The Oppenheimer Report-10/29/12

A pre-emptive Happy Halloween to my twelve loyal readers. I wonder what this year’s most popular costume will be. Hillbilly beauty tyke Honey Boo Boo has been in the news a lot of late; if I was the ninja costume designer I once was, I’d dress up as Honey Boo Boo, after a botched liposuction job. Think of the possibilities!

Last week we began to wind down what has turned into a larger than expected landscaping project. Our guy Marty did the work, and has done wonders to make the approach to our property look much more presentable. One of the many things he did for us was to plant a lot of trees on the property. Last week he borrowed my landscape trailer and brought over about 200 evergreens and a few birches in various shapes and sizes that he’d been hired to clear from a nearby property. The larger ones I needed assistance to plant, but in the past week I probably planted 80 or 90 of the smaller ones myself. Now we have white, red, and scotch pines, several kinds of spruce (blue are my favorite), cedar, some willows, and some birches. We have also transplanted from the woods a few baby oak trees. Oaks are one of my favorites. I have only recently begun to genuinely appreciate the beauty of trees, and perhaps this is part of my stop-and-smell-the-roses transformation from the self-absorbed-constantly-rushed-stress-puppy I once was. Tree planting is very therapeutic and meaningful to both Shauna and me. On the lakeside of this house are three healthy maples - two planted by Shauna’s dad and one planted by her brother shortly before he passed in 2000. While nothing lasts forever, those trees are a reminder that Mother Nature will endure long after we are gone.

In the backyard of my childhood home in Buffalo there stands a giant Sycamore tree which I was told is one of the oldest in the city. I always thought of it as third base for our pickup softball games. In those difficult last years, when I was down visiting my parents near the ends of their lives, I remember looking out at that tree from my old bedroom window and deriving great comfort from its newly appreciated majesty. I hope the new owners can appreciate it as half as much as I learned to.

As Shauna’s parents reach the stage in their lives when they struggle to maintain their independence and dignity, once again with trepidation I watch the challenges that both parent and child must confront. I mentioned a few reports ago that for her birthday I purchased tickets for Shauna and her mom to see Barbra Streisand perform in Toronto. This might be Streisand’s last tour, making it all the more special. Both mother and daughter are huge fans, and it made me happy to give them this gift. Several days before the concert there was a heated disagreement over one of the ever-increasing issues of independence. I was worried that this might tarnish the mother daughter experience, and by extension, the memory I hoped to create. Thankfully, and a credit to both mother and daughter, they got past their differences, and last Tuesday they attended the concert together. I know they appreciated the experience. Music is one of the best and most memorable gifts. A tree was planted.

I have spent too much time disagreeing and harboring ill will towards others - family members, friends who disappoint me, complete strangers. Sometimes that ill will is a toxic byproduct of love, sometimes it’s not. I have been as guilty as most of these indiscretions, but I think I am getting better about letting the bad stuff go. Perhaps the trees I planted last week can soak up some of that poison. With “perfect Storm” Hurricane Sandy imminent, and the contentious elections a few weeks away, I take solace in trees.

Abandoned yellow Chevy, left along the side

Pink dusk paints the windows and there’s not a soul in sight

Who was the driver, on his desert drive

White lines on the highway a rhythm for my sight

A windmill in the distance is a ladder to the sky

And it’s so peaceful, on my desert drive

These monuments to nothing, but I’m looking for a sign

Looking for some answers, on my desert drive.

 

from Desert Drive (c1992)

                                                 Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2012 All Rights Reserved                                

The Oppenheimer Report-10/22/12

As most of my friends know, I am a huge fan of moose. I’m not talking about Moosehead beer (which BTW not too many Canadians really drink), or the Moosejaw Warriers hockey team, or Moose FM, a popular radio station up here in the GWN. No, I’m referring to the real deal, one of Nature’s uglier behemoths, and I love it when I can spot them in the wild. I have seen a few in Alberta, but up until this year, I had never before spotted one here in Ontario. About a month ago, I came upon a (moose) cow on the side of the road as I headed into town to do some grocery shopping, and I got very excited. Hey, this is the Great White North; this is what we do up here. Last Wednesday around dusk, I took my folding boat out for a frosty putt around the lake, and as I was returning to our dock, lo and behold, there was a very large bull moose sauntering along the shoreline in ankle deep water. I could not believe that after all those moose-less years in Ontario, I spot a giant, I mean giant, bull moose, walking along the shore right in front of our house! I immediately called Shauna on my cell to let her know, but by the time I had done this, the moose had turned up towards land and was headed for the woods through the gap between our neighbor’s house and ours. Shauna ran around to the back of the house and tried to get a picture of it as it plodded off into the woods, in no particular hurry, but in the dusk light all she got was a big brown blur. She even dug up our moose caller and attempted to lure it back, although I’m not sure she is fluent in moose. This might be the biggest animal I have ever seen in the wild, and I understand why they are considered a formidable  road danger. Hit one of those beasts at high speed and it’s going to be a serious collision. We know a woman up here who was severely crippled because she and her boyfriend hit a moose while driving. I’ve got those deer alert things mounted to the front bumper of my car. Apparently they emit some kind of high pitched whistle at when the car is traveling at high speeds and this is supposed to alert the animal. I think they help, because several times driving I have passed deer on the side of the road, and they seem to look up when my car passes. Knock on wood, we’ve traveled extensively in areas where moose and deer abound, and we’ve never had one run out in front of us. Perhaps we’ve just been very lucky. Brief aside: everyone remembers Captain Kangaroo, and his sidekick Mr. Greenjeans, but how many of you remember the loveable Mr. Moose, the other seminal member of that children’s show ensemble? I adored that moose.

We do not have garbage collection at Jasper Bark Lodge, because there is no municipal pickup on the road where we live and all the private services require me to leave the garbage at the top of our drive. By the time I schlep it to the top of our 500 meter driveway, in animal proof garbage bins, I figure I might as well take it all the way to the dump. Besides, going to the dump is an adventure. There are black bears there during the summer, sometimes within spitting distance of where I throw my garbage, and as well the people who operate the yard are all colorful, interesting characters. Don’t ask me how I did it, but I inadvertently dropped something valuable into our plastics recycling bin last time I was there, then realized it about an hour after I’d emptied it out at the dump. Have you ever rummaged around inside a giant plastics recycling bin before? Well, now I have. It’s a little like those play bins they have in kids play areas filled with the multicolored plastic balls. Kinda fun, but sticky. You should have seen all the odd looks I got from people dropping off their recycled goods. “Look Gord, that city fellah has finally snapped!” This is how people guage dementia up here; if they see someone in the recycling bin, rummaging through the crap, they know he or she is a few spices short of a goulash. Shauna was with me, with her cute little yellow raincoat, daintily picking out one bottle at a time, as I frantically flailed through yards and yards of the stuff.

What else. Last Sunday, Austrian skydiver and daredevil Felix Baumgartner jumped from space and plunged a record 23 miles, freefalling to Earth from a manned helium balloon. That was a pretty cool video to watch. U.S. Senator Arlen “Wild Card” Specter died last week at 82. Seen by many in the Republican Party as a turncoat, Specter began his career as a Democrat, changed parties in ‘65, and then went back to the Democrats in 2009. I’ll bet that’s something a lot of moderate Republicans are contemplating these days, that or becoming Independents. Cell phone giants Apple and Samsung settled their much-publicized phone dispute. Apple had sued Samsung for illegally copying its products, and won. The dispute may not be over, because now Samsung is threatening to call for a new trial, claiming that the foreman of the jury had undisclosed biases against Samsung.

That Mr. Moose, he cracked me up.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report -10/15/12

　

Scary Pete

At present, I am reading the second autobiography by a famous musician/songwriter. I recently finished Keith Richards’ Life, which I read on the recommendation of a fellow rock fan, and I am now almost finished reading Neil Young’s Waging a Heavy Peace. I am a slow reader, always have been, and I do not generally read as much as I have of late, but I am really enjoying these life stories. I do not usually consider autobiographies to be page turners, but the stories these guys tell interest me because 1. They involve sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll, and 2. I am interested in the craft of songwriting. Richards said he wrote the famous Stones hit Satisfaction in his sleep. Young wrote his famous song Old Man about the former caretaker of the ranch he owns in Northern California. While I have always assumed Keith Richards was a drug-addled punk with the IQ of a turnip, his story proves him to be anything but (stupid I mean … he was definitely drug-addled). Along with fellow songwriter Mick Jagger, Richards penned some of my favorite rock'n' roll hits of all times, songs like Jumpin’ Jack Flash, Honky Tonk Woman, Sympathy for the Devil, Shattered, and Brown Sugar. The Rolling Stones album Beggar’s Banquet is one of my top ten favorite albums of all times. To me, it was fascinating to read the context in which many of these songs were written. Young’s book is of course written in an entirely different voice, but I feel I know both these men a little better for having read the accounts of their personal lives. One thing is clear, the muse of rock'n'roll is ever demanding and both of these fortunate songwriters have suffered some serious challenges in their personal lives. Richards has been clean (not sure about sober) for about ten years, and as of the writing of his book, Young had just quit drinking and smoking. Apparently, he liked his weed. He wasn’t sure if the muse would revisit him clean and sober, but I don’t think he will ever quit.

There was a segment on 60 Minutes last week about a forgotten Mexican American songwriter from Detroit named Sixto Diaz Rodriquez (Rodriguez for short), who had a brief career in music back in the late 60s and early 70s. Like so many talented songwriters, he was doomed to obscurity, and for the past thirty years, had lived as a common laborer in Detroit. Unbeknownst to him, his albums caught fire across the sea, in places like South Africa, Australia, and New Zealand. He was likened to Dylan, and he became a legend when rumors surfaced that he had committed suicide while performing onstage. When he was re-discovered, living in poverty in Detroit, he became an instant star again, achieving fame beyond what he had ever before known. He’s over 70 now and this sudden and long overdue recognition seems to come as a surprise to him. Famous and humble are not two words I usually put together, but this guy is the real deal. I watched him perform on Letterman not too long ago, and he really does have something special. Not knowing anything about him, Shauna and I were both impressed and thought he was one of the better musical acts to play on that show. He reminded me a bit of Leonard Cohen. The funny thing is that he had no idea of the impact his songs had had on a generation of South Africans. What a shame. Better late than never.

When I started to write songs back in the early 80s, like so many other pie-in-the-sky wannabes, I wanted to become famous. That aspiration quickly evolved into a simple desire to be heard. Not unlike many other “artists” I still want recognition, but after having wallpapered my bedroom with rejection notices from music publishers and record companies over many years, I became more realistic. I’ve been performing on the open mike circuit for over 25 years, I can safely say there is a lot of unrecognized talent out there; 95% of it performs better than I. Yes, I still seek recognition, but often that can be the death of creativity. Lucky for me, this is the age of information and I can put my songs out into cyberspace to be ignored by the masses. The trick is not to get discouraged. I suspect I will be writing songs as long as I am able.

Speaking of songwriting, I noticed on YouTube there are some pretty funny NHL lockout songs floating around. Today I listened to a few of them, and my personal favorite so far is Shut the Puck Up by Scary Pete. You can Google the song title or just go to Pete’s website (http://www.scarypete.com) if you want to see the video. It gave me a belly laugh. This disgraceful NHL display of unbridled greed and ego should be lampooned for all to see, and I hope this public relations nightmare somehow negatively impacts those shameless NHL owners and players at least half as much as it has the loyal fans and the hundreds of thousands of hard working people whose jobs rely on professional hockey. How about putting a cap on ticket prices you greedy sons of bitches! Perhaps it’s time for me to throw my as yet unwritten NHL-bashing song into the ring.

      - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 10/8/12

Today, I turned fifty-seven years old, and seriously, I don’t feel a day over fifty-six. The fact is, somewhere along the line, birthdays stopped meaning all that much to me, other than to re-affirm that I am thankful to be alive. Appropriately enough, today also happens to be the Canadian Thanksgiving, so to all my Canadian pals, take the day off! Birthdays used to be such a big deal. I remember when I was eight or nine, one of the popular birthday celebrations was to throw a mega party at a roller skating rink, with fifty to seventy guests attending. Those parties were especially popular, because of course the more guests one invited, the more gifts one received. I’m not sure how many yo-yos, Hoola Hoops, or GI Joe dolls (Barbie for the girls) one boy or girl needs, but with that many guests, there were bound to be a few repeat gifts. In those days, before big box toy stores, most of the mothers in Buffalo probably did their toy shopping at Clayton’s Toyland on Elmwood Ave. A lot of my favorite toys came from that store and I used to love to go to Claytons with my mom, A.K.A. The Bank of Betty. Almost without fail, I walked out of that store with something. Back in the day, I loved cap guns and it was always a good excuse to ride over to Clayton’s (conveniently located just around the corner from our house) and replenish my supply of caps. These days, “popping a cap” means something different and entirely more violent. Generally, I liked anything that was noisy and/or tactile. I remember one silly toy made by Mattel called a “Varoom”. Anybody remember the Varoom? Basically, this was a battery-powered plastic noisemaker, which attached to one’s bicycle under the seat, and vaguely resembled a motorcycle motor. This was a somewhat lame improvement on the universally annoying playing card in the spokes noisemaker. The Varoom made some kind of cheap synthesized noise which sounded more like bad radio reception than a motorcycle engine, with some kind of “accelerator” that I could control from the handlebars. I’m sure I was a big hit with the neighbors on Sunday mornings, tooling around on my bicycle with that thing blaring. These days, my toys are bigger, more expensive, and even noisier.

Last Saturday, we attended an early Canadian Thanksgiving celebration with some of Shauna’s long lost cousins. They had invited us and Shauna’s parents to a big dinner - twenty or so guests - and that was particularly meaningful to me. We weren’t sure if that would be too much traveling for Shauna or her parents, but everyone rose to the occasion and we made it there on time. As well, we were all somewhat apprehensive, because that gathering represented a lot of strangers getting together to celebrate what is traditionally a family gathering. Now that there are no more American Thanksgivings to celebrate at the Oppenheimer household, and given that this was by far my favorite holiday of the year, I was hoping this Canadian version would be a success. Rather than wallowing in the past, I felt it was time to make a new tradition, and I very much wanted this celebration to be like the dinners I remembered. As it turned out, the stars aligned, the people were all wonderful, and we all gelled like a true family. There was a lot of history there, some of it not so happy, and in some ways this represented a lot of broken families coming together to form a new unit. Family can be complicated, and I have come to realize that it changes and evolves over time. Sometimes it expands, sometimes it contracts; there are schisms, conflicts, miscommunications, illnesses, deaths, second and third marriages, new boyfriends, new girlfriends, hurt feelings, mended fences, sorrow, and great joy. One thing I’ve learned in my 57 years is that this long strange trip is infinitely richer and more rewarding with the unfolding drama and constant evolution of a strong family. At the Oppenheimer household, Thanksgiving was legendary for its goodwill and joy, and we usually took in a few strays along the way. I will always remain thankful for that gift my Mom and Dad gave me. Thanks Mom and Dad! More so than any other holiday, this one bespeaks community to me, and it annually reminds me that if we can stay connected, regardless of the dysfunction, the misunderstandings, and the drama, then we are richer for the experience. In turn, that spark goes out into the world and indirectly enriches the lives of others. It’s called love, and in my opinion, it is highly under-rated. It may be on injured reserve these days, but it still exists in plentiful supplies, sometimes in the strangest places. The trick is to be receptive, and I suppose that comes with practice. Thank goodness I am blessed to have known so much of it in my life to date.

I made the sweet potato recipe my mother had served on Thanksgiving for forty plus years, because some traditions should never change. On this, the beginning of my 58^th year, I am sincerely thankful for all the good fortune I have known. Thank you friends and family for helping me feel this way.
- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 10/1/12

Last Tuesday, on the eve of Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, Shauna and I walked down to the dock at dusk and recited our prayers. While I am not a religious man by any means, and far less observant than most Jews, I find this particular high holy day relevant, and we usually acknowledge the day by fasting. When I was a kid, Mom insisted I and the family attend temple services with her on the high holy days, and I never really got it. I didn’t like all that standing up and sitting down, reciting prayers that had little meaning to me, and listening to a cantor whose voice I never liked. Even though I knew generally what the services were about, I‘d rather have been almost anywhere but in temple. As religions go, I think Judaism is a pretty good one. My lack of religious conviction has nothing to do with any kind of devotion that my parents failed to instill in me, or because I am in any way ashamed to be Jewish. I am simply at odds with all the bad things done in the name of G-d, regardless of the religion, and I am particularly wary of all religious fundamentalism. That said, I stop short of declaring myself an atheist, and there I found myself reciting parts of the Kol Nidre by the lake. We stood among Mother Nature’s congregation, with the multi-colored landscape of Fall surrounding us, washed in a golden light from the setting sun, and we acknowledged those whom we’ve lost in the past year. We also reflected on our shortcomings. It’s not a bad idea to take stock of the things I’ve done wrong in the past year, and to express hope that I can be a better person in the new year. I’ve rarely seen a sunset so beautiful. Crepuscular is I believe the term, with rays of sunlight beaming through the clouds and a soft pink light across the sky.

That was a beautiful night, unlike most of the week before when it was so miserable up here I saw a chipmunk scamper by our window wearing foul weather gear. He had that whole Nor’easter thing going on; boots, hat, everything. I think this is how The Farmer’s Almanac predicts things; they just look at what the animals are wearing in the Fall. We have one final building project slated for before the snow flies and at present, the deck of our carport is torn off. Admittedly, this is not great timing, but as one quickly realizes up here in the GWN, contractors up here work on a different time clock. And if it’s moose hunting season, fuggettabbottit. Should the November rains come early this year, we will be screwed.

I think we all assume that teamster boss Jimmy Hoffa “sleeps with the fishes”, but since he disappeared without a trace 37 years ago, no one knows exactly where he went. Rumours abound as to how it happened, and last week, there was yet another tip, this one suggesting he’d been buried in the driveway of a Roseville, Michigan home. I’m pretty sure this will turn out to be yet another dead end. Perhaps he’s embedded in the end zone of Giants Stadium, or he’s long since been digested in the belly of some alligator down in the Everglades, but more than likely, his body was disposed of in some even more untraceable way. This was a high profile hit, and this is the mob we’re talking about. When those guys want to make someone disappear, they usually succeed. Why would the mob bury him anywhere he could be dug up? Without a trace means without a trace. Unless some credible mob snitch makes a death bed confession, I think this one is a bona fide cold case. Someday, perhaps Geraldo will do a 4-hour special on it: In Search of Jimmy Hoffa‘s Teeth. My theory? I think he was made into hotdogs; you never know what goes into some of those discount dogs.

Crooner Andy Williams has passed on after a battle with bladder cancer. When I was a little boy, our housekeeper/babysitter/ surrogate grandmother used to make me watch The Andy Williams Show with her. Mr. Moon River himself. Sadly, that show wasn’t the worst thing we watched; I also sat through many an episode of General Hospital, Gomer Pyle, USMC, The Lawrence Welk Show, Petticoat Junction, and countless other examples of 70s TV drek. Perhaps this explains my present day love of bad T.V.; I’ve been trained to enjoy it! Who knows what that did to my development? Thanks a lot Mary, and if you’re up there in heaven reading this (because everybody does), smoking your Pall Mall non filters, I forgive you.

After all, that’s what a good Jew does on Yom Kippur.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED