The Oppenheimer Report 10/27/14

A therapeutic burger at Webers on the way home

Thursday night, Shauna, Jasper, and I drove down to Barrie to stay in a hotel, because I was scheduled for shoulder (day) surgery at Royal Victoria Hospital very early Friday morning. While I have not spent much time discussing this in my report, I was apprehensive about this surgery. Over thirty years ago, I had had an operation on the same shoulder, for a recurring separation problem. The aftermath was extremely painful, and the recovery took a long, long time. No one could really tell me what to expect with this one; the surgeon knew there was damage which had severely compromised the arm, but would not be able to determine the extent until he went in with a scope. While the procedure was arthroscopic, and therefore not as invasive as my previous surgery, there was no way of knowing what the recovery time might be. Frankly, I would have lived with the impairment had it not become almost impossible to play the guitar. Last summer, I played seven or eight live performances, including one on the radio, and I never knew when the arm was going to give out. As well, up to a few weeks ago, I had recorded 21 or more songs with Juan Barbosa. At times the pain was so distracting that I’d frequently go off tempo, or blow a lyric, and was then forced to re-do the track. Eventually, those songs will be released, and with Juan’s patience and studio wizardry, they will likely be presentable to the general public.

We arrived at the hospital at 6AM, and after all the paperwork, and assessments, and the oft-repeated questions, I found myself sitting in a waiting room, wearing nothing but a skimpy hospital gown and flimsy blue paper slippers. I sat there, attached to an IV pole, with my very nervous, loving wife Shauna by my side, waiting along with about ten other patients for our sessions in the OR. Finally, around 8AM, all the surgical patients were herded into another waiting room and taken, one by one, to our respective operating rooms. I spoke to a few of the other patients to pass the time and distract myself from my trepidation. There were young children in the group, some of them about to have more invasive surgery that I was to undergo. Here I was, a 59 year old man, nervous about relatively minor shoulder surgery, and there across from me was an eight year old kid who had already endured heart surgery. I guess we’re never too old to be afraid, but what a whiney bitch I am.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I was led into my operating room, and I met my surgeon. It was cold, and I was asked to lie down on a very narrow table. “So which arm is it we’re operating on?” he asked. Hah freakin’ hah. He wrote something on my shoulder in black magic marker, the nurses repositioned me, threw some warm blankets over me, and the next thing I knew I was done and waking up in the recovery room. I’d forgotten what waking up from general anesthesia felt like. At first it was kind of cool, like waking up after a strange dream, but then, almost immediately, it felt as if there was an anvil on my right shoulder. Just as it was beginning to hurt, there was a nurse there to administer that glorious shot of hydromorphone. From there, it was another couple of hours of recovery, then back to the hotel to spend the night before heading home Saturday.

I fear I will not be a very good patient for Shauna, as I am used to being the caregiver, but the good news is that, at least so far, the pain has been far less severe than I had anticipated. I’m going to give it a couple of days before I get too optimistic, but after 24 hours I had weaned myself off the strong painkillers and seem to be alright with just Tylenol. I’m not one to quietly endure pain and would do what I need to do to avoid it. Recovery and physiotherapy are likely to take longer than I’d like but I am eager to get back to my normal life. That brief visit to a hospital for a relatively minor elective surgery was a reminder to me of how lucky I have been thus far to avoid any real health problems. Once again my perspective has been “clarified” and I hope my good luck continues.

Jack Bruce died last week. Cream was one of my all-time favorite rock bands. R.I.P.

 

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/20/14

As I scramble to get all the outside work done around the house before my shoulder surgery this coming Friday, I find myself fighting the elements. After a stormy summer, we have had a very wet fall and the temperature variances have been extreme. As I sometimes do, I consulted the radar last weekend, and noticed a familiar blob of green and yellow covering the near north of Ontario. What I was not ready for was a significant area of blue, indicating snow. Last night we had the first snow of the season, and while there was no accumulation, not yet at least, I’m not ready! One of my priorities this weekend was to change the oil in the snow blower.

The Ebola virus has been front and center in the news of late as it recently made its way into North America. A Liberian man died recently in Dallas, Texas where he had been visiting his family.  Much has been made of the likelihood that the Dallas hospital mishandled this case. Not only did they not properly diagnose the man’s illness in the first place, sending him home where he may have infected others, but when the man was finally admitted, the hospital procedures for protecting its caregivers proved inadequate as well. One or two nurses who were treating the man were infected with the virus, and now hospitals all over North America are re-assessing their preparedness to deal with this issue. While the disease is thankfully not contagious by airborne transmission, unless bodily fluids are exchanged, it is extremely deadly when it is contracted. This particular strain has a mortality rate in the 50-60% range, and there is no known vaccine at this time.

 

From the serious to the ridiculous… did anyone else catch that gubernatorial debate story in Florida? Republican incumbent Florida Governor Rick Scott refused to debate his Democratic opponent and former Republican Governor Charlie Crist, because Crist was using an illegal fan under his podium to cool himself. Pundits are calling it “Fangate” and it bespeaks the absurdity which is U.S. politics. As satirist John Stewart quipped: “Thank you Jesus!” for this chestnut of comedy gold. I wish the Republicans would wake up and join the race. Another story which I caught on CTV News, and which I found bizarre, concerns the video gaming industry. Apparently, several women who are becoming successful in video game development have had their lives threatened because of their perceived threat to the tide of violent misogyny in video games. Admittedly, I know little about video games, except that, like todays films, some of them are extremely violent. One disturbing trend seems to be the depiction of women in these games as expendable objects of sexual fantasy. As the news suggested, some vidiots out there, who thrive on these games promoting misogyny, feel threatened by any female who would dare to intrude on their violent woman-hating fantasies. I have for a long time harped upon the growing social disconnect enhanced by advancements in technology. Cell phones and computers give us more access to information and communication, but at the same time can retard acceptable social behavior. Hey, here’s a great idea, I think I’ll text this girl’s naked photo to all my classmates. Who knew she’d kill herself because she was so ashamed? How strange is it to hear that someone is having an existential crisis because a woman is interfering with his right to fantasize about violence against women in a video game. It’s an existential crisis over something that does not, or should not, really exist in the first place! It is bad enough that these video games have an audience (it’s a free country right?), but I think they need to catch these desensitized troglodytes and get them a little behavioral therapy … perhaps make them watch The View for a couple of hours a day. O.K., that might be a little too harsh.    

 

Yesterday, I attended the memorial service for local country musician Sam Fattore. A lot of his musician friends came out to the Katrine Community center to celebrate his life by performing at the service, sending him out in style. Goodbye Sam, you have some good friends.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/13/14

 

 

First order of business: Happy Thanksgiving to my Canadian brothers and sisters!

 

My 59^th birthday was last Wednesday, or as I now tell myself, I am ushering in my 60^th year. In last week’s report, I quoted from a song I wrote out in Banff, entitled The Wind Begins to Blow, and it is about the swift passage of time. It was written on a blustery cold day in July, about ten years ago, and I was feeling particularly pensive that day. Even in the summer, the mountain weather in Banff can be quite hostile, and I felt in some inexplicable way that change was in the air. Of course, change is always in the air, it’s just that sometimes I feel it more than other times. Anyhow, it was about to snow, and as I watched a Clarke’s Nutcracker clinging tenaciously to a tree branch outside my window, the gloominess of the moment narrated the song in my head. My friend Gil from Florida chided me the other day, suggesting I should write more happy songs. I suppose he has a point … if I were Barry freakin’ Manilow, or if I gave a flying Walenda about commercial appeal, which I never have. Anyhow, sorry Gil, but this is who I am; I’ve always been this way, and you can’t teach a decomposing misanthrope new tricks.

 

 

Last Monday and Tuesday I had my last recording sessions with Juan Barbosa before my scheduled shoulder surgery at the end of the month. In those two back-to-back sessions and I laid down bed tracks for six songs. Lately I feel as if my time is passing faster, and I feel some sense of dire urgency/ In a month or so I’ll usher in my 51^st year/ And I’m nowhere near where I thought I would be. Juan and I work well together, and I think he gets my songs. My ambition has never been perfection, or even to impress anyone with my performance. I am a writer, and know my limitations as a performing artist. Still, Juan has proved a wizard at covering up the mistakes effectively. I heard a famous musician interviewed the other day - I can’t remember who it was - and he said there are certain albums his band did that he simply cannot listen to, because he hears all the mistakes. Ultimately my goal is to present the songs better than I have done so far, without the distracting, glaring mistakes apparent in my previous self-recordings. To a greater or lesser extent, I think Juan has succeeded in doing this. He sings a few of these songs and really breathes new life into them with his bluesy soul. Without getting too full of myself ( as if it isn’t too late) it is exciting to hear some of these songs, many which were just sketches when I wrote and recorded them, come to life as legitimate musical performances. I feel blessed to have found this like-minded musician to take my songs to the next level. After my surgery at the end of the month, and while my shoulder heals, I want to move on to new songs, things that I shelved fifteen year ago and which need fresh eyes and ears. I want to get my good friend  Bobby Cameron involved too. Bobby's a gifted producer, and a killer guitarist. There are at least twenty or thirty unfinished songs, some just penned, that I intend to revisit this winter. Perhaps with the help of some of the talented local singer/songwriters up here one or two of them will be heard by a wider audience. Who knows? I have new goals now.

  

 

 

 

One of the songs we recorded last week was a humorous novelty song I wrote many years ago called Swamp Queen. Shauna doesn’t like that song, because it is a bit rude and she feels it is beneath me. Ever my publicist and biggest supporter, she worries I will not be taken seriously if I put out a novelty song. I cannot believe this woman has been married to me for twenty years and still feels that there is ANYTHING “beneath” me, but there you have it. Anyhow, I recorded Swamp Queen as a mock rock anthem and I think in Juan’s hands we can knock this one out of the park. It has YouTube written all over it! Juan actually lives on a swampy little pond, and if we can get the right video recorded, this one could be a lot of fun. So Gil, if you’re reading this, I can be light-hearted, on occasion. The Wind Begins to Blow is anything but.

 

 

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

 

The Oppenheimer Report 10/6/14

 

I apologize in advance if today’s off-the-cuff ramblings seem particularly disjointed. The Fall rains and the Jewish High Holy Days have left me feeling a little anxious and reflective. Last night, while I was deleting some old emails, I came across one from my recently deceased artist friend Frank Riccio. It was from March of 2013, and he was ribbing me, in a manner so typical of Frank, about how fortunate he felt to have been mentioned in my report. He jokingly suggested that, like so many other forms of electronic correspondence, my reference to him in my report will perhaps someday be a matter of historical record. He said: “And like every phone call and text message, all will be routed through and saved at the giant data facility in Utah!  ~ƒ” Now, a year and a half later, his amusing email remains, but Frank is gone. Being the neurotic, overthinking worrywart that I am, that prompted a flood of apprehensions about my own mortality and about the fates of those I love. It is that queasy feeling I get in my stomach when I revisit the epiphany that almost everything is out of my control. Last week, I mused about letting go of things from my past, and about how I struggle to live in the moment. Last Friday, on the Eve of Yom Kippur, we learned that a dear cousin who is our age was admitted to the hospital in Toronto suffering from severe pain. He’d had a history of colon cancer and we were obviously concerned that this affliction has re-emerged. We helplessly await news of his condition. Perhaps I read too much in to the weather. Around here at least, Fall has returned early, and with a vengeance. For me, Fall is the season when change is most apparent, and as the October winds cleanse the trees of their rusty foliage, I feel strangely out of step with the march of time.

No doubt, Yom Kippur makes me more reflective than I usually am, especially because I fast from sundown to sundown, and this accentuates the discomfort of self-awareness. Yom Kippur is the Jewish Day of Atonement, the day when Jews ask forgiveness for all the wrongs we have done in the year. Comedian Lewis Black, a Jew himself, does a funny routine about it in his hysterical, angry, ranting style. Ridiculous as he thinks it is to assume that any religion can absolve one of one’s wrongdoings, he says that at least the Catholics don’t let it build up. Catholics confess their sins on a regular basis, but the Jews, who have a black belt in guilt, hold in all their sins for the year and purge them all in one day. That’s a lot of apologizing for one day. Mostly, I regret taking my good fortune for granted. I’m talking specifically about family and friends. What if I’d spent more time with my parents, what if I’d kept in touch with Frank, what if I been more charitable with my heart to people who are now gone? Why don’t I call my sister and nephews more often? Who have I forgotten, only to be reminded when they are gone? Hopefully, I’ll improve on all of this in the coming next year.

The same neurosis that begs these unanswerable questions compels me to write songs. I never sit down with the intention of writing a song about anything. Songs come to me from my personal experience, or they are triggered by a news event underscoring the human condition. They simply come out of me the way weeds come out of fertile soil, and I have over time become more vigilant about recording them when they occur. Not all of them are clear and concise, and not many of them are good or meaningful to anyone but me. Yet they are my little garden of neurotic ideas, and I cultivate them. And they will be here when I am gone, recognized or otherwise; my emotional footprint on the sands of time. Ugh, that was horrible, wasn’t it? Last night I consulted my song notebook and there were twenty or thirty pages of recent stream of consciousness lyrics. Verbal diarrhea. Over the past few weeks, I have been on Facebook quite a lot, because that is largely how the musical community up here communicates. The danger of Facebook is that it sometimes overwhelms me: too much information. It is, in some watered down way, a medium of connectivity, and in any event, I drink the Kool-Aid. When the annual Day of Atonement arrives, or when I am confronted with the passage of time, measured by new aches and pains, or watching a niece or nephew get older in photos on Facebook, or by something as mundane as the amount of dog food consumed by Jasper (a good thing, by the way), I sometimes become concerned by my growing incapability to prepare for the coming winter.

As I sometimes do, I consulted my report from about a year ago to see what was going on in my life at the time. A year ago next week, the U.S. government had shut down in an impasse over The Affordable Care Act. In that same entry I mentioned that I got caught in the dark with the ATV for a long, cold, drive home from my friend Buck’s house. He lives about ten or fifteen miles south of us on the big lake, and because I got delayed, the ride home was frosty and a bit nerve racking. Up here, Mother Nature is not too forgiving of the unprepared, and that frosty night I was underdressed. From what all the local “experts” say, we have another cold winter ahead of us. Today, a year later, the world mobilizes for what might be an escalating religious war, and global leadership does not seem to be any stronger, or less divisive, than it was last year. I just finished recording a song I wrote t 9 years ago about these grey days …

“And time just seems to swirl up like the leaves in a blow

So much spinning out of my control
I want to solve the problems of this oh so troubled world
But I can’t even seem to solve my own …” –excerpt from The Wind Begins to Blow

(Destined to be a bigger hit than Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini)

To the members of my tribe, and to all the rest of you as well, Shanah Tova – have a good year.

 

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/2/14

Monday, I drove down to Fort Erie, Ontario to sign over the deed to the family beach house near Ridgeway.  I believe my grandfather bought that place in the late 1920s or early 1930s, and it had been in our family ever since. My mom and her brother Harry Jr. spent their childhood summers there, as did my sister and I. By the time Mom and Dad were too infirmed to spend their summers there (it is a short commute from Buffalo), neither my sister nor I was living close enough to spend any significant time there. While Mom was alive, I did not have the heart to sell the place, although that would have been the sensible thing to do. Even though for the last few years of her life Mom was suffering from severe dementia, she still asked about the beach house constantly. Did the landscaper come to plant the flower garden? Did I remember that the storm windows are stored in the garage? Don’t forget to run the washing machine once through with nothing in it, so the rust can clear from the water pipes. Of course, I did not have the heart to tell her we were renting the place to strangers. I loved that house almost as much as she did, and I did not know how to let go.

Finally, I had to, so I drove down to visit the place one last time, with a trailer in tow to bring back some of the furniture and the other mementos that reminded me of my family. I knew it would be an emotional trip, but as I walked through the house, it suddenly hit me like a brick: this was it. This was perhaps the last time I would ever set foot in this wonderful home, which had for such a long time been a unifying force in my family. A thousand happy memories washed over me like a tidal wave as I looked out the windows, opened cabinet doors and pulled out drawers, trying to make sure I did not leave anything important behind . There were childhood memories of boating and waterskiing, dinner parties full of laughter with friends and family, bonfires and marshmallow roasts, the fond recollections of time spent with four generations of my family. My friend Bob, with whom I'd shared many of those memories, came over Monday night to offer me some moral support. Otherwise, I probably would have fallen apart. So many memories.

For instance, I remember when my sister got married in 1971, the ushers party was held at that summer house, and that the first wild party I ever attended. My cousin Paul and I were only about thirteen or fourteen at the time and we got very drunk. At some point during that Bacchanalian evening, Paul’s mom called from Buffalo asking to speak with Paul. A very drunk girl answered the phone, with loud music in the background, and fifty or sixty people yelling at the top of their lungs, and she slurred, “I dunno, describe him!” I woke up the next morning in a reclining chair- the morning of my sister’s wedding - with a terrific hangover, naked except for the beach towel draped over my waist. Someone was shaking me awake to remind me that I had to be an usher in the wedding in about an hour. The place looked like the aftermath of a frat party.

During my search, I opened a broom closet in the kitchen, where we kept all the keys to the house, and underneath the key rack was a list in my father’s distinctive handwriting, describing what each key was for. That made me smile and I kept the note. Every corner of that house, every knick knack, ever pot and pan, was somehow a memory. How fortunate I was to have had that kind of a charmed childhood! I pulled out the bottom drawer in the linen closet and found a bunch of small, framed watercolor paintings, about eight in all. I recognized them as in my mother’s style, and sure enough, she’d painted them. Her initials were at the bottom of each painting. I’d never seen these pictures before, and they would have been painted when mom was a very young woman, probably before she became a professional artist. I’m glad I found those.

I’ll miss the old beach house, but the time has come to move on. Next week I will usher in my 60^th year, and more and more  I find myself forced to let go of people and things that were dear to me. I don’t want to, but dwelling on the loss just makes me sad.  I struggle not to live in the past, and I do not want to fall out if step with the march of time, much as it is sometimes a challenge to keep pace. To get stuck is to miss out on all the surprises life still has in store for me. To live in the present, in the moment, is something I am still trying to figure out how to do, but I think it is a worthy pursuit. I feel blessed to have had so many good experiences so far, and so much love in my life to guide me along the way. I cannot bring back those who have left me, and I cannot hold on to real estate and chattel that reminds me of them, but I can be thankful for all I have been given. Perhaps I can even spread a little of that love to others. As they say “you can’t take it with you” but one should enjoy it while it’s here!  My mom is present in every brush stroke she painted, and in the home she created for us all. My Dad is alive in every brilliant, illegible word he wrote. I feel confident that there are many happy memories still to come. Tuesday, I closed one door for the last time, but there are many more to open.  

  - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED