9/29/14

To my twelve loyal readers ...

This week's report will be delayed a few days, but I will be back. Thanks for reading!

Jamie

The Oppenheimer Report 9/22/14

Camani's Screaming Heads

Last Saturday, my best friend Bob and his wife Laura drove all the way up from Buffalo to visit us here in the near north. I was recently corrected when I mistakenly referred to our locale as “the great white north.” This term apparently refers to that vast area of the untamed wilderness hundreds of miles to our north. And there is a LOT of Canada further to our north.  Bob and Laura have not seen our house since they visited well before its completion, around in 2009. Their first visit was when the logs were stacked about halfway up the second floor, and the house had not yet been stained. Their second visit occurred when the house was nearly complete. Quite a lot of water has rushed under the old bridge since that last visit, and the house feels decidedly more lived in now. That includes the flying squirrels, bats, groundhogs, voles, and various other rodent and non-rodent creatures which call Jasper Bark Lodge their home. Of course, and in keeping with the kind of summer it has been up here, the weather was desperate, as the Irish might say, and it poured cats and dogs for their entire visit. Not to be discouraged, Saturday we seized one break in the deluge to take a quick boat ride to the far end of the big lake. Sometimes one must simply ignore the horrible weather. That is what foul weather gear is all about.

Sunday we had great plans to do some more foul weather boating before our guests had to leave, but the rain came down too hard. So much rain fell that it almost sank my little dinghy.  Instead, Shauna and I gave our friends a guided tour of Burk’s Falls and the surrounding area. Everyone who travels to our community should see our new (and only) stoplight, and of course, the recently constructed Tim Horton’s donut emporium. That Timmy’s really put us on the map, and people should be made aware of the fact that Burk’s Falls has now “arrived.” Next, we drove out Midloathian road to the site of Peter Camani’s sprawling property and sculpture park, Screaming Heads. Carmani is or was an art teacher at one of the local high schools, and is well known in the area for his giant, sometimes spooky, concrete sculptures, spread out across his vast property. What has been a work in progress for well over fifteen years now is a formidable art installation. One can learn more about this unique phenomenon simply by googling “screaming heads”. Frequently there are special events held on the property – I understand he’s thrown a mean fall equinox party or two – and when we visited last Sunday, there were a Frisbee golf tournament in progress. There were thirty or more cars in the parking lot, and I felt awful for the attendees, mostly campers in tents, because the weather was bordering on abominable. I suppose we must all suck it up and quit complaining about the weather ... as if that will ever happen! I wish there was at least some way of diverting a little of this precipitation to my cousins in the Northwest, who are complaining of draught.

I’ve been working to improve my performing skills, and have been practicing my songs at home in front of a mic and with an amplifier. Recordings of my recent live performances have made it obvious to me that there is ample room for improvement. As I seem to have more and more opportunities to play my songs in public – I have been offered two more shows in the next week – I need to work on presenting my songs better. About a month away from shoulder surgery, I am eager to get as many live performances under my belt as I can before a possibly long hiatus. Last week, I was fortunate to perform again at the third Friday Burk’s Falls coffee house, the first in its new venue. These shows are now being held at the Burk’s Falls Royal Canadian Legion, which provides a room much better suited for live performances than the old venue. All of the artists put on a great show last Friday night, and I think we were well received. I had the pleasure of calling up my friend Barry Hayward to accompany me on the conga drums for two of my songs. He really improved my performance, so thank you Barry! I am delighted to be playing my music in front of an attentive audience, and I hope I can continue to do this for a long time. Carpe Diem, weather be damned.     

 

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/15/14

Friend and fellow songwriter Douglas McLean performing at Muskoka Sound

Last weekend marked the first  Muskoka Sound music festival in Huntsville, and there were about thirty acts that played from Friday through Sunday, including the local musicians who played on the second “home grown” stage. Shauna was not able to join me, much as she wanted to, because she could not have enjoyed this outdoor event in such inclement weather. It was very cold and rainy, and there was even a frost warning Saturday night. The festival grounds were a muddy mess and people were trudging through the muck with great difficulty, many of them wearing the wrong footwear. At one point our family doctor walked by, and as she waved to me, one of her boots got stuck in the mud and came off her foot. The suction of the mud was not allowing her to hop and she planted her stocking foot deep into the bog. Regardless of Mother Nature’s lack of cooperation, attendance was good, and I very much enjoyed hearing most of the artists.  

I do not usually consult the internet for my inspiration, but I watched a short video on Facebook the other day, which Shauna brought to my attention, and the title captured my interest: “Why I Think the World Should End”. I liked it enough to share it on my Facebook timeline. It is not, as the title would suggest, a negative message at all, and the poetic language in it really moved me. It covers a lot of ground and it struck a nerve. Perhaps because it feels as if winter has arrived early, and I am a little gloomy while writing this week’s installment, that video really expressed what I have been feeling. With all the bad news stories spewing out of my TV set, sometimes it seems as if the sky is falling, and I lose my perspective. Last week, amidst the usual headliners (Syrian conflict, Isis, threat, Ukrainian struggle; who knew what, when, and who covered it up … the usual), there was yet another story of celebrity misbehavior which saddened me. NFL football player, Ray Rice was fired from the Baltimore Ravens after a video surfaced of him punching and knocking out his then girlfriend (now his wife), in the elevator of an Atlantic City casino. The incident was caught on security videos which somehow found its way into the hands of scandal-obsessed TMZ. This is the “news” organization also responsible for outing former Clippers owner Donald Sterling, when he uttered racist remarks to a young girlfriend. As disturbing as is Rice’s deplorable act of domestic violence, the bigger question is, why didn’t the NFL do anything about it until it was revealed by TMZ? Apparently this incident was made known to the NFL long before the video became public. I suspect the answer is pretty clear: what (we think) they don’t know won’t hurt them. Ugh. What amazed me were the commentators who condemned the media for jumping all over this story. The guy punches his woman unconscious, in a public place, then drags her limp body out of an elevator in front of more security cameras. Domestic violence is not defensible in any way shape or form, regardless of circumstances. One can debate the subject of how this information became public but hello, it happened in public,  and it is contemptible behavior in any modern society.

Last Thursday night, I was working with some lyrics on the computer, and it was not until I went to save the file, which I usually date, that I noticed it was the anniversary of 9-11. I paused for just a moment to remind myself that this horrible event happened thirteen years ago, and I still clearly remember the day. My generation’s Day of Infamy. Shauna and I were in our high rise apartment in Toronto when the news came out, and I remember the palpable feeling that the Free World was under attack. Now, not a day goes by when I do not feel that intangible threat looming.  I cannot seem to escape the omnipresent news stories that remind me.

 

Lies on the telly, lies in the paper, dirty little lies we believe

Everyone’s selling scandal and fame like they’re red hot commodities

Talking heads, to the walking dead, beamed off the Uranus feed

Preaching to the choir, stoking the fire, giving us all what we need  

 

excerpt from  “A Dishonest Man”

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/8/14

Shauna and I met a man named Sam Fattore a year or so ago at one of the Burk’s Falls "Coffee House"open mics. I was scheduled to perform, and we arrived a little after the show had begun. There were only a few seats left and Sam and his wife Betty offered to let us sit with them. Sam was also performing that night, and he played some of his favorite “old country” covers. He had a good voice for country music - he sounded a little like Hank Snow - and I bought his CD at the end of the night. Over the next year, I bumped into Sam and Betty several times at various musical gatherings, usually at places where Sam was performing, and we would discuss our musical pursuits. While our styles were entirely different, we shared a passion for good songwriting.

Jump ahead to this past June, and I was leaving my doctor’s office after a checkup. I bumped into Sam and Betty in the lobby of the medical building. He was sitting in a chair, and Betty was at his side with  her arm around his shoulder. He said he’d experienced heat stroke while chopping wood and he looked exhausted and beat up. We spoke for a few minutes, and I said I’d see them again soon, but I walked away a little rattled. He looked much different from the vital man I‘d seen several months before. Then, last week I took Shauna to the Huntsville hospital for an X-Ray and, as we were walking out, I spotted Betty in the waiting area. Next to her was Sam, now in a wheelchair, looking as if he’d aged thirty years. One look in Betty’s eyes spoke volumes about what had happened. Since I’d last seen them, Sam had been diagnosed with lung cancer, had had one lung removed, but the cancer had spread. The prognosis was clearly grim. Shauna and I sat with them for ten or fifteen minutes while they waited for the doctor, feeling the same awkward helplessness anyone feels in that situation. We made small talk about music. In a quiet voice Sam looked sadly at his boney hands and sighed with resignation “I can’t even hold a guitar in my hands anymore.”

I spent most of last summer in Sunnybrook Hospital watching my beloved father-in-law slowly drift away. We were at that hospital every day, and in a hospital, death is your constant companion. It is an odor in the air, it is the sad look in the eyes of a passing wheelchair-bound patient, it is the helpless look of false hope in a family member’s face as they screen out the bad news a doctor is giving them. Everything in a hospital is too slow or too fast, but always out of step with the outside world. You meet and bond with complete strangers who are going through a similar experience, and you are confronted with lessons none of us can avoid. Now, just short of a year from the date of Dad Taylor’s passing, approaching Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, I find myself faced with another living ghost. I can try to blot him out of my mind, or I can dwell on him obsessively, or, as I have chosen to do of late, I can remind myself to live and to appreciate my life, our lives. I feel sometimes that as I age it is getting harder for me to connect to other people. I have to try harder. We live in an age where information is coming at us fast and hard. I can know exactly what a friend in Los Angeles is doing and exactly when he is doing it, just by consulting his Facebook page. I can even access this “information” on my phone. But as intoxicating as is the delusion that I am connecting with this friend, I am not. As much as I try to keep in touch with my friends, some are slipping away from me, fallen soldiers on the battlefield. Sam is just an acquaintance, one of the locals whom I have come to know superficially, but he is a reminder to me that we are all connected, somehow. I don’t often admit that I pray, but the older I get the more I do it. I don’t consider myself a religious man, and my problems with conventional religion are too many to list. And yet I pray. For my buddy Edmond in Buffalo, down for the count with MS, for the mother and father on the news who lost a little girl to some fiend; I pray for the all the families I see going by, like a slow motion movie shot, drifting by at the ever-accelerating speed of time.

Finally, I mention the passing of edgy comedienne Joan Rivers, who passed away last week unexpectedly after a surgical complication. Her humor was often cruel, but she always made me laugh. Not long ago I watched a movie about her recent career and it was insightful.

I think maybe I’ll try to make Sam laugh. 

 Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 

The Oppenheimer Report 9/1/14

Answer me this: why, when a product is satisfactory, must manufacturers change it? This happens so often. Cereal boxes get smaller, formulas for hair products change, a favorite toothpaste is discontinued. Feminine hygiene products and cosmetics are the worst. Don’t ask me how I know this. The thing that really puzzles me is why some products are packaged in such a way as to be indistinguishable from each other. Tropicana orange juice has several different varieties from which to choose, and the “no pulp” version has the exact same markings as the “extra pulp” version. The packaging is virtually identical, except for some hard to find print on the front of the carton. I think I speak for the majority of male shoppers when I say I do not enjoy lingering in a supermarket. I have a list of items I need, and I just want to get in and get out as soon as possible. Metro has a special brand of coffee we buy, and it has the exact same packaging as another Metro brand we do not like. The other day, I bought two of the wrong packages along with one of the right ones. I must assume that the stock boy didn’t notice the difference either. Now I have to wait until I am making another trip to Huntsville to return said items.

Last Tuesday night, Shauna and I headed into "Dee’s Bistro" in Burk’s Falls to attend the last of the Tree Ring Tuesday songwriter showcases for this summer. Sean Cotton, the organizer of these events, accompanied fellow songwriters Pam Millar and my friend Douglas McLean. Lewis Hodgson and I were called up from the audience to play a few of our songs, which was good fun. There was a good turnout, the audience seemed to enjoy the music, there was humorous banter, and there was a high energy about the night that I think everybody felt. I spoke last week of music’s healing qualities, both for the listeners and the performers, and currently, our little town needs to heal. Last week, a little boy drowned while playing on the banks of the swollen Magnetawan River near the Burk’s Falls dam. This kind of tragedy affects almost everyone in a small community. Some members of the town came out to Dee’s to distract themselves from the inexplicable sadness of this death, and I think Sean and Pam, both residents of Burk’s Falls, did a great job lifting their spirits.
Speaking of Sean Cotton, as I began writing this report last Wednesday, I was listening to him on the radio talking about his recent appointment as the new host of the Hunter’s Bay Radio’s Talent on the Bay show. Congratulations Sean, you’ll be great in that role. This coming Wednesday, some of the local songwriters, including me, will join Sean on the show from 11AM –12PM to talk about our experiences performing this summer, and to play a few tunes. I’m looking forward to that show. Tune in to 88.7 FM Radio or, if you are not local, hear it on the internet if you get the chance: http://www.muskokaonline.com/Start/tabid/55/Default.aspx

When I complain and rant about something as mundane as similar packaging of food products, I am not completely oblivious to the irony of such complaints, especially given the current events unfolding in the global arena. An outbreak of the Ebola virus in five African countries (so far) is anything but contained. This raises the complicated ethical issue of equality and treatment. While thousands have died from this outbreak so far, if a vaccine is produced (several are showing promise in fast track studies), it will likely be available to the privileged few before the Third World poor are saved. ISIS, the latest high profile Islamic fundamentalist threat in Iraq and elsewhere, is now targeting Western journalists. It is a strange world we live in where one can type a few words in a Google search and view a YouTube video of a journalist being beheaded. The other disturbing newsmaker is Russia’s continuing and unchecked mission to annex the Ukraine. Putin shrugs off the bad press and maintains that the aggression comes from patriotic pro-Russian rebels who are not under his command, but NATO is not buying it; neither is the world. Certainly border countries like Romania, Bulgaria, and Moldavia must be a bit nervous. I do not delude myself into thinking that Russia is alone in her lust for natural resources and real estate, any more than I believe the U.S. was simply on a humanitarian mission to “free” Iraq from the dictator we had supported. Finally, there seems to be no end to the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, and now the Syrians are once again getting into the fight. Millions of Syrians have been displaced by the civil war raging in that country and the U.S. is showing little inclination to intervene. I know, I know, it’s complicated.

I can’t even figure out packaging labels in the supermarket.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED