The Oppenheimer Report 6/29/09

Michael Jackson died mysteriously last week, and of course it’s been all over the news. It might have been the ubiquitous “celebrity flu” we hear about so often, but it doesn’t really matter. Another great talent is now a legend. Now we see his top ten video clips: The young child star of the Jackson Five singing one of their big hits, Michael Jackson dangling his baby precariously over a balcony for his adoring fans in Germany, Michael Jackson’s creepy photo op kiss with Lisa Marie Presley, Michael Jackson standing on the roof of a car, looking like an extra from a George Romero movie, to greet his adoring fans outside the courthouse where he was being tried for pedophilia. We see the chronological transformation of his appearance after multiple plastic surgeries, and these images, along with the damaging accusations in the print media paint a picture of a crazy freak … or perhaps a really lonely man child who needed help and never got it.

Over the years, I have taken great pleasure in mocking Michael Jackson, and I’m still inclined to believe that, no matter what kinds of out-of-court settlements were arranged, he had a problem with little kids, and may have, upon occasion, even crossed the line. What is indisputable, even to a skeptic, is that the guy was enormously talented. The fact is, very few people know what really happened to him, or why he was as weird as he appeared to be, but I would wager that most of us have an opinion. It’s in my nature to judge; I do it all the time. Maybe he was a drug addict, or he was finally punished for his deviant lifestyle, or he had a mental meltdown, or it was the multiple surgeries that finally did him in … maybe he was assassinated by (really) White Supremacists … who knows. Perhaps he was a naïve little boy who, screened from the reality of human nature, simply existed precariously in a parallel universe, unaware or in denial of the judgment foisted upon him daily. Jackson was such an easy target, because he so publicly eccentric and so fabulously successful. The world loves a freak show, and he delivered in spades. Why are so many celebrities flakes? I keep thinking that I’d remain grounded, and I would be able to handle the fame and fortune. The truth is, I haven’t a clue what it is like to be so consistently hounded by fans and press alike.

All the rumors and the innuendo, the scandals, and the reports of his tortured existence will eventually fade away and, regardless of the imperfections of the individual, the star will shine forever. Jackson takes his place in the immortal short list of entertainers and celebrities who stood far above the rest. Though I was not a huge fan, I respected his talent, for pop song writing and dancing. I can’t say I’ll miss him, any more than I’ll “miss” the thousands of other deceased celebrities I never knew. Besides, there is plenty that he left behind to remind me of his talent. But I do feel just a little guilty for judging him so harshly without knowing who he really was.

In a few weeks we’ll find out that some toxic combination of pain killers or other medications ended his life, but that won’t really explain much. In truth, his life ended as enigmatically as he’d lived it, and what is sad is that his upcoming tour might have been very entertaining. Apparently there is a video of a recent rehearsal. We throw the word “tragedy” around a lot these days, but perhaps there are elements of real tragedy in Jackson’s short life. In my mind it was a tragic fantasy, and when they write his biography, perhaps the biographer should begin it with “Once upon a time, there lived a little boy named Michael Jackson.
Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 6/24/08

I am just back from Buffalo where I have been for the past week, foraging through safe deposit boxes, rummaging through files, and talking to lawyers, accountants, and bankers. Dad was pretty good about putting his affairs in order, five years ago. I suppose he felt that the end was near when in fact it was not. Always the organized record keeper, the problem over the past five years was that he kept EVERYTHING. I have been sorting through reams and reams of paper, trying to sort out what is and is not important to keep. As one of the co-executors of his estate (my sister is the other one), we are the detectives who must collect all his assets for evaluation. I find myself going through all of Dad’s possessions. In one folder, hidden in a bottom drawer, I found letters from my sisters and me to Dad, written when we were little children. I found foreign coins he’s collected from his many trips abroad with Mom. I found old photographs of distant family members, along with copies of their birth certificates … why in the world would he have those? Shortly before he passed away, I brought some of those old photos to him for identification, and surprisingly, he was able to put names to most of the faces.

During his last months, I spent quite a lot of time down in Buffalo. Perhaps it was guilt at not having been around much for the past few years, or perhaps I genuinely felt that my presence was helpful. Dad slept for most of the day, but sometimes he would rally late at night. It seemed that in the wee hours of the morning, all the mundane hassles of life on a death bed would drift away, and his memories would re-surface. Certainly, there were the anecdotes I’ve heard a hundred times before - I’m beginning to do that myself, so I can hardly fault him for doing it at 98. But what impressed me about those midnight talks was that invariably, there was a story I hadn’t heard, an anecdote that was new. I learned a little bit more about his early days in Buffalo and about his family in those last few months than I’d ever taken the time to learn in the past forty or fifty years. I came to realize how much there was about my father that I did not and do not know. I used to grumble that my father didn’t understand who I am, but in truth that complaint works both ways. I think a lot of us are strangers to the ones we love. I’ve been philosophical of late. This house is almost finished, and the combination of its construction and the concurrent decline of my parents has been pretty hard. We put all our energy into these projects, and sometimes we lose sight of the big picture, whatever that may be.

Just out of college, I bought a very used Triumph Spitfire and, with the help of someone who actually knew what he was doing, I rebuilt the engine. Unexpectedly, it was one of the better learning experiences of my life. On top of the lesson that it is much better to let a professional handle certain tasks, I learned something about coping with the unsettling prospect of unfinished projects. The rebuild took much longer than expected. Parts were not readily available, others required machining. One night I went out to the garage, and there were all the components of the engine, laying neatly on the floor. Pistons, valves, lifters, push rods … everything. I looked at all of these pieces and felt like at that point in time, this unassembled labyrinth of parts was a pretty good metaphor for my life. I’m in that unsettled state again. I comfort myself by believing that it will all come back together again, and it likely will. But it’s a little like losing my wallet, or my compass when I’m hiking…that feeling in my stomach that comes from the fear of being vulnerable. We all know the future is unpredictable, but sometimes we forget or simply ignore what we know. I’ve learned that no matter how organized I am – and admittedly, I am not well organized – and how much I try to steer the great rudder of my life, there are storms that I never saw coming. Keeping that notion actively in the back of my head has been helpful when the wind begins to blow.

Meanwhile, the world continues to spin on its axis. Iran is in the midst of a political crisis, the H1N1 Swine Flu virus is still a global threat and, just in time for the hot weather, Toronto is in the midst of a garbage strike. Doesn't that stink?

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

The Oppenheimer Report 6/7/09

The last two weeks have been very strange because, although I knew Dad was very old, I had become used to the notion that he would be around forever; I think a lot of people did. He seemed unstoppable, and the idea that he is gone is just now beginning to sink in. The other night, as I was watching the Detroit Red Wings beat the Pittsburgh Penguins in game two of the Stanley Cup finals, I caught myself starting to phone him in Buffalo. What did he think of that penalty call, for whom was he rooting? He would have been watching the game for sure, probably wearing his silly red knit Cornell Sherpa hat, which he wore almost constantly near the end, because he was almost always cold. He customarily wore the hat for Sabres games, presuming that would bring them luck. Invariably, it had the opposite effect. A while back, before Dad became permanently bedridden, my niece took a funny photo of him wearing that hat. He was sitting in his favourite chair in the den, reading a copy of Mad Magazine he found lying around, grimacing like an old curmudgeon because he did not approve of the off-color humor. The photograph is priceless, and a copy was sent to every member of the immediate family. Indeed there are many snapshots of him worth “a thousand words.” So many faces.

I had a complicated relationship with my dad, and I suppose that is fairly common in father-son relationships. Because he was so much older than I, we fought a lot when I was a teen. As I think Mark Twain humorously pointed out, fathers can improve considerably as time passes. I worked for and with Dad for over twenty years, and really came to know him best during that time. Of course he had his faults, but what I remember most about him was his uncanny ability to size almost anybody up in one conversation. He was remarkably intuitive and smart, and I came to admire him a great deal. Whenever anyone says that I remind them of my dad, I am proud of and at the same time humbled by that comparison. Shauna says that I talk to the dog with the same baby talk he used, and that many of my mannerisms are similar. I guess it is inevitable that one absorbs some of the character traits of one’s parents, and perhaps we are genetically hard-wired to do so. I remember a story he used to love to tell, and it always used to bother me. When I was perhaps three or four years old, Dad took me to a place near our first house in Kenmore where they offered rides on a miniature train. He obviously thought this would be big thrill for me, and I suppose he was vicariously delighted that his son was going to have such fun. When the ride was over, he asked me how I liked it, assuming that I would have been overcome with joyous enthusiasm. My reply was simply, “I could walk faster.” He loved to tell that story; perhaps he was a little proud of the fact that, at such a young age, I was already a wise ass. I can only guess, because I was not around in 1914, that maybe my father was a bit of a wise ass himself in his youth. Sadly, none of his contemporaries are still around, and stories of his indiscretions are hard to come by. I did get a few from his sister Edith, before she passed many years ago, but I have no hard evidence.

As time passes, I will likely screen out the past six months or so when Dad was so infirmed. I will remember more and more what a good and virtuous man he was. Home movies and photographs will likely color those memories, and even perhaps embellish them. I miss my dad, but take comfort in the long and productive life he lived. I only hope that, as time goes by, I will become somewhat worthy of the comparisons some have made.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED