The Oppenheimer Report - 12/27/10 Happy New Year!

Former Darwin Award Runner-up

Coming down the QEW the other day on my way to see Mom in Buffalo, I heard a story on the radio about some boneheads who had climbed down the Niagara Gorge in order to do mischievous things to the Maid of the Mist tour boats. Eventually, one of them had to be rescued, and the story reminded me of the idiots who used to climb challenging mountains around our hotel in Banff, then needed to be rescued when they realized they were in big trouble. I used to sit out on the balcony of our room and watch the rescue helicopters executing expensive retrievals off Rundle Mountain across the Bow Valley. I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, but thankfully most of them were only witnessed by my closest friends (who were equally blameworthy). And most of the stupid stuff I’ve done did not cost other people lots of money. So far, I haven’t had to explain to the policeman who saved my life why I was stupid enough to climb down the Niagara Gorge, in order to vandalize the Maid of the Mist, then to require assistance because I imperiled my life. In this the last report for 2010, I think it appropriate to once again touch on Darwin. No I’m not going to recount every one of my favorite Darwin Award candidates, those members of our society who have graciously removed themselves from the gene pool by killing themselves in some ridiculous and stupid way. I will point out that it’s one thing to accidentally jog off a steep cliff, but it’s quite another to weld jet engines to your Chevy, then launch yourself into the side of a mountain at 300 MPH. When I hear the word Darwinism, I think of survival of the fittest. Outlast, outsmart, outlive ... but out earn?

This morning, I read an article in The New York Times, my favorite leftist commie, Republican-hating, Pinko rag, and it was an “off with their heads” article about the skyrocketing compensation for the “top dogs” in our society. Some of the statistics, if in fact they are statistics, are staggering. For example, the median salary paid to a NY Yankee baseball player is $5.5 Million, or about seven times the inflation-adjusted median Yankee salary from 1990. In 1977, a CEO for a large corporation might have earned 50 times what one of his lowly workers made. Today, the highest paid CEO makes 1100 times what his workers make. Back in the 80’s during the decade of greed, Wall Street bonuses amounted to about $15,600 per person, but in 2007, just before the latest economic bubble burst, that bonus figure was more like $177,000 per person. The article goes on to suggest that this is all Ronald Reagan’s fault, but that these soaring compensations are also linked to free market economies and increased performance. A CEO is worth a lot more because he or she brings in more profits for the company and the shareholders. Is this really survival of the fittest, or have we all just gone mad? I never thought I’d be the one to suggest this, but perhaps democracy IS broken. We wonder why we’re getting so many unacceptable candidates in government, but if you can make $100 Billion inventing an internet-based social network, who wants to subject him (or her) self to the microscope of public office for a lousy couple hundred grand? Patriotism? Pthoohey! Dumb is the new leader (yeah, yeah, I know, Obama‘s smart) and while I will concede that many of the high earners in our society are better, faster, stronger, or more opportunistic than the rest of us lemmings, that does not necessarily entitle them to all of the lottery winnings. No, I’m not Robin Hood and I loathe the tail-wagging-the-dog government approach to the redistribution of wealth. What I might be suggesting is a little more flexible and reactive approach in the private sector in order to regulate executive and celebrity compensation. If you earn say $10 Million or more per year (perhaps excluding founders of companies), and your income is tied to fans or stockholders, then you are subject to periodic performance reviews, carried out by those responsible for your paycheck. Fail in any given quarter and your salary is docked, or if you really screw up, you get the boot. In Bernie Madoff’s case, your testicles are smeared with peanut butter then publicly removed by wolverines. If your movie does well, you get a piece of the action; if the movie bombs, you get your already inflated fee, but nothing else. There should be some cap on CEO salaries - and I have no idea what that should be - and bonuses should be a little more in line with reality. The more this compensation thing gets out of whack, the less vested the rest of us are in the American dream. There will always be stupid people in the world, and not all of them will be so accommodating as to remove themselves from the gene pool, but let’s not put all of them in charge of the cookie jar.

So, what does any of this have to do with Darwin? I’m not sure, but it seems as if the laws of Darwinism are not working. By all means, talent and excellence should be rewarded,  but let's not be ridiculous about it! The cream is not rising to the top, and there must be a better way to lure the truly gifted back to the table. Some of those people are delivering pizzas right now. As we usher in the infant 2011, let’s be better parents … and let’s start paying the right people something a little closer to what they’re worth.


“I rode the tiger, I rode the tiger, thought I was the talk of the town,

I rode the tiger, I rode the tiger, turns out I was just another money-grubbing clown…

I rode the tiger, I rode the tiger, I burned that candle right down,

I rode the tiger, I rode the tiger, I rode that tiger, right into the ground…



Cho:

Why is it everybody’s trying to find a way to make a million bucks?

Everybody’s rolling dice trying to grab a slice of lady luck …

I don’t need it, I don’t want a million bucks…”


I hope that 2011 brings back some of the sanity and common sense we seem to have misplaced! As I do every new year, I resolve to be a better person in general, to reduce my giant carbon footprint, and of course, to try not to say nasty things about the French. Happy New Year everyone. As Mr. Spock so wisely impored:  "Live long and prosper!"


Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 12/20/10

Just in time for the holidays, Europe is being paralyzed by the worst snowstorm in decades, severely hampering all modes of transportation. I read that in Germany, 560 flights had been cancelled as of yesterday, and ice and snow brought London’s Heathrow Airport to a near standstill on Saturday. Fun fact that I did not know: Heathrow is the world’s busiest international airport. I read about these weather disasters in other parts of the world and I chuckle. The fact is, Europe was not adequately prepared for this snow emergency, and what occurred this past weekend would probably be considered an average winter day in Buffalo, or up where we live. Even in the southern United States, if they get four inches of snow, they consider it a snow day and close up. What a bunch of wimps! Up here in the Great White North, we’ve had a few lake effect dumpings, but nothing too severe yet. We’ve only been plowed out once so far this year.


When I was a little boy in Buffalo, in the winter, Mom would bundle me up in five layers of winter clothing, topped off with leggings and a huge jacket. Preparing me for the outdoors was a major project that took fifteen or twenty minutes, and when she was finished, I had so much stuff on I couldn’t move. She’d pick me up and throw me outside for an hour or so, and I’d sit in the snow, motionless until she came to get me. This fond memory occurred to me the other day as I donned my winter gear to do some snow blowing. I am now fifty-five years old and once again, I’m wearing leggings, five layers of clothing, and my genuine pica-fur-lined trooper hat (you know, the silly ones with the flaps that fold down). I’ve come full circle; I look like that little kid I used to be, immobilized in a snow bank. Today, as I finish writing this report, the lake is completely white, and soon the ice fishing huts will begin to dot the west shore. That will be my cue to take my first cruise on the frozen lake with our new ATV. That thing is pretty good in the snow; I took it for a little high speed spin around the neighborhood last weekend and it’s a lot of fun in the snow.


With only five shopping days left until reindeer-fest 2010, I read that a lot of Christmas shoppers are avoiding the mall madness and letting their fingers do the shopping. Online shopping is up considerably, and in keeping with the 21st Century trend to disconnect from society, buyers can now avoid the holiday retail craziness by shopping in the comfort of their own home. One word of warning, as I am sure some of you have discovered with online shopping: cyberspace is the Wild West. If you’re not dealing with a known retailer, caveat emptor. We recently tried to purchase a computer online, enticed by the ridiculously discounted price. After making the purchase, we were informed that the laptop was out of stock and would not be in stock for months. They didn’t even offer a suitable alternative. Know your vendor, or pick one that is highly rated for reliability. Speaking of holiday “ugliness”, I once saw one of Santa’s disheveled “surrogates” urinating against a Toyota in a mall parking lot near Buffalo. My goodness, think of the children! Once you put on that suit, I think you have a certain responsibility to uphold the code. No drugs, no molestation, no swearing, and certainly no peeing on other people’s cars. You’d think Santa would be a little more careful about the guys he hires to help out, but you know what they say about good help. Don’t even get me started about the elves.


At a loss for what to give this holiday season? If the stores are all out of computerized book thingies, salad shooters, and robot vacuum cleaners, perhaps giving a little love and affection, which I’m sure all of you give in abundance anyhow, will suffice. Remember, Ho, Ho Ho, and don’t be “a ho”. Happy Holidays, I’ll see you in 2011!


Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 12/13/10

Last Wednesday, we lit the last candles of Chanukah, and it marked a significant anniversary. Thirty years ago last Wednesday, Mark David Chapman took John Lennon’s life in front of the Dakota in NYC. They showed a clip on the news the other night of Howard Cosell breaking the news to the world on Monday Night Football, December 9, 1980. Recently, I listened to a discussion about the meaning of the Lennon song “Imagine”. Some people said it was about anarchy, or socialism, and that it was anti-religious, and unpatriotic. To me, that song will always be a hopeful message about the possibility of peace, and it’s no surprise it is played frequently during Christmas time.

It’s not all that common that I am proud of something I wrote, or feel that it is worth repeating. Several years ago, I wrote a poem about an experience I had  around  the holidays, and I’d like to reprint it here so that any of my twelve loyal readers who missed it the first time around can read it now. In 2006, I spent most of the month of December living with my parents-in-law while my father-in-law fought to recover from a nearly fatal bout of the disease C. Difficile. I wrote about it in this blog, and some of you may even remember the poem. During the month or so that Shauna and I were living in that house, just about every major appliance and component malfunctioned and/or self destructed. The very first night Syd was in the hospital, the sewer backed up, leaving a mound of excrement and used toilet paper five feet in diameter on the laundry room floor. From there, it all went downhill. The fridge and the dishwasher died, the toilets crapped out (sorry, but that’s a fair description of what happened), the electrical service shorted out and needed to be replaced. The piece de resistance was when, during what I thought was going to be a routine service call, BOTH furnaces were declared dangerous and were “red tagged” to be shut down permanently. Both had cracked heat exchangers and were beginning to leak carbon monoxide into the house. The furnace guy was obligated to turn off the most dangerous of the two furnaces, but he reluctantly agreed to leave the other one running until we could arrange to have them both replaced. This little bit of bad news came about two weeks before Christmas, and left us scrambling desperately to replace the heating plants in the house in a big hurry. At one point, we were heating the main body of the house with four tiny electric space heaters, during one of the coldest Decembers on record. Meanwhile, my father-in-law was gravely ill, in quarantine at the hospital. I remember standing in an almost empty Home Depot one night in Toronto, there to pick up yet another replacement part for the latest thing that had broken in the house, and a Christmas song came over the loudspeaker. It was surreal, because I was so exhausted and beset by the ongoing problems in my family that I had completely forgotten that it was just days before Christmas. Looking back, it was almost funny, but at the time it was unbelievable. To follow is the poem I wrote 12/24/06 to commemorate the experience:

“The Night Before Christmas (In a Crumbling House)” …


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


Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 12/6/10

As winter creeps into the Great White North like a thief in the night, its arrival was a little less subtle in other parts of the country. Last week, Buffalo got smacked with a big winter storm and a heavy dose of lake effect snow. Where my mom lives, there was very little of the white stuff, but just south, in a narrow band, they got hammered. The storm even necessitated the closing of a stretch of the NYS Thruway. Out in Western Canada, there’s been plenty of snow already, but up here in the Great White North, we haven’t had all that much. I know it’s coming, and from time to time, I click on my Weather Channel website to check the Doppler radar, anxiously awaiting the streamers heading in from the west. I began writing this report on Saturday, and when I took Jasper out for her morning constitutional, there was a thin band of ice forming on the shores of our little lake. We’re all alone on this lake for most of the winter and it’s absolutely peaceful and beautiful right now. We’ll see how I feel come February.


Chanukah began December 1st and we lit the first candles as my father-in-law recited the prayers over the speaker phone from Toronto. I have always liked that tradition; it‘s even better when he’s in the same room. I don’t speak Hebrew, and when my father-in-law was not available on the second night, I googled “Chanukah prayers” so I could read the prayers phonetically. There is even an audio file available of a man reciting the prayers in Hebrew. Perhaps my laptop should have a bar mitzvah. Speaking of things Jewish, there was a big wildfire in Israel last week, outside Haifa in Northern Israel. My immediate reaction was that it was caused by Arabs playing with matches, but apparently that was not the case. High winds and draught conditions fueled the flames, and there were a surprising number of casualties.

Canadian actor Leslie Nielson died last week. I loved him in “Airport” and the “Naked Gun” movies, but sometimes it’s fun to watch an actor play a role that is completely the antithesis of what I’d expect him to play. There was a movie called “Nuts” starring Barbra Streisand and Richard Dreyfus, in which Nielson played a cameo, and it was entirely different than anything I had ever seen him do. The movie was about a high end prostitute, played by Streisand (a bit of a stretch), who was on trial for murdering one of her Johns. In the scene, Nielson played the John who got a little too frisky, and Streisand bores him to death with her liberal nonsense (just kidding). It must be strange for an actor to become type cast as a comic or a bad guy. For a long time, I had a lot of trouble seeing Henry Winkler as anything but “The Fonz” though he’s certainly a versatile actor in dramatic roles as well. Jack Palance used to play a lot of bad guys when I was a kid, then I saw him in the comedy “City Slickers” and he was pretty funny.

The big news last week was the WikiLeaks exposure of classified information,  likely to embarrass a lot of people worldwide and undermine various diplomatic efforts. Depending on whom you believe, WikiLeaks (which is, by the way, a website) founder Julian Assange is either a demon or an angel. Is he the “Robin Hood of Information” or just some traitor endangering our national security? Does anybody remember when Geraldo got in trouble during the second Gulf War by divulging sensitive logistics information on T.V.? I don’t know enough about Assange to judge him, but I read an article in The Toronto Star that makes him out to be pretty strange. Right now he is holed up in Britain, but he can’t hide there for very long. A lot of high ranking government types want his balls on a platter, if they catch him. One thing this WikiLeaks scandal does is to remind me how uncontrollable the internet really is. Some argue that all information should be public, and we all suspect that some governments abuse or mishandle the information they obtain. What will happen when one of these “liberators” starts working in a country like China? I’m guessing he or she will end up in the Kang Pao Chicken. Assange probably crossed the line, but in this age of information (and misinformation),what would happen if the world had no secrets? Perhaps it’s naïve to assume it would be a better place.

Merry Eighteen -Shopping-Days-To-Go. Ho Figgin’ Ho … and don’t be one (a “ho” that is).


Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 11/29/10

Though I approached Thanksgiving in Buffalo this year with some trepidation, it proved to be a wonderfully entertaining holiday. Arriving at the hotel late Wednesday night, I expected mayhem, because the night before Thanksgiving in Buffalo is typically the biggest party night of the year. Several years ago, when we stayed at the Holiday Inn up the street, there was an all night party going on in the next room, and I eventually called hotel security to break things up. I’m fairly tolerant, but I drew the line when loud, sloppy drunks repeatedly slammed into my door at 2AM. It looked as if this year might be a replay of that celebratory chaos, because The Hampton Inn, our hotel this year, is even closer to Chippewa Street, and Chippewa is Buffalo’s “party central.” When we arrived, there were scores of inebriated young “adults” in the hotel, coming and going. Although there was quite a lot of noise in the halls, the room itself was quiet, and there was no need to complain. I looked out our 4th floor window, overlooking lines of kids waiting to get into the various packed bars, and for just one brief moment, I pined for the days before I became a fuddy duddy. Then again, I can’t ever recall waiting in line to get into a bar. For me, the bar experience does not include waiting outside in the freezing rain while some cretin bouncer scrutinizes fake I.D.s. I have always avoided popular hotspots like the plague.


Thanksgiving dinner entertainment this year included my sister’s three grandchildren, and I marveled at the mess three toddlers can create in less than an hour. I am also amazed at the amount of baby stuff with which my nephews now routinely travel. It’s like they were a stage crew setting up for a rock concert, and the first floor of my mother‘s rather large house was completely filled with baby paraphernalia. Ever the family archivist, I made a point of photographing and videoing as much of the kids’ activity as I could, and they proved to be an endless source of humor. My mom was very much “with it” for the dinner and for this I am especially thankful. As one of the more rambunctious little girls teetered on the edge of a chair, Mom even had the presence of mind to warn the parents. It’s hit or miss these days, and Mom could easily have been absent through the entire event. Lewy Body Disease is extremely confounding and can really throw cold water on any family gathering. As I think back, dementia has more than once presented itself at these Oppenheimer Thanksgiving dinners, and these multi-generational family gatherings are never dull. I remember one Thanksgiving many years ago, when one of my favorite octogenarian uncles walked up to me and out of the blue, smiling proudly, implored me to “feel his butt.” He’d apparently been doing some kind of ass exercises prescribed to him by his geriatric butt coach, and was very proud of his newfound firmness. A bit embarrassed, I jokingly suggested to him that people might talk, but he then became very insistent, grabbing my hand and placing it firmly on his butt cheek. I gingerly squeezed and nodded approvingly. I’m only thankful it wasn’t an even more embarrassing appendage I was directed to grab. When in Rome.

As an added bonus to the Thanksgiving mirth, after the dinner when we returned to our hotel, there was a wedding party milling about in the lobby. Just after we walked in the door, a middle-aged man came running up to the front desk from the elevator, totally befuddled and wearing a shirt and socks, but absolutely nothing else. Somehow, he’d managed to lock himself out of his room in this compromised state and needed another room key. Personally, if I were him, I might have taken off my shirt and wrapped it around my waist, so that my bare ass was not prominently displayed to the general public in a busy hotel lobby, but that’s just me. As we waited for the elevator to go up to our room, he sheepishly came up behind us and when the elevator door opened, I sighed and said “Go ahead, we’ll take the next one.” I was tempted to make him ride up with us, or worse, to wait for the next elevator, but in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I took pity on him. As we waited for the next elevator, I looked at the bride and groom, who had just witnessed this bizarre event, and I asked, “Did I do the right thing?” to which the bride laughed and replied, “Absolutely!” The next morning, as I stumbled into the breakfast room for my complimentary powdered eggs and Tang, who was the first person I came across, sitting alone? You got it, naked man. He looked up and as soon as he saw me, he immediately looked down, like our dog Jasper after she’s been caught peeing on the floor. It was priceless. I was half tempted to walk up behind him and say something like “Psst …you can run but you can’t hide … we have photographs and we gave them to the bride and groom for their wedding album.”

All in all, a special Thanksgiving.



Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 11/22/10

I must be “retahhdid” as some of my friends in Boston would say, because I have a tendency to photograph exotic cars I see while I’m driving around in Toronto. It’s one thing to see these cars in an auto show or in a showroom, but it’s quite another to see and hear them driving around. The other day, on my way back up north, I spotted a rare Porsche Carrera GT on Avenue Road and grabbed my digital camera, which I leave locked and loaded on the passenger seat. I was drooling, and actually followed the guy for several blocks, just to watch this work of art in motion. I always wonder how someone could drive a car like that around the city; how do you ever get it out of first gear? There’s a lot of talk about prohibiting cell phone usage in cars, and of course we’re not supposed to text while we’re driving, but hey officer, nobody said anything to me about taking photographs! Then again, nobody told me not to read the newspaper while driving, but I guess that’s not a good idea either. Once, driving a friend to work in an L.A. traffic jam, I noticed the guy next to me doing just that; reading the L.A. Times in his moving vehicle.


Prince William and “commoner” Kate Middleton have announced their plans to wed, and all I can say is, it’s about time we got some fresh blood in that family. Too much inbreeding and pretty soon we’re going to start getting royals with the gray matter of that Appalachian banjo player in “Deliverence.” I’ve always thought Charles was a bit of an oaf. I will never understand how he ever could have dumped Lady Di for that troll Camilla ParkYerBowels . Of course, I have been glued to the TV set for any updates on the wedding ever since I heard the news . Ever the “Dysfunction Detective” I stand ready and waiting to report any cracks in the engagement bliss. Will they go for the cozy seclusion of Westminster Abbey or will they choose something larger, like the backyard of Buckingham Palace? Will they find true love or crash and burn in front of the entire world as did Chuck and Di? Certainly all eyes are now on these young lovers and the pressure will be enormous. What a joy it must be to be a royal! Fun fact: 750 Million viewers watched Chuck and Di marry back in 1981. I wasn’t one of them. Perhaps Elton John will rewrite another one of his songs for Will and Kate. I am frothing in anticipation.

What else happened last week ... Pat Burns, NHL legend and former coach of the Toronto Maple Leafs, died after a long battle with cancer. Two teams that Burns once coached, the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Montreal Canadians, played each other last Saturday night, and in keeping with their tendency to suck, the Leafs lost yet again. Despite having shown a hint of promise earlier in the season, they are once again in or near last place. On a happier note, the Buffalo Bills won yet another game … that’s two so far this season.

Wednesday, we head down to Buffalo for (American) Thanksgiving in Buffalo. Sadly, this might be the last one celebrated  in my Buffalo home of fifty years. I look forward to meeting a new addition to the family; my youngest nephew and his wife just had a baby boy. Once again, Thanksgiving dinner at the Oppenheimer’s will span four generations, and that alone is something for which to be thankful.


Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 11/15/10

Last weekend, my pal Bob and I resumed an annual custom which we had sidelined for about four or five years … we spent the night in Niagara Falls, Ontario. Most people  assume that we would go there for a concert or to gamble in the casino, but not Bob and me. We travel to Niagara Falls to experience the scary wax museums. We joke with our wives and friends about how we’re going to go wild and paint the town red in a full blown Bacchanalian frenzy - after all, Niagara Falls Ontario is Vegas North (well, not exactly) - but the truth is, we haven’t really done much of that sort of thing in over thirty years. We did go to the “old” casino once about five years ago on one of our visits, but it was not what I would call fun. It reminded me of a video arcade without children, or laughter. While I understand that in theory gambling in a casino is supposed to be entertaining -- and I’m sure that for some people it is -- the idea of handing over my money to someone and then not getting anything in return is, to say the least, unappealing . I’m way too cheap to part with my greenbacks when the odds are so heavily weighted in favor of the casino. Besides, having recently spent over three years surrounded by and paying building contractors, somehow I feel as if I’ve already had that experience. The fact is, I’m not much of a game player in general. No sir, I want more bang for my buck, and there were at least three or four chamber of horror wax museums just begging for our entertainment dollars.




You have to understand, Bob and I are experts on the subject of scary wax museums, and we’ve probably been to every one in Niagara Falls. There’s something about wandering around in an unlit labyrinth, not knowing when some macabre display will flash before your eyes, that spells excitement for me. Sadly, this year House of Frankenstein turned out to be the only chamber of horror worth its salt. Typically in the past, each one of those museums employed live “growlers,” as Bob and I dubbed them, whose job it is to lurk in the shadows and surprise the unsuspecting spectators. Clearly, with the downturn in the economy, there is a profound shortage of growlers, and this was disappointing. While a dusty, poorly lit exhibit of some wretched victim being eviscerated by a werewolf is o.k., in my opinion it pales in comparison to the adrenaline rush provided by a well-trained growler. The best part about the growlers is that you can mess with them. I think Bob actually tackled one during a previous visit, and we came up with all sorts of creative ways to make their job harder (for instance, responding to their attack with an air horn). This year, I was bound and determined to photograph one of them, which is no mean feat given the element of surprise and the darkness. Call it the thrill of the hunt. Of course, I forgot my camera for the visit to House of Frankenstein, and that turned out to be the only one with live entertainment.



Naturally, in between wax museums there was some imbibing, because as we all know, alcohol reinforces one’s suspension of disbelief. As well, we needed to analyze the experience while it was fresh in our minds. I’m glad we had a few beers, because each successive chamber of horror turned out to be a little bit lamer than the previous one. I insisted on retrieving my camera from the hotel room for the last two forays into hell, and of course those venues were completely growler-less. I did take a lot of pictures anyway, probably more than I would have had I been sober, and mostly of Bob giving me the finger. I interpret the old saying “you can never go home” to mean that nothing stays the same. The final insult was that, after our last overpriced “museum” visit ended, instead of being returned to the dark and eerily lit entrance, with the mysterious and creepy monster trapped inside a shaking crate beside the ticket booth, we were spit out into the salad bar at the restaurant next door. Talk about throwing a wet blanket on the terror! Perhaps my enhanced memories of past growler-filled terror chambers might have been a little exaggerated, but the truth is, it doesn’t get much better than a Saturday night in Niagara Falls, Ontario accompanied by my best friend. We cruised the garishly lit midway which is Clifton Hill, we hit a couple of bars, we did some people watching, and we laughed. Time takes no prisoners; even a couple of bozos as fortunate as Bob and I have had our share of worries and tribulations. Sometimes you just have to stop and smell the sugar waffles. As we rode the Ferris wheel that overlooks the sparkling tourist town, I looked out over the dimly lit falls in the distance, and as I listened to its distant roar, I reminded myself that life is pretty darned good.



“We’re traveling around in the circle of Life

We turn to the left until we come to the right

We’re traveling around in the circle of Life

The past is the future with a little more light…”

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 11/8/10

The lawnmower is in the shed for the winter, the leaves are raked and burned, the rain barrels are emptied and stored, I took one last frosty ride in the porta-bote to run the gas out of the little outboard and put that away for the season, and after the snow last week, I finally took up the dock. Yesterday was absolutely beautiful, and I was able to accomplish most of the outdoor cleanup which is so much more unpleasant when the cold wind is blowing. In about three weeks, it will probably start to get ugly up here in the Great White North, and more than one of our resident weather experts has predicted a snowy winter. Something about furry caterpillars, or was it squirrels wearing snowshoes? I have the Weather Channel doplar radar for our area set up as a “favorite” in my web browser, and with one click of the mouse, I can watch the weather blow in from the West. Bring it on Jack Frost, I’m ready. Heeeeere’s Johnny (cryptic reference to “The Shining”)!



Last Tuesday marked the mid term elections in the U.S. and it was described as a bloodbath by more than one political pundit. In a news conference the next day, Obama himself called it “a shellacking” for his party. America made a right turn as Republicans won back the House and made some headway in the Senate as well. As I predicted, those starry eyed “Yes-We-Cans,” filled with hopeful elation when the evil/stupid king was dethroned two years ago, have now turned on the new “good” king like a pack of wolves. With unemployment still hovering well over 9 per cent, Americans blame Obama and his donkeys for not making the mess go away. I’m not an Obamaniac (although his command of the English language is a refreshing change over the profound ineloquence of his predecessor), but come on people. Are we all so naïve as to assume that this is one man’s (or one party’s) fault? If you lived larger than you can afford, if you bought a house that was beyond your means, or if you profited handsomely from the Wall Street lottery in the 80s and 90s, then didn’t you and I willingly contribute to the downfall of our economy? Contrary to popular belief, America is a democracy, and we the electorate screwed it up. Maybe Bush left the barn door open, but it was open long before he took office. The fact is, we say we want leadership, but when it starts to hurt, we scream for the next guy. It’s political suicide to propose painful solutions. Here’s a novel idea: level the playing field. Absolutely, limit campaign contributions, but ALSO make every winning candidate accountable for his or her ridiculous promises. No excuses, if you lie, and don’t deliver on an outrageously unrealistic campaign promise, your war chest is depleted by (pick a number) $50,000. Companies have performance reviews, and employees are held accountable, why not politicians as well? Wouldn’t it be great if we could simply look up a political candidate’s record for delivering on his or her promises? Then, we the voting public, might become invested in the democratic process again instead of voting for the bonehead who makes the biggest promises. Accountability is a vanishing characteristic. They say Obama hasn’t done a good job of pointing to his successes. That might actually be true, and the fact is, I haven’t got a clue who started the mess we’re in, or who is capable of fixing it. I do know that I have grown weary of all the lying S.O.B.s who claim it was the other guy. But my point is that we the voters share the blame for this pandemic of bad leaders. Toronto just elected a new Mayor, Rob Ford, and the big issues in this last election were high taxes and a bloated city government. Ford’s slogan: “Stop the gravy train!” Judging by his girth, he’s no stranger to gravy himself, and allegedly he had a somewhat checkered career as a councilman in Etobicoke. He may soon be eating crow with a little gravy on the side. O.K. my bi-annual angry political rant is over (hah!).



The Federal Reserve is about to dump another $600 Billion on the American taxpayers in order to “stimulate” the economy. Time to start printing money again. In five years, the U.S. greenback will be worth about one sheet of Charmin. If you’re flying, you might want to avoid taking an Airbus A380. It seems one of their Rolls Royce engines exploded in midair near Singapore spewing debris all over some Indonesian island. A volcano on Mt. Merapi in Indonesia has erupted for the second time in a month, spewing super-heated pyroclastic gas and ash on the surrounding population. Hurricane Tomas just barreled through Haiti and Cuba. Boy those Haitians really can’t catch a break, can they? First they’re hammered by the big earthquake in January, which leaves over a million Haitians homeless, and then, when they’re already living in tents, BANG!, a hurricane. Kinda makes a couple of months of snow look like a piece of cake, eh? (that’s Canadian for “know-what-I-mean?). Next week, we’re back to “happy” reports.



Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 11/1/10

Happy day after Halloween. It snowed Saturday and Sunday up here in the Great White North, and as I finish writing this week’s report, our dog Jasper is furiously barking at a very confused squirrel who I believe has misplaced some of his nuts on the snow-covered landscape. I haven’t even taken up our dock for heaven’s sake. The good news is we have a retractable dock now; we can take it up without getting in the water. I will necessarily do that this week because several winters ago, I procrastinated and having been delayed for a few weeks in Toronto, I came back up in late November to find the dock frozen into the lake. We had to use a chainsaw to break it loose. The weather up here can really catch a person off guard, and the day after I took the boat back to the marina for the winter, we had a terrific wind storm. This year, I’m actually looking forward to winter because we have an ATV. For the past three winters, I have watched the crazy ice fishermen zooming around doing donuts on our frozen lake, and I was envious. This year, I can join them, but not for the ice fishing part.


I’ve got to start reading the NY Post on a regular basis. My brother-in-law, generally a Wall Street Journal sort of guy, suggested I check it out after actor Charlie Sheen set some kind of a NY Post record by making the front cover three days in a row. On a recent binge in NYC with an escort( hooker) named Capri, Mr. Sheen was apparently found naked in a restaurant bathroom, with cocaine smeared all over his face, completely disoriented and confused.  Ms. Capri allegedly refused his carnal advances (restrooms are SO romantic) because he failed to ante up with the $12,000 he had promised her, and now I understand she is suing him for wrongful imprisonment, or some other equally litigious charge. Wow, how do I become a celebrity escort? For that kind of money, I’d do Flipper! Sheen also did a reported $7,000 damage to the upscale hotel room he trashed. Sounds like his character in “Two and a Half Men” isn’t much of a stretch. Of course, we must remember that tabloid journalism is not generally fair, and there IS no privacy in the life of a celebrity. Boo hoo! I’m guessing that even I might raise a few eyebrows if I was gallivanting around NYC with a couple of high-end hookers, then finally got caught in the bathroom, coked out and naked. I think that falls into the “Oops” category. About the most exciting thing I did recently was change the oil in my snow blower.


What else is news … there was an apparent plot to bomb some synagogues in Chicago, involving parcel bombs originating in Yemen. As Seth Meyers quipped on SNL, an unsolicited package postmarked Yemen and sent to a U.S synagogue might have aroused some suspicion, but who knows? The al Qaeda attack on the USS Cole took place in a Yemeni port, although Sudan was blamed for the attack. Increasingly, it seems we are engaged in a war of information and the battlefield is invisible. Once, a long time ago, I suggested, in a tongue in cheek fashion, that the mob would be a great ally in this shadow war. Tony Soprano would be able to find that pesky Bin Bombin’, and he’s not limited by those complicated rules of engagement. I’ll bet there would be less collateral damage as well. More mob, more CIA, less casualties.


Not a good week for my teams. In hockey, both the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Buffalo Sabres are struggling, although the Leafs do look a lot better this year than they have in the past four or five years. Having lost another overtime heartbreaker, this time to the Kansas City Chiefs, the Buffalo Bills are now 0-7. Like I said, the Bills are a serious incentive for their fans to participate in attitude-adjusting tailgate parties.


Finally, I got no feedback about Halloween costumes, but I read that, hands down, singer Lady Gaga was the most popular Halloween costume this year. No doubt ... the woman is a goddess. A lot of people apparently chose to be that bonehead Snookie, from the hit reality show, “The Jersey Shore,” and I heard that comic Ellen Degeneres went as Snookie’s hair. That’s amusing. Still haven’t carved our pumpkin. Is it bad form to carve a pumpkin after Halloween? Discuss.




Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/27/10

Sorry to have once again disappointed the three of you who might actually miss my Monday pearls of wisdom, but I forgot my computer when I headed down to Buffalo last week, so the Opp Report is once again late. Dad had a very old Apple notebook, or IBook, or whatever those eggheads call them and, out of necessity I wrote a few business letters on it. I find there is a learning curve involved with using Apple products in general, and while Apple users furiously defend these computers as the best thing since electric potato peelers, I find them frustratingly un-user friendly. All I really care about in a computer is word processing, and everything from establishing how files are stored to disabling the “insert” mode becomes a three step process with an Apple. The only thing which is surprisingly similar about PCs and Macs is the unhelpfulness of the “Help” key. Admittedly no genius when it comes to computers, I have no desire to become “Apple fluent,” and do not wish to spend 45 minutes figuring out how to set the date and time on my computer.



With Halloween around the corner, I broke down last week and purchased a pumpkin at the local supermarket. I’ve been meaning to do this for the past three seasons, but the selection and price were unacceptable to me. Apparently there was a bumper crop this year and I was able to buy a large, well-shaped pumpkin for the bargain price of two bucks. What a deal … these days it costs a buck to put air in my tires at the gas station. I knew a guy in Buffalo who used to grow giant pumpkins and enter them in giant pumpkin contests. While growing a gourd which requires a forklift to be moved falls into the “get-a-life” category for me, these guys take there giant pumpkin growing very seriously. Less than twenty years ago, the record was somewhere around 400 pounds, but these days, the world record is something like 1725 pounds. To put that in perspective, a Daimler Smart car weighs 1719 pounds. I found a picture on the web of some guy paddling his giant pumpkin around in the water. If you want to find out how to grow a pumpkin the size of a small car, there are plenty of instructions available on the internet. You can’t go far wrong starting with Dill’s Giant Atlantic pumpkin seeds, available by mail order from somewhere in the Maritime Provinces. I’m going to pass on the giant pumpkin growing; I’ll settle for the two dollar store-bought variety.


When I was in college, one year we had the brilliant idea to have a pumpkin carving party in order to “rush” potential brothers and sisters at our frat (we were equal opportunity partiers). In all I think we had over thirty pumpkins, which translated into thirty candle lit jack ‘o lanterns for our big Halloween party. Our Halloween parties were legendary, with a live band and plenty of beer. With all the aspiring pyromaniacs in our midst, it’s a wonder nobody burned the house down. We had a couple of talented artists among our rushes, and I remember some of those jack ‘o lanterns were pretty darned creative. Shauna wants me to carve a picture of Jasper’s head on our pumpkin, but I think I’ll go with my usual (and much easier) crossed out eyes and phallic nose. Anyhow, Happy Halloween to one and all, and I encourage feedback from my twelve loyal readers regarding any creative costumes they encounter this year.


Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/18/10

After this latest industrial disaster in Kolontar, Hungary wherein an entire town was essentially rendered uninhabitable by a spill of toxic bauxite, I was not all that surprised to hear that the Hungarian government had allegedly withheld vital information about the imminent danger to residents and cleanup workers. How bizarre to see workers pouring acid into a river to neutralize the effects of the caustic bauxite. Watching the aerial video shots of the bright red spill, I was saddened, as I am sure were the rest of the viewers. Having recently experienced the almost non stop coverage to the recent BP oil spill, I thought back to some of the man made disasters I could summon up at a moment’s notice. Of course there are the Three Mile Island, and Chernobyl power nuclear plant failures. Most people remember Love Canal, although that probably would not have been a disaster had the municipality not chosen to build a residential community over a designated hazardous waste containment site. Learning machine that I am, I Googled the subject of industrial and man made disasters, and of course found a myriad of reminders that man has a less than stellar track record preserving Mother Earth.



Most people remember the Union Carbide pesticide accident in Bhophal, India. Twenty thousand died in that disaster, poisoned as they slept. In January of 2000, an Aural mining company was responsible for a cyanide spill in Romania that released 100,000 tons of cyanide into local rivers, including the Danube (which was also threatened by this latest bauxite spill). The accident was deemed the worst environmental disaster in Europe since Chernobyl, and although no human deaths were reported (of course, the long term consequences are a little more difficult to assess), the leak killed up to 80% of aquatic life in some of the affected rivers, and who knows what it did to the food chain. Probably the strangest disaster I found was the Boston Molasses Disaster of 1919, wherein a molasses tank from the Purity Distilling Company measuring fifty feet high by ninety feet wide collapsed, spilling millions of gallons of molasses through the streets of Boston. Twenty-one people died and many more were injured when an eight foot high tidal wave of molasses spread across several city blocks of Boston. What a way to go! The force of the spill lifted a train off it’s tracks, leveled buildings, and flooded several city blocks with waist deep sticky goo. The cleanup of that mess cost 87,000 man hours.



I saw my share of hazardous waste sites when I sold and leased industrial real estate in Western New York. I lived less than thirty miles from the site of the notorious Love Canal disaster, and it still astounds me that the area is once again a thriving residential community. I know of several other hazardous waste sites in Niagara Falls. One day, early in my industrial real estate career, I was driving down Buffalo Avenue, a major industrial street in Niagara Falls, in my ’67 Triumph Spitfire with the top down. It was a beautiful summer day, and suddenly I noticed twenty or thirty guys wearing gas masks and hazmat suits, sweeping a parking lot with large push brooms. There was dust billowing up into the air and I drove by it, not one hundred yards away. Why did they not close down the street while they were releasing presumably toxic dust into the air?! When I think back to all the industrial sites I visited, I wonder how much hazardous waste I was exposed to.





Sadly, our dog Tuppy passed away peacefully at the vets last Saturday morning. It was a bit of a roller coaster ride, because the vet had finally identified the proper antibiotic to use on her, and for a while it looked like she might survive. Unfortunately,  other problems became untreatable. We believe she threw a blood clot that blocked blood flow to her back end, and that was the game changer. The really tough part will be breaking it to Mom; that dog was devoted to her. The vet asked us if we want the ashes. The only pet remains on the family property at present include a small Turtle named Herman, and about one third of a rabbit named Alfie (our poodle ate the other two thirds). Both are buried in the back yard, presumably violating some city zoning ordinance. I have no desire to expand our backyard  pet cemetary, so I think we’ll opt for the clay paw print ... a fitting reminder of a good and loyal friend.



On a happier note, one recent disaster had a happy ending. All 33 of those Chilean miners, trapped for 69 days in a mine collapse, were finally freed, and miraculously, they all seemed to be in good health. One guy was so happy when he was brought up, he was running around stirring up all the elated onlookers. Kudos to the people who rescued them all safely. I like it when the media focuses on a good news story.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/11/10

First order of business: Happy Thanksgiving to all my Canadian readers, and Happy Columbus Day to the Yanks!


While I was down in Buffalo this last trip, I played an open mic at Nietzsche’s, a local music club in “historic” Allentown. I used to play open mics all the time but have not done so with any frequency in quite a while. Over the past few months I have resumed the practice, one because as an aspiring songwriter I’m always gauging the potential of my songs, and two because the process scares me. I have adopted the do-one-thing-that-scares-you-everyday philosophy as a program for growth and development. So far, no luck, but I persist nonetheless. This particular open mic has significance for me, because it is hosted by the guy who was there for my very first public performance, perhaps 30 years ago. I remember it like it was only yesterday. It was at a bar called Casablanca on Buffalo’s West Side. I’d finally mustered up enough courage to play on a stage, but when I got to the bar, the place was empty save for me, the bartender, and the host of the open mic. I played to a packed house of empty chairs, and I was just as nervous as if there had been an audience. In retrospect, I suppose it was better to get that first performance out of the way without an audience. I have a love hate relationship with this particular open mic host, once dubbed the king of the Buffalo open mic, because I felt as if he has a bit of a kingmaker attitude about songwriters. I played his open mic more than a dozen times over the years, and he never made even the slightest attempt to remember my name or my face. More often than not, he would bump me on the list to make room for one of his favored protégés, some hotshot who had not bothered to “wait in line” like the rest of us (there was always a sign up sheet). This would of course annoy me, especially because I usually felt I was better than the favored artist. There is, more often than not, quite a lot of ego involved in these amateur music events, and I suppose that in the early days I fell prey to my pride. It’s funny, because talent often goes hand in hand with humility. Put another way, the most talented performers I’ve watched over the years were often the least presumptuous and the most humble. I’d like to think that, the less impressed I have become with myself, the more talented I have become, but in truth, I’m afraid I still suck donkey balls as a singer/performer. It used to amuse me how some other songwriters and musicians would spend twenty minutes making sure everything was perfect for their little fifteen minute performances, when proper open mic etiquette would dictate that the performer get on (and off) as quickly as possible. Five piece bands would come in and set up an entire sound system, musicians would spend way too long tuning their guitars on stage and setting up special effects pedals, and more often than not, the performers who took the longest to set up had the least to offer.



Despite the preponderance of attitude, I really do enjoy playing and listening at open mics. If one is not so absolutely pre-occupied with one’s own performance, these open stage performances can be genuinely enjoyable for any number of reasons. The people who get up and play might be really good or really bad, but either can be entertaining. If you’ve ever attended a karaoke night at a bar, take that entertainment value and double it. Levity is a big part of the process, and I quickly learned that, where talent is lacking, a sense of humor is fundamental. I once got up in front of thirty or forty people in a bar in Buffalo and, accompanied by my Yamaha Porta-Sound keyboard,  programmed for “Samba Beat,” I played “Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie, Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” with a horrible Hispanic accent. Call it performance art, but it was, surprisingly, a hit among the more plastered patrons. I would venture to say that for every talented hopeful out there, there are one thousand wannabes who are anything but. It’s the reason why I’ve always enjoyed watching the tryout shows for American Idol. It never ceases to amaze me that some of these aspiring contestants think they’re good. My bar is pretty low, yet sometimes even I am amazed. As much as I think the afore-mentioned Buffalo host is a bit of jerk, I can’t imagine what it must be like to show up week after week, year after year, and to sit through some of the more abominable performances with a straight face. Then again, every so often -- and this is what makes these events worthwhile for me -- somebody blows me away with his or her talent. It doesn’t happen all that often, but I have heard some artists play, sometimes accompanied by other musicians with whom they’ve never performed, and words cannot describe the magic of those spontaneous performances. The serendipity of such moments is, for me, worth plodding through the preponderance of bad acts and the bloated egos. If there is anything I have learned in thirty years of songwriting, it is that listening, for me anyhow, is a big part of performing and creating.


Last Wednesday night I played an open mic at an Irish pub in downtown Toronto called Grace O’Malley’s. It’s hosted by a musician named Tim Hicks, who seems to draw some good local musicians and songwriters. Unlike so many open mic hosts, who routinely hog the stage to showcase their own dubious talents, Tim’s a good guy, and many of the performances at his open stage are genuinely entertaining. There’s little attitude, he and his friends play interesting covers and original tunes, he makes the extra effort to ensure the sound is acceptable, and I’ve never had to wait more than an hour to play. I’m long past aspiring to fame and fortune from my material. Now I simply want to present some of my songs as well as I possibly can, hoping someone will be listening. Superstar white rapper Eminem was on “60 Minutes” last night, talking about his humble beginnings and his creative process. When asked what he hopes to achieve from his performances, he answered: “Respect.” Amen to that.


"I AM A SHADOW ON THE COAT TAILS OF FAME

YOU’VE SEEN THE FACE BUT DON’T KNOW THE NAME.

WHY DO I FOOL MYSELF ANYWAY?

I GUESS I PLAY THE IMPOSTER’S GAME..."



Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 10/4/10

It’s time once again for New Yorkers to elect a new governor, and not that anybody cares outside of New York State, but Carl Paladino, a Buffalo real estate developer, is running as the Republican candidate against Democrat Andrew Cuomo. This race interests me, because it promises to get really ugly, and I am, as most of my readers know, a huge fan of bad behavior. Paladino is decidedly the underdog in a predominantly Democratic state, but he is not a career bureaucrat, and that may be attractive to some of the NY voters. Many New Yorkers who work and pay the lion’s share of the taxes here are fed up. Nobody expected Paladino to win the Republican nod in the primaries, but he rallied for the upstate vote and beat the incumbent. A few weeks ago, I read a blurb in the Buffalo News wherein Cuomo, who is former NYS Gov. Mario Cuomo’s son, said he would not resort to mudslinging. That self-righteous proclamation came a day after his party put out a disparaging cartoon depicting Paladino as a pig at the public trough. Paladino is no angel, and perhaps he has been an opportunist when it comes to available State money ( he leases office space to a lot of State agencies), but I laugh when I see one side indignant about the morality of the other side. To presume that either of these candidates is going to tackle the issues is ludicrous, because New York State is so mired in political quagmire that what it really needs is a giant can of Whoop Ass. Paladino might be just the S.O.B. to clean house. The fact is, Cuomo will never get into the ring with Carl Paladino, because he has too much to lose. He’ll simply run his weasel attack ads and sit back. As a Democrat in New York State, all he really needs to do is avoid making some colossal mistake and he’s probably a shoe-in. There are twice as many registered Democrats in this State as Republicans, and short of being accused of child molestation or of being a Dolphins fan, Cuomo will likely be the next governor of New York State. Having said that, I worked in the Buffalo real estate market for over twenty years, and I had some exposure to Carl Paladino. He’s a fighter. I’d be surprised if this race doesn’t turn really nasty soon, and I look forward to the unsavory and completely irrelevant volley of personal attacks. It is remotely possible that New York voters will turn on Cuomo simply because he represents the status quo. New York State is driving its businesses away right and left with mismanagement and high taxes, and I’ve always said that I rather have a businessman in office than a career bureaucrat. Paladino recently jumped on the No-Mosque-at-Ground-Zero bandwagon, and while I’m not sure I agree with that position, it is likely to win him a few voters downstate. Grab your seats and let the slander, lies, character assassination, and backstabbing begin!



Our Welsh Corgi “Tuppy” (proper name “Tuppence”) has been granted a stay of execution, and last Thursday I drove down to Buffalo to pick her up after her expensive four day visit to the vet. The vet has put her on a some special antibiotic and special renal diet food, and he is guardedly optimistic that the dog will respond to the treatment. Her sickness is kidney-related, and I doubt it helps that my mother is secretly feeding her people food at the dinner table. Tuppy had an entire pork chop the other day that Mom “accidentally” dropped on the floor. Here’s another curveball I hadn‘t anticipated: my confused mother is inadvertently killing the beloved family dog because she has forgotten the rules she herself used to enforce so strictly. Admittedly, a pork chop probably didn’t send the dog into kidney failure, but it may explain why she threw up repeatedly and became severely dehydrated. Anyhow, the dog was down for the count and the vet managed to bring her back to life. This time. Nothing wrong with the dog’s appetite … even when she could hardly lift her head that first day at the vet, she somehow managed to hoover down a full portion of whatever food was put in front of her. Because she is beginning to have some trouble with stairs, I bought a contraption which is a kind of dog harness with a handle. I can lift her up with this thing and keep her from falling down the stairs. I realize that Tuppy is probably living on borrowed time, but her therapeutic value for Mom is immeasurable, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her among the living (within reason). My friend Bob suggests that if the dog does die I have her stuffed in the sleeping position. "Don’t worry Mom, she’s just sleeping." Very nice Bob, thank you for that helpful suggestion. I will take that deeply twisted, cynical, sarcastic suggestion under advisement. Roy Rogers had Trigger stuffed; I think that's kind of an odd thing to do ... I mean maybe the family parakeet, but a horse? And where did he put it once it was stuffed, in the foyer? Just hang your hat on his hoof. I digress


Anyhow, thanks to all the dog lovers out there who have expressed their genuine concern (hear that Bob … GENUINE concern) over Tuppy’s recent tribulations. All twelve of you who may read this … remember, it’s my birthday next Friday, so be nice, for a change.



Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/27/10

Our internet service up here in Katrine is via a wireless cell phone device called a MiFi, put out by Bell Mobility. It works pretty well most of the time, and it is certainly faster than the dial-up service we were compelled to use for the first year we lived up here. For those of you still chained to dial-up service, you know that it is becoming increasingly unacceptable for modern data transfer. People were sending me multi-megabyte picture files via email and it took hours to download them. I used to have to download my email messages before I went to bed, because it took all night to receive them. Forget about trying to send a large file to someone else. As well, if you only have one phone line, dial up service can make it impossible for you to make or receive phone calls. This little MiFi unit is about the size of a small remote control and, since Bell added a cell tower across the lake, service has been pretty good. It’s a viable solution for rural locations that have cell service. That said, several months ago, there was a massive recall on the MiFi unit we use. Apparently, the rechargeable lithium ion batteries had a tendency to overheat and explode. Bell provided an alternative (inferior) unit until ours could be fixed, and it was a big pain in the neck which involved changing the settings on our computer, dealing with overnight delivery trucks, and I believe doing a special rain dance around the computer. About two weeks after they took back the defective unit, an allegedly new one was delivered to us. Shauna noticed that it overheated just like the old unit had, and we suspect they simply gave us our old unit back, unfixed. A few weeks ago, perhaps a month after the unit had been replaced, the thing stopped working altogether. When I took the battery out to reboot it, I noticed that it had swollen up like a balloon. In other words, it was about to explode ... the problem they intended to rectify. As I a begin writing this report, we are again without service and I am beginning to wonder about Bell. Right now, there is a terrific storm blasting across the lake, and the winds are ferocious. Our satellite just blew out, there goes the power, and the generator has just kicked on. Perhaps I should turn off the computers. And technology marches on …


That was last Tuesday. I watched that storm blow from the vantage point of our dock. Our dog Jasper was on my lap, and she let me know, in no uncertain terms, when it was time to head for shelter. Last Tuesday a band of destructive thunderstorms blew through the Muskokas and knocked out a lot of trees and power. The tail end of Hurricane Igor has just flooded parts of the Maritimes with 8 inches of rain, and today, Thursday, there were heavy rainfall warnings for our region. I only wish we’d managed to have a couple of our dead trees cut down before the bad weather moved in … I don’t really feel like cutting and moving a felled tree off our driveway. Although I own a chainsaw, and know how to use it, I prefer to let the professionals do that sort of work. I have enough trouble playing the guitar with ten digits.

Final note. When it rains it pours. I got a call the other day from one of our nurses in Buffalo that our Corgi “Tuppence” (AKA “Tuppy”), the Oppenheimer family dog, was very sick. She’s an old girl and she has a lot of age related chronic illnesses. We thought she might bounce back, but after speaking with the vet today, it doesn’t look good. It was less than a year ago that we were all joking about Tuppy the hunter, when she killed a possum in our back yard. The dog moves like a turtle, so that must have been one feeble possum. Now I must make the 4 hour journey down to Buffalo and perhaps say goodbye to our beloved pet. This will be hard enough, but I’m really concerned about what this news will do to my confused mother. For Mom, Tuppy has been a fixture in the ever shifting sands of  reality, not to mention a loyal companion who never left her side. In a rare moment of clarity, the other night Mom resigned herself to the sad fact that Tuppy “may not make it” through this latest struggle. Still, Tuppy has been a great dog, with a lot of personality. She was there all along to comfort Mom, there every morning to accept her token piece of toast from Mom’s breakfast plate. She stayed by Dad’s bedside for his final weeks, and we were all hoping that she would be there to comfort Mom until the end. I only hope Mom has the opportunity to say goodbye to her. The next 24 hours will tell.


Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 9/20/10

A belated Shana Tova to the fellow members of my tribe. As we usher in year 5771 it is once again time to reflect on the ups and downs of 5770. This past year was a roller coaster in my family. Last Friday marked the Eve of Yom Kippur, a day of atonement for the Jews, and for me it was a day spent with family. Thursday, I drove my “mekhutonim,” my parents-in-law, up north to Jasper Bark Lodge to spend a few days with us. They’ve been through a lot this past summer, and we thought they could use a break in the bucolic Great White North. Friday I took both 85 year-old parents out for a little ride on the ATV, and I think they were good sports to do that. Once an avid fisherman on this lake, my father-in-law has not been fishing in over five years. In what turned out to be a comedy of errors, I decided that my good deed for the year (I only do one per year) would be to take him out fishing before the season ended. We drove all the way to Magnetawan for big minnows, then rushed home at breakneck speed to get them in the lake before they died. Then we scrambled to find all the fishing gear, which has been stashed away since the house was built. We put hooks, spinners, and sinkers on the lines, we found the net and stringer; we were ready to roll. I thought I’d take him out in the porta-bote (my folding boat) because it will go slow enough to troll, but getting him in the boat proved to be a challenge. He somehow managed to fall into our paddle boat, which was sitting on the dock and full of rainwater. That necessitated a change of clothes. Jump ahead a half an hour, he was dry again, and I finally, with some difficulty, got him from the dock into and seated in the little boat. As I started the little outboard I heard a thump and looked back to see that he had slipped off the seat and fallen backwards onto the floor of the boat. As the motor was idling in neutral, and the boat was drifting away from the dock, there was my octogenarian father-in-law, legs up in the air, lying on his back on the floor of this little boat, with a fishing hook sticking out of his chin. Now he was bleeding, and there was sheepish grin on his face as he and I came to the humbling realization that perhaps this fishing venture was not such a good idea. I got the fishing hook out of his chin, pulled him back onto the seat and assessed the damage. Not so bad. Then I gave him my Jewish pep talk: “We’re going out dammit. I didn’t just race all the way back from Magnetewan with the world’s most expensive bait so you could wimp out on me. This was for you, I don’t even like to fish!” Finally, we did get out, and while we did not catch anything, we had a pretty good time. I made fun of him the whole time and he hurled his usual verbal abuse at me, pretty much the description of our relationship over the past seventeen years. We stayed out for about an hour, until the sun began to go down and it started to get cold. When we got back to the dock, I was able to get him out of the boat with less difficulty. As he was walking away, I noticed he had his sweatpants on backwards, but didn‘t think anything of it. I went to put the boat away, but I looked back because I heard Shauna and her mother laughing hysterically. They were leading him up the path to the house and his sweatpants had now fallen down to his ankles, but he didn’t seem to give a flying Walenda … he just kept on walking. If you don’t have a sense of humor about getting old, you might as well just curl up and die. I’ll give this to ALL my parents, they are not quitters. All in all it was a memorable fishing expedition.




Well, I finally watched an episode of “Jersey Shore”. I’m not sure why they call it that, because the episode I watched took place in S. Miami Beach. Regardless of the location, it was predictably ridiculous. This particular episode focused on the infidelities of several of the bulked up cretins within the group and oh, the drama! I’m not sure I have ever seen such stupidity exhibited on television. I sat and watched the show, incredulous and appalled. Regardless of gender, they all refer to each other as either “dog” or “bro,” and although most of the words they spoke were, I believe, from the English language, it was all Greek to me. I wonder if that language program Rosetta Stone has a file for Jersey Ghettospeak, because it is clearly a language unto its own. At one point, one of the characters was trying to figure out who wrote a suspicious note revealing the indiscretions of another. It was determined that it couldn’t have been “Snooky” because she never uses big words, like “wisely.” I too am cnfounded by big words like that. Snooky is, by the way, the girl who was recently arrested for being a “public nuisance.” Hey, don’t go buggin’ on me bro, I dint make this sh-t up. I believe that will be my last viewing of “Jersey Shore” … yo, been there, done that.



Yesterday, I took Mom and Dad Taylor out for a second troll on the lake, this time in the big boat. Again we got no bites, but there were no disasters as well, and we shared a sunset together. It’s always good to spend time with one’s family.

Carpe carp.



Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/13/10

Labor Day weekend, Buffalo hosted its 9th annual “Wingfest” to celebrate one of its several culinary claims to fame: the ubiquitous Buffalo chicken wing. One of the features of that dubious celebration is a chicken wing eating contest. From what I understand, there are professional “eaters” that travel the globe competing in these gluttonous events. Astoundingly, 43 year old Sonya Thomas, who weighed in at 105 lbs. won the competition by eating 181 chicken wings in 12 minutes. I am impressed and disgusted at the same time. There were twelve contestants and she even beat out 250 lb. Joey Chestnut, the pro porker famous for winning the last four Nathan’s hotdog eating contests. But 181 chicken wings, yikes! We used to go to a local bar called Gabels on Monday nights where the special was ten cent wings and three Steam Whistle splits for a buck. Twenty wings are a decent amount of wings to eat, but my record is perhaps thirty or thirty-five. Any more than that and I get really sick to my stomach. What pray tell does the ingestion of 181 deep fried chicken wings do to one’s digestive tract? On one of my recent visits to Buffalo, I went to Duff’s out on Sheridan Drive, a restaurant that many Buffalonians feel is Western New York’s chicken wing Mecca. I decided to check it out because I was in the neighborhood, and had once sold the property surrounding the restaurant. Frankly, I was not all that impressed; I thought the wings were expensive and no better than the ones I might find at twenty other Buffalo restaurants. Most visitors to Buffalo assume that Frank and Teresa’s Anchor Bar in downtown Buffalo is the best place to try Buffalo wings, because they are famous for being the home of the Buffalo chicken wing. Still, I’ll wager that most Buffalonians have some place they like better. Personally -- and this changes from time to time -- my favorite place for wings in Buffalo is La Nova Pizzaria, over on the West Side. Big, delicious, meaty wings that are incredibly messy to eat. La Nova is an institution in Buffalo, and they also make excellent pizza. La Nova is so popular in Buffalo that they will ship their pizza to homesick Buffalonians around the world. They’ve even shipped to troops in Iraq.



You may know by now I’m a reality television junkie, and I try to catch at least one episode of each new effort before it is yanked unceremoniously off the air. For me reality television is kind of a canary in the coal mine for cultural Armageddan, and I watch it with the same conflicted enthusiasm that I watch celebrities self destruct. I’ve been hearing a lot of buzz about MTV’s controversial “Jersey Shore” and finally recorded an episode or two on our fancy new PVR. I have not actually watched the show yet, but probably will soon, because I read in the paper the other day that one of the characters, Snookie, AKA Nicole Polizzi, had been arrested for being a public nuisance. In other words, they arrested her plastered ass on some Jersey beach. Welcome to the Lindsay Lohan Hall of Shame. The gist of the show is that it follows the delinquent and hedonistic exploits of a group of young Italian American “adults” on the Jersey Shore. I can see how this might be a big seller with today’s twenty-somethings, for the same reason the “Jackass” movies were such big hits. I don’t remember exactly what I was doing when I was in my early twenties, but I’m sure there was a fair bit of partying involved, and I’m sure I took pride in my own stupid exploits, and vicariously in the retarded behavior of my friends. It is, on the other hand, a bit strange to now be seeing that same behavior celebrated in a popular T.V. series. Fuddy-duddy that I have become, I do sometimes catch myself tsk-tsking and grumbling about the end of civilization. The fact is, not all "young adults” are boneheads, but there are always a few in every generation ( see Byron Brown Jr. several issues ago). Certainly alcohol is the great facilitator, and no, I’m not going to recount some of my more ridiculous past behavior for your amusement and harsh judgment. I understand the Italian American community is indignant about “Jersey Shore” but let’s face it, it ain‘t just the Italians. A few weeks ago there was a blurb in the paper about some Amish people south of Buffalo who were pulled over for DWI … IN THEIR HORSE DRAWN BUGGY. How bombed do you have to be to call attention to your inebriation in a horse drawn buggy?!



181 wings … as the Irish would say, JAYsus!



Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 9/6/10

The other day, as I was watching the attention deficit disorder news channel, a byline flashed across the screen which read something like: “ Randomized placebo tests indicate that marijuana is an effective pain reliever.” No kidding, I could have told you that. I’d like to thank Nancy Reagan and all the other boneheads from the religious right responsible for making marijuana the big bad wolf in the war against drugs. If I had a nickel for every ignoramus who buys into the “gateway drug” argument, I’d be able to buy me an influential congressman. Why not expend our limited crime fighting resources on the heroin and cocaine trade and hand out parking tickets for pot? In my opinion, smoking pot falls somewhere between spitting on the sidewalk and stealing a pack of gum on the crime spectrum. While I’m not much of a pothead anymore (it‘s the smoking part that bothers me), I am surprised that marijuana has not yet been legalized. I’ve always had a much bigger problem with alcohol abusers than potheads. Seriously, how many violent, aggressive potheads do you know? They may be forgetful, hungry, perhaps a little “out there,” but hardly a danger to themselves and others. Then there are medicinal benefits. Years ago, a co-worker of mine in Buffalo had a father who was dying of pancreatic cancer. As you probably know, that is one of the most painful cancers one can suffer, and this co-worker was at his wits end trying to find some relief for his dad. As a last resort, he asked me if I could get him some pot and, scofflaw-fraternizer-with-the-foul-underbelly-of-society that I was at the time, I got him some weed. About two days after I gave it to him, he came to me and thanked me profusely, saying his father was able to take his meds without experiencing the usual nausea, that his almost non-existent appetite had improved, and most important, smoking pot seemed to provide him with some pain relief. I think that governments should do what they do best and suck every tax dollar they can extract out of the production and control of marijuana, and leave the decision about whether or not to use the drug up to the allegedly free adult individual. Of course I don’t condone its use by kids (I was about 14 when I first tried it), but the fact is, some kids will smoke pot, just as some kids will drink. As for the health concerns, clearly marijuana has its health risks, but they pale by comparison to the deleterious effects of most of the other mind-altering drugs of choice (which are, ironically, easier to procure on the streets than pot). And while we’re on the subject of attitude adjustment, here are two other interesting stories which made print last week …




The Buffalo News ran a story last week which said that, according to a Forbes Magazine survey, Buffalo was listed as one of the top tailgating cities in the U.S.. As a diehard Buffalonian, I can attest to the fact that Bills fans are serious about their tailgate parties, and I attribute that to two things. First, Buffalo is a big drinking town anyway; it probably has more bars per capita, or at least it did when I lived there, than most other major cities in the U.S. . Secondly, the Bills have consistently sucked for the majority of their NFL career, and when loyal season’s ticket holders head out to Rich Stadium on a blustery October morning, it’s not so hard to understand that many of them choose to be anesthetized by kickoff time. I have only attended a few Bills games in my life, because I am not a (an American) football fan, but I have seen some legendary tailgate spreads at Rich Stadium. Apparently, there is one section of the Rich Stadium parking lot which is command central for the serious tailgaters. I personally know of one guy who routinely gave away gallons of rum each week in blender drinks. He had a special blender called a “Daiquiri Whacker”, driven by -- I kid you not -- a gas-powered weed whacker engine, complete with pistol grip throttle! Google it if you don’t believe the product exists. Other people bring gas grills, elaborate music systems, professional dancers ( o.k. I’m kidding about the dancers). I was rather proud to hear of Buffalo’s high ranking in the tailgate department.



The second story, gleaned from www.time.com last week, finds that heavy drinkers outlive non drinkers, and I find this hysterically funny. So much for abstinence! I’ve always secretly believed this might be true, and it probably explains why Buffalo has so many ambulating nonagenarians … perhaps it’s the booze. My dad always had a belt or two of whiskey before dinner, and he was like the Energizer Bunny up until the very end. I think it all boils down to achieving some kind of balance in your life. You can be sin-free on the surface, but if there are demons in the sub-conscious, fugetabotit. Booze is such an overt sin; no skeletons in the closet or secrets there.



As I sign off, the extreme heat and the humidity of the past week have given way to high winds and much colder temperatures. Having danced up the East Coast, Hurricane Earl, which started out as a Category 4, lost most of its punch and just soaked the Maritime Provinces as a tropical storm. As the mercury hovers around 52 degrees F. and the winds are howling, it occurs to me that this is perfect tailgate weather. Party on Garth … but remember, stay away from that evil weed. Drugs are dangerous, don’t be a dope.



Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/30/10

Today’s rant begins with my consternation about the seemingly random pricing of cross border postage and shipping. The other day, we ordered some exhibit pedestals from Florida for an upcoming glass show. It was going to cost $250 to send them up here to Katrine, Ontario, but if I had them sent to Buffalo, it was only $60. It’s another $190 simply for the privilege of crossing the border … what exactly are we supposed to be gaining from the NAFTA agreement? My other pet peeve is Canada Post. The mail system in Canada has become, in my opinion, a giant cluster f-ck of disorganization, as well as ridiculously expensive. How is it that it can cost just about one dollar to send a post card to the States, but only 25 cents to instantly fax a four page document there? I’m also finding that Canada Post seems to lose a lot of things I send to the U.S. Twice in the last year I have paid their exorbitant rates to send small packages to the States only to have them lost with no apparent accountability. One item I sent out was returned to me several months later, postmarked halfway around the world, with no explanation why it never got where it was supposed to go. While these were not valuable items, I expected them to get where they were going without having to re-send them. Forget about disgruntled postal workers, what about the disgruntled customers?




Reading the CNN business section online the other day, I came across an article about the five most affordable housing markets in the U.S. As soon as I saw the story, I thought to myself, “Gee, Buffalo housing is cheap, I wonder if Buffalo made the grade.” Sure enough, Buffalo, N.Y. is rated number five for most affordable housing. Of course, the example they gave was a ranch style house in Amherst, N.Y., one of the more desirable suburbs. If one is willing to move into the ever-shrinking inner city, the houses become even more affordable. When I lived in Buffalo, in rem ( i.e for back taxes) , one could purchase a habitable, inner city house for ten thousand dollars or less. Add to that the cost of a few locks and a shotgun, and it’s still a great deal. Periodically, I receive a market report from one of the local real estate companies in Buffalo, and I am constantly amazed by how inexpensive good houses are in the vicinity of my Mom and Dad’s house. A large brick home with a half acre lot and a detached garage, located in one of Buffalo’s more prestigious neighborhoods, recently sold in the city for about $400,000. In Toronto, that same home would cost seven times as much. A long time ago, when I was still working for my father selling industrial real estate, he and I sold the largest of the three Trico wiper blade plants to a Toronto developer. They couldn’t believe how inexpensive it was, and while nobody locally could see a future for this obsolete, eight storey, 700,000 square foot industrial facility, these developers jumped at the opportunity. At some considerable expense, they have since been transformed it into the Tri-Main Center. It is now a viable, profit-making multi-use industrial facility, home to many small businesses in Buffalo. Now that there is some talk about re-developing the downtown core into a high tech medical research campus, perhaps Buffalo will become a less well kept secret.



A propos to nothing, the above photograph was taken in Rose’s apartment, and I love the hat. I’m thinking of wearing it to a Shriner’s convention. Perhaps I could wear it to my next Jewish wedding as a sort of frontier yarmulke. As for the mink stoles, who decided that having a dead animal draped around one’s neck was a desirable fashion statement? Do you like my stole … I skinned it myself? Whenever I see a “coonskin” cap, I am reminded of a radio “blooper” I once heard. Advertising a mattress for a children’s bed, which included an illustration of Daniel Boone, the ad read: “Hey kids, come and see Daniel Boone in action on the bed” Yowza! I don’t want to think of Daniel Boone that way.



Happy week before Labor Day. Where did the summer go?





Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/23/10

Today, the topic of discussion is the stuff we leave behind. Last Thursday, I had the dubious honor of taking my Aunt Rose’s last remaining possessions out of her apartment. It took more than a month to go through all her belongings, papers, etc., and to clean out the apartment. Rose had a habit of squirreling away money in strange places, so we didn’t want to simply throw things away without going through them first. It was a little like a treasure hunt. I found one earring which may or may not have a diamond in it. Finder’s keepers. The process left my mother-in-law and Shauna emotionally exhausted, and when it came time to take out that final load, I volunteered to do it alone. I’ve done this before, that is, I’ve helped clean out the dwelling of a deceased person, and it is a strange experience. We all hold on to possessions, because they are mementos, or we think it’s valuable, or we simply forget we have it. Over time those things adds up. You never think about the person who will be charged with disposing of your belongings. That inflatable party doll way in the back of the top shelf of your closet may come back to tarnish your reputation long after you are no longer around to explain that it was just a souvenir from a college prank. Rose was not a hoarder, but she had a lot of stuff in an apartment that was less than 1500 square feet in size. We took somewhere around fifteen garbage bags full of clothes to the charity; there was china, and silverware, and old vacuum cleaners, liniment bottles, from the 1940’s. I found an old bottle of iodine that still had the price sticker on it: 29 cents. The furniture was by far the hardest to dispose of. One of her couches was so big we were going to have to cut it in half to get it in the elevator. I imagine that Rose either inherited it with the apartment, or some poor schmucks schlepped it up eight flights of stairs when she bought it. We were lucky enough to find someone moving into the building who needed a couch, and conveniently, he moved in one floor below Rose’s place. We helped him move this monstrosity down to his place, and it must have weighed a ton. There were three of us, and we were each of us somehow injured in the process of moving it down the stairs. At one point, I was pinned against the wall of the landing. The guy who was taking the couch cut his finger and dripped blood all over his clothes, and our other mover slipped on the stairs and injured his leg. We also knocked out a fluorescent light fixture, scratched the paint in the stairwell, and tore some wallpaper in the hallway. Other than that the move went quite smoothly. Rose had a lot of strange “tshaktshkes” or knick knacks she’d acquired in her almost 95 years. There was some hideous ceramic wear, some Pre-WWII Japanese souvenirs, and the piece de resistance: a 2’x5’ enamel-mosaic-mounted-on-wood depiction of a chariot race, that NOBODY in the family wanted. Mysteriously, on one of our last trips down to the car, when we forgot to lock the apartment, it was taken. Who knew that thievery could be good karma?


This move was a wake up call to all of us who let our possessions build up. I have been through this exercise many times, moving to and from boarding school, college, my parent’s house and my own house in Buffalo, and finally, into two apartments in Toronto. A lot of possessions didn’t make the cut along the way, and at the time it was hard to part with them. I still wish I had kept my bright yellow Rock ‘n Roll Babylon tee shirt, with the tongue-wagging demon on the front. I think Shauna must have made that disappear. It was my mother-in-law who learned the most from this exercise. She has for a long time denied the need to cull her basement collection of “acquisitions”, and she is now determined to spare her children the aggravation of sorting through it all after her demise. In the final analysis, what do all these things mean anyway? Of course, only we can decide what is valuable to us. The trick is to find one or two things that have meaning to you, and get rid of all the rest. Easier said than done. My mother has a big house full of lovely antiques, acquired over fifty years of marriage. Some of them were probably good investments. But I don’t really care that much about their monetary worth, and most of it will likely be disposed of in an estate sale. All I really care about, the things I’d really miss if they were destroyed, are the things that remind me of my life with my family. There is a very noisy steeple clock in our den that dates back to my earliest memories from our first house in Kenmore, N.Y., and a kitchen table that was our first dining room table. A few weeks ago, in a moment of bittersweet lucidity, Mom grumbled about the uselessness of all these possessions. It was as if she suddenly realized that “you can’t take it with you” so what’s the point. I had to remind her that the point is that, for my father, my sister, and I, these things we collected over time adorned a home, which was and still is, a lovely place to live. Alone they are just possessions, but in that house, they were each of them a valuable piece of a memory. You can’t buy or sell memories, and who is to say whether your favorite memento is a valuable Edwardian dining room buffet or a not-so-valuable,circa 1950 alligator ash tray from Florida. Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED