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