequate on the plans needed adjustment once we saw the house going up. Log homes require much larger cuts, or “rough openings”, for windows than do stick frame homes, and therein lies the problem. We thought we were being clear about how large we wanted our windows to be, but something got lost in the translation. Our builder would likely have avoided this problem, had he known about it before we finished designing the home. Unfortunately, we hired him after the house was designed, and after our first builder dropped the ball. Another complication in log home construction is that all electrical outlets and switches need to be pre-drilled for wire. Once the logs are stacked, there is no turning back. As of this week, the first floor logs are almost completely stacked, and some of the vertical logs will begin to go up soon… that is, if weather permits. As I write this, our jobsite is a quagmire of sand and mud, and at present, the temperature is hovering around 40 degrees F. The temperature dropped almost 50 degrees in one night and there have been frost warnings for Southern Ontario.

About our trailer … It includes most of the comforts of home, and we have our builder to thank for allowing us to remain on site for much of the construction process. We are still on generator power, and our water supply is a stream near the trailer, from which we pump water into a holding tank. That needs to be filled every three or four days. As well, we are beginning to become accustomed to the periodic stench which occurs whenever our sewage holding tank is pumped out. The first time this happened was a rude awakening. Now, whenever the pump truck shows up, Shauna and I scamper out of the trailer like a couple of roaches avoiding Raid. Living here is decidedly more taxing on Shauna than it is on me, but the trade off is well worth it – we are able to watch our new home take shape.
- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/28/07 - Skeeters

There’s a sculpture to which I’ve referred in earlier reports, and which we used to see on our journeys to and from Banff. I think it stood in Ignace, Ontario (I know it was somewhere in Western Ontario), and it was of a man being carried away by a giant mosquito. If you scroll down on my blog site, perhaps you will find it. Everybody who owns a cottage in Ontario’s cottage country knows that this is black fly and mosquito season. Black flies are nasty little biting insects about a third of the size of a normal housefly, and their bites are as annoying as mosquito bites. One of my resident insect experts told me that black flies are a major pollinator of blueberries. Ahh, the yin and the yang of Mother Nature. The mosquitoes are particularly bad right now, and every time we open the door to this little trailer, which is, at present, our home away from home, we let in a swarm of them. Everybody hates mosquitoes, except perhaps bats. Over the years, we’ve tried everything from Skin-So-Soft (works for about fifteen minutes) to citronella bracelets (stinky) in order to ward off these pesky insects. We use mosquito mesh jackets, which cover our faces and upper torsos, and those are fairly effective. Nothing short of insect repellant with lots of DEET seems to work. One of my favorite bug weapons is a battery-powered paddle with an electrified wire grid. One simply pushes a button to send current through the grid and it zaps the offending bug into oblivion. As a satisfying side effect, there are sparks and smoke. That paddle is about as effective as a fly swatter, but MUCH more fun to use. I’ve had hours of entertainment over the past few days (I know, I know). The other day I went to Canadian Tire to examine my options for mass extermination. We won’t opt for the mosquito fogger, because we don’t want to poison our dog. There must have been twenty different products designed to get rid of the pesky flying insects. There are bug zappers, and coils, and electronic devices, and propane contraptions, and bug patches, not to mention ten different kinds of bug repellent, ranging from highly effective, DEET-saturated, to ineffective, DEET-less, smelly herbal solutions. In keeping with my theory that throwing away large sums of money is the best way to eradicate a problem, I just purchased a “Skeeter-Vac”, which is one of several propane-fired contraptions designed specifically to attract and eliminate female mosquitoes. Females are the blood suckers (no offence, ladies), and one female can produce 25,000 offspring in her short life. In theory, if you use this device early enough in the season, you can significantly reduce the mosquito population on and around your property. It is supposed to have a range of about an acre. I’m skeptical, because we are already well into bug season, but I’m desperate enough to try anything at this point. I hooked the thing up a few days ago, and it looks like a space ship. It hums and has LED lights, and if it doesn’t work, at least it is a decorative lawn ornament.

For the past several nights, sleeping has been a challenge, because the buzz of mosquitoes is constantly distracting. All it takes is one bug to keep me awake. The morning before last, I took Jasper out for her morning pee at 6:30 AM, before the workmen were to arrive and the diesel fumes were to begin. In my sleep-deprived state, I cluelessly walked outside unprotected, wearing only a tee shirt, my boxer shorts, and rubber boots. Jasper took her sweet time doing her business, and I was eaten alive. I was covered in mosquitoes and black flies in a matter of moments, and I can’t imagine what I must have looked like to any spectators as I thrashed about wildly trying to fend them all off. By the time I re-entered the trailer, I was a quivering, twitching mass of frayed nerves. Jasper thought I’d gone nuts.

Next week, perhaps I’ll thrill you with tales of our foray though utilities hell. The first course of logs is going up as I write this. We still do not have Hydro hooked up, in the trailer or the job site, and that means that we rely on a generator for power. I figure it cost us about a buck thirty to watch “House” via satellite (and well worth it!). Until next week…

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 4/30/07

A few weeks ago, I decided to renew my U.S. passport. Though it was several months away from expiration, I was advised by a customs & immigration officer that it would be a good idea to renew as much as three months ahead of time. I went to the photo shop next door and paid a ridiculous sum of money for the predictably poor 2”x 2” required photos. Though I had briefly considered renewing my passport by mail, when I read up on the procedure, I realized that I would have been required to surrender my old passport. Under no circumstances could I see myself handing my passport over to Canada Post, who it seems raise their postal rates monthly, and in inverse proportion to the service they provide. With so much talk in the news about identity theft, I didn’t feel right about surrendering my valid passport to any postal system, be it registered mail, overnight delivery, or pony express. Therefore, bright and early one frigid Tuesday morning, I rode my bicycle down to the U.S. Consulate to renew in person, existing passport and overpriced photos in hand. Oblivious as I am to the post-9-11 era of security – keep in mind that neither Shauna nor I have been on a plane in over ten years – it never occurred to me that there might be heightened security involved in this venture.

The first problem I encountered occurred before I even entered the front door of the consulate. A very serious looking security officer told me that no cell phones or electronic devices of any kind were permitted in the building. As I had on my person my electronic organizer and my cell phone, with no car in which to lock them up, I stuck them in my gloves and hid those in my bicycle helmet, which I then locked to the bike. I suppose someone could have stolen them, but at least the items were out of plain sight, and both devices are password protected. Relieved of my electronic devices, I was permitted to enter the building, where I immediately underwent an X-ray, and a rather comprehensive body scan. No cavity search? Piece of cake! Next, I was told to go down the hall and take the elevator to the third floor. That sounded simple enough, but when I walked down the hall, I saw a line of at least one hundred foreign-looking people waiting anxiously. Thankfully, that was the line for political refugees and other wannabe North Americans. I did not need to wait in that line. I then came to another security checkpoint, and they led me through another locked door and into a room with even more people waiting to be seen. Next, I was ushered through yet another locked door (I was by now beginning to feel like I was living out one of my numerous frustration dreams), through another checkpoint, and finally to a little room with an elevator. It was very odd to be waiting in a small, secured room, simply to take an elevator. After I got off the elevator on the third floor, I was greeted by yet another security officer who let me though yet another locked door, and finally, into the passport room. I waited in line for a few minutes to be informed by the expressionless lady to “Take a number, go over there, pick up a renewal form , fill it out, then wait for your number to be called.” No “have a nice day” or nothin’. When I followed her instructions, I noticed that I was now in another room filled with applicants. There were two seemingly identical forms on a table and, of course, I filled out the wrong one. Neither form had the word “Renewal” on it, and there were no clear instructions (and no one to ask without waiting in line again) directing me to use one form or the other. Was this a test … had I already failed?



In fact, the form I did fill out seemed to address renewals in some vague and ambiguous way. I found out my mistake when my number was called and the expressionless lady with no personality berated me for my stupidity. She didn’t actually use the word “stupid”, but her actions strongly implied that she thought I was a cretin.

The rest of the experience was textbook bureaucratic foolishness – go to this booth, then go to that booth, no the other “that” booth dummy … now jump through a hoop of fire while yapping like a Yorkshire Terrier … you know, the usual government nonsense. I was reminded of the “Bring me a shrubbery” sketch from Monty Python’s “The Holy Grail”. Finally, I ended up back with the expressionless lady, who punched a bunch of holes in my perfectly good passport, stamped it “cancelled” and told me she was done with me. Thankfully, exiting was much easier than entering. When I got back to my bicycle, my organizer and phone were still there. Cynic that I am, it briefly occurred to me that, if they are so concerned about security, perhaps no vehicles should be allowed to park next to a consulate.

Given all the red tape I went through to renew in person, I might have been better off just mailing it in. After all my efforts to protect my identity, I realized that the new passport would be arriving by mail anyhow. The good news is that, about four days after I made the renewal application, my new passport arrived by Fed-Ex. With its watermarks and holograms, and special paper, the new passport looks as if it would be difficult to forge. I’ll bet that when I next renew in ten years, passports will be entirely different. Perhaps by then, technology will render paper passports obsolete, and citizenship will be determined by retinal scans, fingerprint identification, or perhaps even DNA testing. As with all technology, someone will then figure out a way to undermine it and to do something evil with it. Then again, perhaps evil will be rendered obsolete.

One final observation related to the above-mentioned exercise: I think it’s time America changed her national anthem. Even if one CAN sing, which, judging from the last hockey game I attended, clearly most of us cannot, the American National Anthem is a horrible tune, which is difficult to sing, and includes too many references to violence. While I understand that freedom comes at a cost, and that brave men and women have lost their lives to protect my freedom, I think it’s time to downplay references to “the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air”, in favor of more emphasis on our love of freedom. I wonder if anybody is working on the Iraqi national anthem yet. Perhaps that is a bit premature. This passport exercise reminded me of how lucky I am to live in a (relatively) free country, and that I must never take that freedom for granted.

-Written by Jamie Openheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 4/16/07 Demolition!!

This is a momentous week for Shauna and me because, after three years of planning, several false starts, and a lot of plodding through the labyrinth of town regulations and government bureaucracies, our site plan was finally approved. Last week, our builder obtained a demolition permit, and our little cottage was knocked down. We were not able to make it up for the demolition – probably for the best – but the builder e-mailed us almost 70 photographs documenting the process, from beginning to end. Looking at those pictures was harder for Shauna than it was for me and, of course, there were tears. Shauna had been going up to that cottage every summer since she was a little girl and, like so many other people, she equated the physical structure with the memories that it embodied. I had mixed emotions, because I’d spent a lot of time fixing the place up. In the past ten years, I’d painted the entire cottage twice, veneered the fireplace mantel, rebuilt the concrete and tile floor around the fireplace, patched other sections of concrete floor, stripped and refinished transom windows, rebuilt screen doors, re-pointed the stone chimney (which we will thankfully reclaim for the new place), rebuilt two of the three beds, replaced screens and window glass, etc. As any cottager will tell you, every dwelling has its idiosyncrasies. Dr. Taylor had mentored me well on how to cope with all the eccentricities of this cottage … things like how to jury-rig the finicky old water pump, how to ream out the pipes in the bathroom when they became clogged with silt, and how to deal with all the quirky electrical problems, etc. There was always something that needed fixing up there. Near the end, I began to feel a little like the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike. That crazy poltergeist/electrical problem to which I referred in one of my recent reports, was the final straw. Still, it was strange to see the demolition photos. To console Shauna, I reminded her that many people who experience a fire or a natural disaster do not have the luxury of controlling the change to their living situation. We were able to salvage much of what we wanted to save from the old place, before it was knocked down, and we have all the furniture and mementoes safely stored away to put in the new place. In our hearts we know that this change will be a good thing, but we embark on this journey with just a hint of apprehension.

It is somewhat traumatic to see the vacant lot … an empty canvas, if you will. We’ve spent well over 18 months designing the new home and, with the aid of the log home company and our builder, I think we’ve created (on paper, at least) an amazing new home, custom designed to meet our special needs. That said, in so many ways our design is unlike any other log home, and we won’t really know if we got it right until it is up. While we have seen elevation drawings, we really don’t have a clear picture of what it will look like in 3D. It’s much bigger than the cottage it will replace. Eventually, we intend to spend most of our time living up there, so we feel considerable pressure to create exactly what we want. There will be no one else to blame but ourselves if we don’t get it right. Log home design is very unforgiving; get it wrong and it cannot be modified once the logs are cut. It has been almost a year of designing, researching and interviewing door manufacturers, window companies, hardwood floor providers, lighting specialists, HVAC options, stain companies, etc..


There have been countless hours on the phone with our guardian angel, Dave Schemenauer, our representative from Neville Log Homes out in British Columbia. With Dave and our fantastic builders, The Thornton Group, we’ve spent hours in meetings and on the phone, hashing out such issues as window placement, log size, roof profile, placement of decorative stone, and what turned out to be the extremely challenging task of determining where to place the stairs.

Our builder predicts that this project will take about 8 months to complete, if everything goes as planned. Of course, that never happens, and I’m sure there will be plenty of obstacles along the way. As soon as our builder began to dig out the basement he came upon two huge boulders which were too big to move with an excavator. Their removal will likely be the subject of another report, and I’m sure that future reports this summer will be filled with references to this building project. To quote an oft-repeated redundancy, this is our “new beginning.” It’s been a long time coming, but our new log home is finally underway. Yahoo!

Author Kurt Vonnegut died last week at the age of 84. Most people know him for his most famous book “Slaughterhouse 5” but did you know he penned the lyrics to that Ambrosia hit “Nice, Nice, Very Nice”? Shock jock Don Imus can kiss his broadcasting career goodbye after his disparaging and racist remarks about the championship-winning Rutgers University women’s basketball team landed him in hot water with just about everyone in America but the KKK. I find it somewhat ironic to see and hear some of the media hyenas passing judgment on his blunder. And I know I have said this before … we know we’re in trouble when Al Sharpton is deemed to be the voice of reason. Clearly what Imus said was wrong and inexcusable, but anybody who has listened to the guy over the years (I’ve caught a few minutes here and there), will see that he is overtly offensive on a regular basis, and he is an equal opportunity offender. I am somewhat encouraged about any controversy which can spark a debate about racism in America, but let he (or she) who is without sin cast the first stone… I won’t be casting any stones. This latest controversy brings to mind that Tom Wolf novel “Bonfire of the Vanities”, and I think there is a character to mimic Reverend Sharpton in there somewhere. After the recent racial slurs spewed by comedian Michael Richards (a.k.a. Kramer from Seinfeld), it is clear that some of us have rage and hatred in our hearts. The good thing about the Imus and Richards controversies is that they out that rage, and their words have caused me to look within myself to review and assess my own prejudices.

“We have seen the enemy and he is us.”

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 4/9/07 - New Demo

First of all, a belated Happy Easter to those of my readers who celebrate. Though I am a member of “the tribe”, I participated in my share of Easter egg hunts in my youth. I have a fuzzy memory of one Easter, a long time ago, when my mother hid a dozen boiled eggs in our house. After the hunt, my sister and I had found only eleven eggs. Somehow, that twelfth egg remained undiscovered for several months, until someone turned on a seldom-used lamp, and it began to stink like nothing we’d ever smelled before.

In the “enough-about-me-what-do-YOU-think-of-me” department, I recently had one of the most rewarding experiences of my songwriting career. Anybody who has heard one of my songs knows that they seriously lack proper production. All too often, when I have recorded a song I wrote, the comments from my friends have had a familiar theme: “Well, Jamie, that MIGHT be a good song, but it’s hard to tell, because you so hopelessly suck as a performer.” I think several of my songs are pretty good, but writing a good song and performing it are often two very different things. Dylan is a gifted writer, but his voice sounds like a dying moose. He can get away with that, but I need all the help I can get.

In the past, I’ve had some unsatisfactory experiences having demos produced. A demo should be a fair representation of how you want your songs to sound, but demo guys don’t always share your vision. I think that happens a lot in the arts … an artist creates something - a song, or a book, or a painting - and then some so-called expert tells him or her how to make money by changing it. Some of those experts are effective, but as often as not, they simply ruin what was once very good. One of my biggest problems with pop music today is that it represents the antithesis of creativity. It seems to me as if everything has been passed through some kind of song homogenizer … the same insipid lyrics, the same forgettable melody lines, the same synthesized drum beat, the same Mariah Carey trill-laden voices. Even rap has become pop-sanitized. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d hear some English drum machine band from the Eighties (music I used to hate) and think to myself, “Gee that didn’t sound half bad … maybe I should give Flock of Seagulls another chance!”. Whatever happened to pop anthems like Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out” or Deep Purple’s “Hush” or Spirit’s “I Got a Line on You”?

Recently, I had a small hand in producing the first demo of which I am truly proud. For the first time ever, I’ve heard one of my songs played the way I’d hoped it would be performed. The best part was that I was able to watch the process from beginning to end, and to be a creative part of it. You may have heard me praise my singer/songwriter friend Bobby Cameron. He’s one of a handful of unique Canadian musician/songwriters who have so far fallen through the cracks of a myopic and fickle music industry. Luckily, with the advent of digital music and the internet, the listening public can decide for themselves. Bobby’s getting a lot of hits on his website www.bobbycameron.com and on his www.myspace.com/bobbycameron site, and I think his “buzz” may finally be building. Click on either of these sites to learn more about Bobby and to hear samples of his music. I was extremely excited when he agreed to produce a demo of several of my songs, and a few weeks ago, we just about finished the first song, entitled “Strange Holiday”. Though this is merely a demo, without all the bells and whistles of elaborate production, Bobby nailed that song, and he made me proud to have written it. It’s odd, because out of the 120+ songs I’ve written to date, “Strange Holiday” was one of the last songs I would have chosen to demo. I wrote it fifteen years ago, and I never dreamed it would come alive the way it has with Bobby’s creative influence. While recognition and compensation are generally considered to be the benchmarks of success in songwriting, I can honestly say that nothing so far in this creative process has been as satisfying as hearing a song I wrote professionally performed.

Final comments about the changing trends in the music industry: In the past month or so, Shauna and I have been exposed to some unbelievably talented artists through the Internet. With the advent of sites like MySpace.com, and YouTube, free, world-wide forums for anybody to broadcast their “story” (bio, music, writing, etc.), there are finally places on the Internet where the public can pick and choose. I hope that the enormous sums of money now being spent to promote mediocrity in pop music will eventually be diverted to promote more worthy artists, or in some way provide a suitable venue for those artists. A few months ago, I’d never heard of an Aussie guitarist named John Butler, now the John Butler Trio is one of my favorite bands, and their popularity is quickly building in the States. Their new-found fame is in large part due to Internet exposure, not to mention a brilliant live act. I think this massive cyberspace forum for alternatives to the Timberlake’s and the Puff Diddley’s will eventually level the playing field. A talented band with good songs and a good live act might now have a better chance to break the chains of anonymity. Perhaps we can even wrest the music industry market from the undeveloped hands of twelve year-olds and return it to the adults.

I hope you will give Bobby Cameron a listen; I expect to get an MP3 of “Strange Holiday” up on a site soon for any and all to hear. Long live the Internet!

Happy Easter … and remember, find all of those eggs, or you’ll be sorry!

–Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED