The Oppenheimer Report - 2/27/12

We’re still down in Buffalo cleaning out my parents’ house. I learned a new meaning for a word today. I’ve heard the verb “to crow” used to describe a certain kind of utterance. “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing!” he crowed. The other day, while down in Buffalo I noticed a convergence of the ubiquitous black birds flocking to the trees surrounding our house. There were hundreds of them. I thought it was strange, but it’s not the first time I’ve seen this. It never occurred to me that perhaps they were out for revenge. My black car was parked in the driveway, and when I went out to put it in the garage, I found that it had been “crowed” from hood to bumper. I think every crow in the trees around our house decided to crap on my car. It was Monty Python-esque … as if someone had poured buckets of off white paint over the top of my car. Absolutely deeees-gusting. Remember those seagull attacks I spoke of last summer? Then we have the flying squirrels screwing right in front of Shauna and me, looking us directly in the eye. And now, the crows perform this guano mob hit on my car. What is it with me and the critters? Did I somehow heinously offend some higher up in the animal kingdom in this or a past life, and now this is my payback? Crows are allegedly smart birds, so I have to believe that this was pre-meditated.

We’re about a quarter of the way through the daunting task of cleaning out my parent’s house. Soon there will be an estate sale, probably some time in late March, and while my sister and I have fairly well established what each of us wanted from the house, there are 54 years of memories to pore through. I found an old photograph I’d never seen before. It looks as if it was taken by a professional, and it is of four women representing four generations of Dad's side of the family: my father’s sister, her first daughter, Dad's mother, and her mother. I’d never seen a photo of Dad’s maternal grandmother before. It took Shauna several weeks to go through all the stuff in her aunt’s apartment before we cleaned it out and returned to the landlord “broom clean.” Our house is about five times as large as that apartment, and every closet and cabinet is full of memories. While working in Dad’s dressing room, I found a storage compartment I’d never noticed high above a built in chest of drawers. In it I found an old yellowed newspaper, a copy of The Buffalo Evening News, and it looked as if it had never been opened up. It was dated November 22, 1963 and the headline read “ Kennedy Dead, Shot By Sniper in Texas.” Dad probably put it up there as a sort of time capsule, and that is just the kind of thing my father might do, knowing that that paper would likely be found by the person cleaning out the house after he was gone. It was only visible from a step ladder.

I had a long talk with an old friend the other day who just happened to be visiting Buffalo at the same time we were there, and we got on the subject of the teachings of Dr. John Sarno and the mind-body connection. This friend has had a tough time over the past several years, suffering from a constellation of painful illnesses, and he has wrestled with the subsequent depression that often accompanies pain. Shauna has been struggling with chronic pain for almost as long as I’ve know her, and the subject resonated with me. Pain is the body’s messenger; it warns us when we need to address a trauma. More and more frequently I’m seeing people suffering from auto-immune related illnesses, or suffering from pain that is not being treated effectively with conventional medicine. Like so many other illnesses, we address the symptoms but not the root causes. I look on helplessly as my wife suffers terribly from what has been diagnosed as Fibromyalgia (FMS) and Chronic Myofacial Pain (CMP). Dr. Sarno categorized Fibromyalgia as a subset of a wider set of ailments he refers to as TMS. His theory is basically that this cornucopia of ailments has its origins in the brain. Of course all pain is referred from the brain, but his unconventional theory is that these mysterious illnesses are an attempt by the brain to protect us from some unacceptable truth. That’s an huge oversimplification, and to tell a pain sufferer that his or her pain is psychosomatic is not helpful. Still Sarno has had some notable success at treating chronic pain sufferers, and I think his theories are worth examining. That said, I do not understand why so many of us are getting sick this way. Perhaps it’s environmental, or perhaps we are simply not coping with our increasingly complex society. Maybe, like those polemic aliens in War of the Worlds, we the “superior” species have advanced technologically, only to be destroyed by the something simple for which we were simply unprepared. Food for thought.



Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 2/22/12

O.K., I apologize in advance for this, but there is more squirrel news. I know, I know, get a life. I already have one thank you: chief cook and exterminator. The other night Shauna called me up to the bedroom rather excited and implored me to look out the window at our eaves. You may recall if you’ve been following this blog that I have for almost a month now been on a mission to eradicate the red squirrel population on our property. While I have not seen any red squirrels lately, the other night there were the familiar scampering noises in our roof, and I was emotionally preparing for another round of squirrel genocide. Now we have a new problem! There on the edge of our eaves were three, count ‘em three flying squirrels. These things are smaller than the red squirrels and look a little like what you’d get if you crossed a bat with a gerbil, definitely registering on the “creepy” end of the rodent spectrum. Unfortunately, I believe that they may fall into the endangered species category and I am reluctant to shoot them. Even if I did want to shoot them, they are nocturnal creatures, and I don’t own a pair of night vision goggles. This is great, they’ll be up all night partying in our roof, listening to whatever annoying rock music flying squirrels listen to, chewing on our wiring and raising hell. To rub salt into the wound, as Shauna and I watched in disgust, two of them began to fornicate, right in front of us. And I thought the red squirrels were bad. I feel violated on so many levels.

This week we’re down in Buffalo because the time has come to start cleaning out my parents’ house. This time I brought Shauna and Jasper down with me for moral support, and I think that this was a wise decision. I know I’ve been whining a lot about this, but there’s a sold sign on the front lawn now, and when I walked into this vacant house Sunday evening, it was like a hard slap in the face. It suddenly hit me that a big part of my life was soon going to disappear. It's finally sinking in. Once again, I am uncovering strange little reminders of the distant past. In the back of a medicine cabinet I found my first bottle of cologne. It was probably also my last bottle of cologne, certainly my last bottle of Aramis. Monday, Presidents Day, or Family Day for Canadians, I met with an estate guy who came highly recommended in Buffalo. I’m hoping he can sell most of the furniture, fine art, and personal items not already spoken for. It’s not so hard to sell the dining room table, but who wants the ratty couch on the third floor, or the 30 year old console TV in the den?

Syrian President Bashar al-Assad is proving to be every bit his father’s son. Having murdered over 5000 of his people in the bloody crackdown now centered in the city of Homs, he must be living in the Dark Ages if he thinks he can hide these atrocities from the world. How for instance does a leader claim there is no armed conflict when almost every Western news agency has footage of his snipers picking off unarmed Syrian citizens? On the other end of the spectrum of relevant news, I found the coverage of Whitney Houston’s untimely death to be a bit excessive. It reminds me of the over-the-top coverage of Lady Di’s death back in ’97. The only thing missing was another Elton John remake. Greece got it’s bailout ($172 Billion), now it’s Spain’s turn. I heard on the news that travel is at its highest level in 18 years. Finally, I was six years old when astronaut John Glenn made a historic five hour flight, circling the earth three times in 1962. Monday was the 50^th anniversary of that flight, and Glenn is now ninety years old. Where does the time go?



Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

A Valentine Song 2/14/12

Today is Valentine’s Day and, albeit an incurable romantic, I am annually irked by this sorry excuse to sell greeting cards and flowers. Every Valentine’s Day so far I have made an effort to write something for Shauna. Most times it’s a silly poem, but once, about ten years ago, I wrote and recorded a song, which I spent a bit of time composing and which am happy to have done. I’m pretty sure at this point that most of my songs will never be heard. Considering there are over 100 of them, at times that is somewhat discouraging. Therefore, and after hearing Paul McCartney’s new ( and I thought rather mediocre) Valentine song the other night on the Grammy’s, I figured I’d throw mine into the ring for the world (read the 12 of you who sometimes read this blog) to see.

A VALENTINE'S SONG
I’m told there are a thousand ways to say
“Would you be my Valentine today?”
And though for you I have no fancy pearls
I wrote this song to tell you you’re my world

I know I’m not the most romantic man
I try to keep you guessing that’s my plan
But you should know by now that you're my girl
And everything I’ve got to give is yours

CHO: And though for you I have no precious jewels
Shauna I couldn’t love you anymore than I do

And so I wrote this Valentine for you
I hope you know my sentiments are true
I should let you know more than I do
That hopelessly in love I am with you

CHO: Shauna be my Valentine,
And until the end of time
I’ll be true to you,
I’ll be true to you


Regards, 

Jamie

The Oppenheimer Report 2/13/12

We finally got a little taste of winter up here in the Great White North, and the snowmobiles were out in droves last weekend. One of my pet peeves with snowmobiles is that, as is the case with high performance speedboats, any chowderhead with enough money can go out and buy a powerful machine that will reach speeds of over 100 MPH, but nobody requires them to learn how to drive it. The other day, while I was at a gas station in busy Huntsville, some bozo had managed to get his expensive new snowmobile stuck in an embankment about ten feet from my parked car. He was gunning the motor for at least five minutes, trying in vain to free his machine by rocking in and out of the rut he was in. He was clearly going nowhere, over-revving his motor, billowing smoke into the air, and he was pointed directly at my car. Had he achieved the desired traction, he would have launched his machine directly into the side of my car. Eventually some good Samaritans (not I) helped him pick the thing up and move it, after which he zoomed off, oblivious, and on to his next mistake. I counted about thirty snowmobiles zooming around in Katrine, and I’ll wager that at least a quarter of them were under the influence, or going too fast to be in control of their machines. Indeed, last week there were several stories about snowmobile fatalities in the Muskoka region. From my motorcycle days, I remember that road obstructions come up fast at 85MPH. Look out for that r-WHAM!

I too was a weekend warrior, and on Saturday, when the mercury dipped to single digits, I took the ATV out onto the empty frozen lake for a little spin. We are on a three lake system and I drove as far as the end of the middle lake, a couple of miles, before chickening out and turning around. I was alone, it was late afternoon, I was in a dead zone for cell service, and I had none of the standard safety equipment one should bring when tooling around on a frozen lake (like rosary beads). I do have a winch on the ATV, but without some kind of auger to anchor into the ice, or a long length of good rope, or hand spikes, I’d be SOL if I ever did get into trouble. Staying warm is my big concern, and generally I am well equipped in that department. Snow pants help - we used to call them leggings when I was a kid - but I’m still having trouble keeping my hands warm. Lots of snowmobiles come with heated grips, but my ATV does not have this feature. I bought something called “Hippo Hands” which is essentially a giant insulated covering that goes over the hand grips, and that helps, but makes it difficult to operate the throttle or find the starter button. When it’s ten below out you don’t want to be taking your gloves off to feel around for the controls. My next purchase will be electrically heated gloves. Anyhow, winter is a lot more fun with snow-friendly toys. Generally I drive like an old lady, but every so often I try and see what that little machine of mine can do. The answer is, a lot more than I have the “stones“ to do with it. Several times I’ve climbed steep embankments or taken it into rather deep snow, and so far I have not rolled it or been stuck. BTW, I reserve my right to be an idiot far away from the general public, not on the streets of Huntsville. I rely on the sage advice of some of my experienced snow voyagers: get on the throttle if you start to get stuck. Around sunset, Shauna and I took a walk together out onto the lake, and it was quite lovely to watch that fire red sky against a vast expanse of white. One of our neighbors had cleared a skating rink and there was a game going on. One of these days I’ll buy some cross country skis; I think that would be a good way to travel on the frozen lake, and to get some exercise to boot.

Final notes, I won’t complain about the Grammy’s this year because in my opinion it was a rather entertaining show. The Gloved One, Amy Winehouse, Etta James, and now Whitney Houston; they’re dropping like flies. Of course, everyone was talking about the untimely death of Whitney Houston in her hotel room just a day before the big ceremony. It will be weeks before we’re told the cause of death, but I’m guessing it wasn’t bad tuna. This is all Bobby Brown’s fault. My girl Adele cleaned up with 6 Grammy Awards, and Bon Iver, another group I like, also won an award. I understand that the Grammys rewards all forms of music, but this year it just seemed to me infinitely more enjoyable to watch than last year’s horrible show. I thought Jennifer Hudson did a fantastic tribute to Whitney. Hard to believe that girl placed 7^th in American Idol back in 2003. Syria’s Assad and his allies Russia and China thumbed their noses at the U.N., which is to say, angry but carefully worded U.N. resolutions will be forthcoming. This is not good press for Russia and China, but serves to remind me that much of the world is not free of oppression. With rumors Israel may soon strike to disable Iran’s nuclear capability, and mindful of the problems in Egypt, I fear the Middle East is setting up to be a major hurricane. Can’t they all just agree to settle all this with a rousing game of Rollerball? Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 2/6/12

Just in time for the big economic recovery in the States that will skyrocket President Obama to his second term in office, last week, social networking giant Facebook announced that it will go public in 2012. Reportedly, the initial public offering is $5 Billion, and this is conflobulating to me. We’re back to that amorphous internet value thing, and I thought that bubble burst a while ago. Everybody’s looking for that pot of gold. By some estimates, Facebook is currently valued at $100 Billion, and founder Mark Zuckerberg is now worth about $23 Billion. Not bad compensation for an idea he ripped off from a couple of rich Yale preppies. Some argue that Facebook is a passing fad, doomed to go the way of MySpace when the next big thing hits, but I’m not so sure. Until someone else creates a better, free social network wherein anybody with internet access can “re-connect” with long lost acquaintances, without actually having to interact with them, I think Facebook is the future. Apparently, so do investors. Of all the things I enjoy about FB, the immediacy is intoxicating. It’s even more fun than Google Earth. With one click, I can watch a video of my niece and nephew’s little girl taking her first steps, or click on photos of a high school classmate’s walk on the Great Wall of China. Facebook may have jump started the Arab Spring, and it ties the world together in a format that is so easy to use even boneheads like me can figure out. If I want to read an article that one of my intelligent friends deems worthy of my attention, it’s just a click away. If I want to spam my friends with some of my musical endeavors, no problemo. Between YouTube and Facebook, it’s a brave new world out there in cyberspace, and one where information and disinformation have never been easier to access. Hardly anyone is reading this blog, because 1. I’m not that interesting, 2. who wants to read a whole page of my insipid thoughts anyhow, and 3. The whole world is communicating in abbreviations and acronyms. It’s hard to make BFF when I’m SOL(LOL!). I consult Facebook at least once per day, so yes, I am among the legions of the attention-challenged. The downside is that, much the same as when reality television seeped into our culture like a broken sewer main, I am bombarded by the tsunami of drek. I don’t like being reminded that a video clip of some squirrel waterskiing gets 3 million hits, but the legendary Jeff Beck, playing a classic rock n roll song with the great and talented Johnny Lang receives a paltry 6000 views. That squirrel has not paid his dues, and it ticks me off. Now I hear he’s getting his own reality show next season. But if you can’t beat ’em tweet ’em.

Weird story out of Leroy, N.Y. which, if my ever-eroding memory serves me correctly, is only about an hour east of Buffalo. Fifteen high school girls have been afflicted with some kind of neurological disorder involving, among other things, severe ticks and twitching. Now, an adult woman in the community has also come down with the mysterious illness, prompting the ever-vigilant celebrity whistle-blower Erin Brockovitch to jump into the investigation. Apparently there is some concern that a chemical spill from a train derailment 40 years ago has suddenly caused this. Really? Maybe Erin is barking up the wrong tree with both oars out of the water. Maybe she should change directions and start writing socially responsible children’s mysteries, sort of a didactic Nancy Drew. Erin Brokovitch and the Case of the Twitching Cheerleaders. Another theory is that these mysterious symptoms are evidence of what doctors call a conversion disorder, a strange reaction of the human body to one or more psychological traumas. Whatever the cause, it began about three months ago and it has everyone baffled.

As Superbowls go, I thought last night’s (#XLVI for all you Romans out there) was pretty entertaining. The game was close (21-17 Giants) right up until the end, and it came down to a failed hail Mary pass by Patriot’s QB Tom Brady. This reminded me of another very close Superbowl, back in 1990. Bill Parcell’s Giants beat the Buffalo Bills 20-19 in Superbowl 25 (I mean XXV), and Bill Belichick was the Giants’ defensive coordinator (ironical huh?). That one came down to a missed 47 yard field goal attempt by the now notorious Bills kicker Scott Norwood. I wonder how many faxes I received at the office the next day depicting a cartoon of Norwood, his back to the viewer, peeing wide right of a urinal. While in general I am not particularly interested in American football, and feel that American football players are among the luckiest athletes in the world, almost unanimously undeserving of their elevated status in American culture, I do watch the Superbowl every year. Now that I am an landed ignorant, I can’t even see the great Superbowl commercials they broadcast stateside. The halftime show back in 1990 was New Kids on the Block, and this year it was Madonna. I don’t know what kind of a bug that spiteful old queen Elton John has up his enormous ass; why does he hate Madonna so much? I’m not a fan, but I do respect her entertainment value. BTW, she did not have a wardrobe malfunction: Letterman predicted her teeth would fall out. LOL
       Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED