The Oppenheimer Report 12/28/20

 

A pre-emptive Happy New Year to my readers! All my life I’ve been a cynical person, and for the first twenty years that I wrote the Oppenheimer Report it was mostly about character assassination and tongue-in-cheek commentary on current events. Of late, the reports have taken on a more serious tone. My wife and editor Shauna is concerned that I will lose my “12 loyal readers”, but it’s not as if I’m going to experience Kevin Spacey fall off the face of the earth kind of anonymity, because I’ve always BEEN anonymous! The fact is, I’m a very different person than the guy who started writing this report as a New Year’s resolution in 1992. At the time, my directive was to write a page about the week, a postcard from the edge, and to do it for just one year. One year has turned into 29. I think I might quit when I get to 30. For me, it’s always been about the discipline of writing a page per week; something to give my ever-deteriorating brain a little much needed exercise. It also forces me to sit down and take a moment to assess the week in review. Typically, at the of the year I would try to sum up the events of the year, but I think it would be impossible to do that for 2020. I wrote to someone the other day that 2020 has become a numerical swear word. Go 2020 yourself.

 

I’ve had a melody rattling around in my head for the past couple of weeks, and out of that melody I wrote a song to commemorate Christmas 2020. I wrote the lyrics last week and finished the song on Christmas Day. I was excited to complete a song, any song, because I’ve been in a long creative dry spell lately. The song is entitled “The Good Fight (Christmas 2020)” and I posted my very stripped-down performance of the song on Facebook on Boxing Day. Indeed, this was a strange one for most of us. A lot of people have written pandemic songs lately, and very few of them seem hopeful. The message of my song is that 2020 really sucked, for most of the world, but that I have not thrown in the towel. I wanted to record something for my 12 loyal listeners to acknowledge that there is always hope where there is love. The inspiration for “The Good Fight (Christmas 2020)” was John Lennon’s well-known Christmas song “Happy Xmas (War Is Over)”. Although it will not likely be heard by many, I’m glad I put it out there. I needed to end 2020 on a hopeful note. All of my songs are journal entries and I needed to write at least one song to record the remarkable year which has just passed. We can’t change what has happened, and we certainly have little control over the hearts and minds of those who don’t believe what we believe. All I can do is adjust how I behave. This is a pivotal point for mankind. History will likely sanitize the insanity, but I doubt anyone will be able to rationalize it.

 

I didn’t intend to write another report in 2020, but I just had to say this: annus horribilis, don’t let the screen door hit you on the way out.  Kudos to Hunters Bay Radio for giving so many of us locals a voice, and for doing so many good and charitable things in our community. This season Jeff Carter and The Bay Food Crew delivered (I believe) over 1000 full dinners to local food banks, putting a huge dent in the local problem of food insecurity at a time when it is needed most. There are good people everywhere, and I intend to focus on those people in the new year. I hope you can do the same.  Shauna and I are proud and thankful to be affiliated with this great radio station. May 2021 bring us all hope and prosperity. Keep fighting the good fight, and if you don’t believe in the good fight, then “2020” YOU!

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 12/21/20

 

I’ve known Santa for many years, we used to vacation at the same villa down in the Caribbean. What, you didn’t think he takes time off? Nobody can live in the North Pole year-round, and let’s face it, that job is full of stress. One year, I remember Santa did not go south and went “Here’s Johnny” on Mrs. Claus around mid-March. She had to lock herself in the toy shed for three days. Of course, Santa wears “civies” when he isn’t working, and could easily be mistaken for one of the other elder white-bearded, fair-skinned snowbirds. I’ll tell you one thing, Santa in Bermuda shorts, socks and sandals, and a Hawaiian shirt is not a pretty sight. I worry about his mental health, especially this year with the pandemic, but he’s been through much worse. To follow is a past report which touches upon some of Santa’s past problems:

 

12/24/97 - Yes, only three more shopping days until Christmas, and the stress is omnipresent. I heard on the radio this morning that one in five Canadians polled confirmed, given any more stress, they would just snap. Job security and financial woes top the list of stressors, but the holiday season can be the candy cane that broke the reindeer’s back.

 

I’ve always been sympathetic to Santa Claus, because I don’t think most folks appreciate the pressure that guy is under. It’s feast or famine with him, because he has a slow season for eleven months, and then BANG!, it’s the Christmas push.  For those of you who may not have followed my Claus coverage over the past four years, let me bring you up to speed.

 

First there was the FWI charge (flying while intoxicated) near the North Pole back in 1993. That one almost buried him. Then in ‘94, Mrs. Claus had that fling with the Kuwaiti arms dealer down in Rio. My wife thinks she was going through menaclaus. That was not a good thing for Santa’s mental health. In 1995, two of his key toy-making elves were riddled with bullets in a slide-by shooting. It is a little-known fact that elf gangs are about as ruthless and bloody as they come. Don’t let their size fool you, those little buggers will get you down on the ground and stomp you to death. Then, this past year, there was that ugly tax evasion scandal. I don’t even think Santa should even need to pay taxes, but welcome to the real world.

 

This year is no different, and with the mail strikes, elf walkouts, three reindeer down with hoof and antler disease, two hundred and fifty-three unsettled roof damage lawsuits in New York State alone, the collapse of the Asian real estate market, etc., etc.,  Santa should be one chimney away from losing it.

 

Every year around this time, at least one story surfaces about Santa abuse. I mean abuse TO Santa, not from him. Goodness knows there’s always some unfortunate story about how one of his “helpers” - you know, the ones who are dressed to look like him and work the malls and special events - gets drunk or  mauls  someone. In Buffalo once, and to my complete disgust, I actually saw one of Santa’s “helpers” relieving himself against a building on upper Main Street. It’s not something I want to dwell upon, but it happens, just like it happens to so many other celebrities these days. You get a little bad press and bang-zoom, you’re the bad guy (or gal). Santa can’t be responsible for all the people called upon to impersonate him, and there’s no question we need those helper Santas to assure that the Christmas machine runs smoothly. Anyhow, sometimes those helpers get abused too.

 

Just the other day, I heard on the news that a helper Santa had been fired from some department store after he reprimanded a bad kid for pulling his beard and kicking him in the gonads. If you ask me, any kid who kicks Santa in the balls deserves not only a pile of steaming chicken feces in his or her stocking, but also a compulsory, twenty-four hour, non-stop, Barney the Dinosaur video fest. Just because they’re kids doesn’t mean they can’t be evil.

 

Anyhow, don’t get stressed this holiday season and, if you get a chance, try and make someone besides a retailer happy this year. For all the hype, and all the artificial goodwill swirling around this time of year, there is a lot of good out there, and a lot of good people want nothing more from you than a little respect and some recognition. Be nice, call someone you know is lonely, help someone out who needs it ... and cut Santa some slack this year, he’s doing the best he can. Happy holidays!

 

I hope anyone reading this report has a safe holiday. Stay connected however you can; this too shall pass. Take care of your family and friends and make the best of these hard times. I’ll be back in the new year.  

 

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 12/14/20

 

I saw a cartoon the other day and it made me chuckle. I think somebody had doctored up a Peanuts comic and in it Snoopy was sitting on top of his doghouse typing a letter to the year 2020. The caption read: “Dear 2020, First of all, let me say I’m typing this letter with my middle finger.” I think that about sums it up. I recently posted a spoof of a Dr. Seuss book cover, having to do with the controversial issue of masks vs. no masks. Of course, that drew some heat. Zealots rarely have a sense of humour. The other day, there was a post on the Hunters Bay Radio Facebook page, reporting on the Supreme Court decision to throw out the last Hail Mary act of desperation by the Republicans to negate Joe Biden’s obviously legitimate win. That post prompted a thread of unbelievably the nasty, hateful remarks. Everyone is so full of pent up rage that they have completely forsaken common decency and respect. A thinking man might be wondering if the world has finally lost its collective mind.

   

For me, this holiday is always bittersweet in the best of times. It so glaringly highlights the needs of those who are experiencing hardship. I believe goodwill and charitable behavior are to be practiced year-round, but it seems to be emphasized around Christmas time.  Shauna and I just made our annual donation to the local food bank, as we have done ever since we moved up here. This year our gift was substantially larger than usual for obvious reasons. We contribute to many other local charities, and as well to individuals whom we deem to be food insecure or otherwise in peril financially. While we do what we can, especially now, I feel as if it is not enough. Particularly this year, I have the sense that more people need our help than ever, and it can be discouraging. I wish I could direct people away from their fear and rage, but I wouldn’t know where to start. I see the corrosive posts and tweets on social media, and I’m bombarded with news of people’s deplorable behavior, and it seems like Pandora’s Box is wide open. It’s the same old story. This group hates that group because that group has different beliefs. Black, white, red, yellow, rich, poor, masker/anti-masker, liberal, conservative, Jew, Muslim, Christian; COVID 19 does not discriminate. We’re all in peril, and it seems only logical for all of us to get on the same page. Whether you believe we are experiencing a pandemic or not, and astoundingly, many do not, that reality will someday be a matter of historical fact. In the meantime, our health care workers and first responders, woefully undervalued, are at increased risk because uninformed people are free to endanger their fellow citizens. There will always be some who deny reality - I never cease to be amazed that there are still those who deny the Holocaust ever occurred – but never before have I seen so many denying it. I blame bad leaders, but that begs the question, who elected them?

 

Today is Day 5 of Hanukkah. My holiday wish for the world is that we miraculously come to our senses, resist our basest instincts, and take our cues from the heroes all around us. I am fortunate to have known more than a few of them, and I choose to believe and respect those role models. By all means disagree, but agree to disagree, and show a little respect. You may think you know the truth, and maybe you’re closer to it than I am; maybe you’re not. The next time you are about to push “send” with your angry retort, count to ten and maybe don’t do it. That simple act might be a better statement than you would have otherwise made. Hatred and revenge are not the solutions to our problems. Play nice, and Seasons Beatings!

 

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 12/7/20

 

Is anyone else counting down the days until this abysmal year is over? I don’t know what I expect will happen in 2021, but I’m going with equal parts blind faith and denial. When things get tough, I bury my head in the sand and watch bad TV. Frankly, I do the later a lot anyway. I watched a movie last night which was narrated by a dog, who befriends a cougar. Sometimes I even watch the aquarium channel. Don’t judge me, it’s very soothing. O.K., the dog movie was a bit silly.  

 

Grant Nickalls, Hunters Bay Radio’s inimitable Muskoka Morning show host and my resident mood lifter, admitted on air the other day that he rather likes winter. I don’t mind it all that much either. As a Western New Yorker, I learned to embrace the harsh winters from an early age. Bundle up, suck it up, and get out there. I used to ski a lot, and I skated outdoors, which is much more fun than indoors. After the first appreciable snow, I settle in like a marathon runner and try to pace myself. The first few weeks leading up to the winter solstice are a bit challenging, but then I usually find my stride. I used to look forward to a couple of weeks in a warmer climate, but Shauna and I have not travelled anywhere warm since we were married. I don’t miss the air travel. Likely, there are some grumpy Canadian snowbirds who expected to spend this winter down south, but that ship has sailed. I don’t suspect the borders will open anytime soon, and given the out of control (and completely preventable) spread of the virus down there, I wouldn’t want to take that gamble even if they did. I say embrace your Canadian roots and ride this one out.

 

The other day I re-posted a cell phone video I took at nearby Arrowhead Park a few years ago. In it, I skated around the long skating trail that winds through the woods. I posted the video to remind myself and others that there is plenty about Canadian winters to love. Now that I will soon be able to walk without a cane again, I fully intend to indulge in some of those activities again.  I really enjoy walks on our frozen lake (when it is safe to do so), but last year I only ventured out once. The ice was a little unpredictable due to all the temperature fluctuations. I hope to be out there hiking a bit on my new and improved hip when the opportunity presents itself.  

 

With the pandemic, and all the bad news about lockdowns and warnings to avoid gatherings for the holidays, I know it’s a challenge to stay positive. Even without the latest troubles, I historically struggle to keep my spirits up when the days grow shorter. That said, I try not to be alone with my thoughts for too long, and there is plenty to distract me. I have my soul mate Shauna (and Sydney) to keep me smiling, and I’m using social media and the phone to connect with friends and family. I try to keep my messages positive. Someone sent me a video the other day, and it offered a little perspective about the adversity we currently face. Basically, it pointed out all the adversity someone born in 1900 faced. Perspective and attitude are off course the keys. Right now, I spend a lot of time writing, preparing food, and working on the two music shows I produce for Hunters Bay Radio. I also find that I feel better when I help someone else. My morning ritual is to take a shot of apple cider vinegar and proclaim to myself “Today, do more good than harm”.  At the starting gate for this year’s winter marathon, I remain hopeful that mankind will miraculously emerge from this troubling time, a little stronger and more empathetic than it was before. In the meantime, the lake is beginning to freeze up, and Shauna just baked me some killer cheese muffins. Life is good.

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 11/30/20

 

Yesterday, I went online and watched that famous scene from the Charlie Chaplin movie “The Dictator” wherein Chaplin, impersonating a Hitler-like character, dances around a room tossing a balloon globe into the air. He seems drunk with power. The United States had not yet entered WWII, and this image of a pompous dictator with the funny mustache “controlling” the world probably seemed far-fetched and laughable to its audience at the time. Within two years after this movie was made, the U.S entered the war, and I doubt people thought Hitler was a joke by then.

 

They say the pen is mightier than the sword, and throughout the centuries, satire and humour have been effective weapons to expose the shortcomings of mankind. I believe political satire is one of the foundations of a free society, and sometimes there is no more effective weapon to expose ignorance and boorishness.  Dating back to mid-19^th Century England, Punch Magazine poked fun at the political status quo, both in cartoons and print. In fact Punch may have featured the first widely disseminated political cartoons. Over the years political satire evolved into something a little less subtle. In my youth I was a long-time subscriber to Mad Magazine, which among other subjects poked fun at politicians. I also had a subscription to National Lampoon, which was a little more off colour and biting.

 

These days, television and the internet are the popular mediums for political satire. SNL pokes its fun at politics both in its opening skits and in its Weekend Update segments. I remember Chevy Chase portraying a bumbling Gerald Ford, Dan Akroyd mocking Jimmy Carter, Dana Carvey making fun of George H. Bush, and most recently, Alec Baldwin offering his disturbingly accurate portrayal of the ludicrous Orange Emperor. I think these skits that lampoon the hypocrisy of politicians are healthy. I enjoyed Bill Maher’s edgy show “Politically Incorrect” before it went a little too far and was pulled from the air.  I was also a big fan of Jon Stewart’s “The Daily Show”, which launched the comedy careers of comedians like Stephen Colbert, John Oliver, and Steve Carell. I suspect learned more about current events from Stewart’s show than I did from clearly biased network and cable news shows. Although I do not watch Stephen Colbert’s late night show regularly, I have been watching his recent opening monologues reprised on the internet. I think they are really good, and his satirical take on American politics is therapeutic to those of us who feel the world is spinning off its axis. His rants purge the rage and helplessness I feel when I see leaders behaving atrociously. Sometimes there really is no other way to attack boorish, unreasonable, irrational behavior than to poke fun at it with acerbic wit.

 

We can argue about what is funny, and what is not, but I fear the point wherein we become so intractable, so adamant about our beliefs, that we can’t laugh at our own shortcomings. The Charlie Chaplin dictator scene to which I refer at the beginning of this report ends with the balloon globe popping in the dictator’s hands after which throws a minor hissy fit. Does that sound familiar?

 

 

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 11/16/20

Since I began to host the LYRICAL WORKERS show about five years ago, I have met or corresponded with many talented artists and songwriters. That interaction has in turn given me some insight into my own journey as a songwriter. I don’t think there are many radio shows which focus on the writers of songs, and the songwriters with whom I’ve been in touch seem to be more than willing to share their stories.  Every week, I learn about one or two new artists from songwriters I already know, and I try to relay their experiences in my show.

A few months ago, I received a Facebook message from an American songwriter named Scott Cook, who presently makes his home in Edmonton. I think he learned about my LYRICAL WORKERS show through our mutual friend Corin Raymond, a wonderful songwriter whom I met through my collaborations with Sean Cotton. Scott recently sent me his latest CD, entitled “A Tangle Of Souls”, which included a book comprised of all the lyrics for his CD, and the stories that inspired the songs. I’m only about halfway through the book, but I can very much relate to Scott’s journey. I know what it’s like to second guess my place in the field, to wonder if I’m good enough, and to question why I’m writing songs in the first place. As well, his candid discussion about his plunge down the rabbit hole of self-medication struck home. So many of us struggle with those same demons. Songwriting is my catharsis; it is my way to make sense of the world around me. I think it is the same for Scott. He became the wandering troubadour I never had the courage to be, and in so doing fell prey to the demons that plague those who spend their lives on the road. Vicariously, I learn from a fellow songwriter’s journey. The book is part political commentary and part tell all revelation about the struggles of an intelligent, flawed, sentient human being.  I see a little bit of me in every songwriter I encounter. We’re all telling our stories.

The other night Shauna and I watched the Netflix show entitled “Springsteen On Broadway”. While I was never a huge fan of Springsteen – I liked him better before he got so famous -- it is hard to deny his talent as a songwriter. Shauna and I saw him perform with the E. Street Band in Toronto years ago, and he is indeed a force of nature. Springsteen will always be “The Boss” because he surrounds himself with great musicians (always a good start), and he eloquently tells great stories, relatable to a wide audience. Watching that filmed Broadway performance, that intimate one on one with the artist, I came away with a newfound respect for the man. I also learned a lot about how some of his most successful songs came to be. Every good songwriter is just a few hit songs away from that kind of success.

For decades I wrote songs in a vacuum and never knew anyone who felt the way I do about songwriting. There are millions of people out there there writing songs, but only a small fraction do it really well. Sadly, the cream does not often rise to the top. I think most people want their story to have some meaning, and my mission is to present some of the under-recognized writers I appreciate.  Watching that Springsteen video, and reading Scott Cook’s book made me feel a little more connected to the craft. While the three of us live in different universes, we are united in our quest to tell our stories well in our songs. I may not be there yet, but my success is in my quest to improve.

Finally, reality is beginning to close in on America’s lamest duck. Hey Don, don’t let the screen door hit you on the way out.  Sadly, even his sore loser departure will at the expense of the American people. I trust the new administration will not be so cavalier and horribly irresponsible in its handling of the current pandemic; still, I fear it will be a long time before America can recover from the Rump hangover. 

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 11/9/20

Last week, I was going to reprise a report I wrote 11/2/92, the day before the U.S. elections, exactly 28 years ago last Monday. Ultimately, I decided not to post the report, because I simply didn’t feel like commenting on the imminent elections. As I began to write this report on Friday, the President Elect of The United States Of America had still not yet been determined. When I wrote the above-mentioned report in ‘92, the candidates were incumbent George H. Bush, running against Bill Clinton. Ross Perot had thrown his hat in the ring as an independent candidate, but quickly got chewed up by the press, melting down before he could pose a formidable threat. I think at the time, Perot appealed to many of the voters who ultimately became Trump supporters. He was the Washington outsider, who spoke “the truth” about American politics. He would take a sledgehammer to the status quo. Dana Carvey was still with SNL, and I remember his hilarious imitations of Perot (and Bush). The big scandals of the day involved allegations that Bush had had an affair with a co-worker and that Clinton admitted he had smoked pot, but that he but didn’t inhale. My, how far things have deteriorated since then!

I turned off the television last Tuesday night around midnight, upset, anxious, incredulous that the race was too close to call. I could not believe that, once again the supreme spewer of verbal diarrhea might be afforded another term to finally flush democracy down the toilet for good. With a record number of votes pouring in on both sides, the Orange Emperor was ahead in key battleground states. I could not bear to hear the bad news. I went to bed with the horrible feeling in my gut that Trump might very well take the presidency, and that we were all doomed to another four years of his ignorant, incompetent, chaotic, and corrosive madness. He made a joke of my country and I don’t think one single man in history has done so much to erode the sense of well-being of so many. We suffered a four-year train wreck, and watched helplessly as that poorly coifed buffoon dismantled what was left of American credibility. To the rest of the world America was the drunk uncle at Thanksgiving dinner, throwing up on Aunt Edna. I believe history (and facts) will prove that, by his incompetence, the Twitter-In-Chief unnecessarily sentenced hundreds of thousands of Americans to unnecessary death by his mishandling of the COVID-19 virus. I hope history judges the man harshly, but what is done cannot be undone.

I read an interesting article the other day entitled The Unraveling Of America (https://www.rollingstone.com/politics/political-commentary/covid-19-end-of-american-era-wade-davis-1038206/?fbclid=IwAR1aazQxG6Ad1uMVs9C3CKDUFGCMSuSq6drSRCPaTAg5MnbnJYma3DN1jRI). It was sent to me by one of my old friends from Alberta, and it clearly and eloquently traces my country’s gradual decline in status on the world stage. After I read it, I felt a little better apprised of how we got to the place we now find ourselves. It is so easy to mock Rump, and to say that anyone who would support such a man is stupid and uninformed. Certainly, I’ve felt that way, but here’s the problem. Some people I respect voted for him as well. America was broken long before Donald Trump was anything more than an amusing poster boy for celebrity misbehavior. That almost half of American voters supported his re-election is cause for concern. You can argue that those voters are “idiots” and wrong-minded, but this begs the question: why are so many so strongly against the status quo? If anything good came of the past four years it is that, it exposed the glaring hypocrisy and dysfunction of American politics. I am mildly encouraged that Americans voted Donald Trump out. To all of us hopeless dreamers it suggests that more of us choose love and acceptance over hatred and divisiveness. I know how I have felt for the past four years: hopeless. Joe Biden is not the magic bullet. If we do not figure out a way to choose love over hate, we are doomed as a species, regardless of the leaders we choose.

 

For the past 4 years, I have felt completely out of control of my destiny, but I feel a glimmer of hope today. In two days we celebrate the 102nd anniversary of Remembrance Day, commemorating the armistice that ended World War One on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. It is a time to reflect on and to show gratitude to those who died to protect our freedom. We do a disservice to all veterans if we do not figure out a way to behave decently to our fellow men and women. I am not a praying man, but it is my never-ending hopeful aspiration that I will always choose kindness over cruelty, love over hate, and acceptance over rejection. I may not always succeed, but these are the things within my control to do.

                - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 10/26/20

I apologize in advance to my 12 loyal readers; I might not be writing this report next week. In the 27 years since I began writing it, I have probably missed 10 or 15 reports, usually for reasons out of my control.  Tomorrow. I will be undergoing hip replacement surgery and anticipate that I might need some time to recuperate.  I suppose it is appropriate that, as I usher in my 66^th year, concurrently, my body is beginning to show signs of wear. In fact, this hip degeneration has been getting worse for well over a year, but I was in denial. Shortly before the pandemic closed things down, I was finally about to throw in the towel and put myself on a list for a hip replacement, but then everything got delayed for 4 months. In that time the joint pain became exponentially worse, especially walking on irregular terrain, and I began to limp noticeably. Friends called attention to the change in my gait, but I was unaware just how obvious it had become. As of this writing, I am having trouble walking without a cane. When I went in for the original meeting with the surgeon, and he saw my X-rays, he was concerned enough to prioritize my surgery. As a primary caregiver, I have denied this problem for too long. As we approach winter, perhaps the timing isn’t great, but the good news is that to be homebound is the new norm these days.

This is an odd time to be going into a hospital for surgery, and I admit that I am a bit nervous. Then again, it couldn’t be nearly as dangerous as attending a Rump rally. I asked one of the nurses charged with my pre-admission assessment if she was concerned about an outbreak in the hospital and she said that, in her opinion, hygiene was much better than usual in the hospital. Protocols already in place are being more strictly enforced. The anesthesiologist with whom I spoke informed me I will not be put under a general anesthetic. Instead they will give me an epidural to numb my mid-section, and some Propofol to relax me. Yes, that’s Propofol, the drug pop star Michael Jackson was irresponsibly using to help him sleep. I asked the anesthesiologist if that meant I will be awake during the surgery, and he said something like: “You may feel some tugging and pulling, but you’ll be floating so you won’t care.” Apparently, recovery times are vastly improved when the patient does not undergo a general anesthetic, and I’m all for that. I just hope I don’t hear any sawing. Shauna wants to save the old hip bone, not exactly sure why. Perhaps she wants to make a paperweight out of it or something. I once saved a picture of my father’s colon after his colon surgery.  It looked a little like the Holland tunnel, if it were decorated by Cristo. Don’t judge me.

Coupled with the obvious existential issues many of us face right now as a species, this latest speed bump finds me reminding myself of my blessings.  I am thankful to have been graced with good health for most of my life, and I am even more thankful to have access to this restorative surgery.  As I age, I am more mindful of my vulnerability and my need to mind my health. There’s a line in my song “Time We Found” which reads: I used to live my life spontaneously, embellishing my clouded memories ...” It was a veiled reference to the fact that I used to self-medicate regularly. I squandered too much of my time, and did a lot of foolishly dangerous things. I am less inclined to do that now. These days, (relatively) clear-headed, and fast approaching my golden years, I don’t take the passage of time for granted. I no longer assume I will live a long life. As the above-referenced song suggests, love is the antidote to those concerns. Thankfully, I have an abundance of love in my life. I’ve been a bit discouraged of late, hobbling around like the old man I stubbornly deny I am becoming. I hope this surgery allows me to ambulate freely again, but regardless of the outcome, I realized we’re all on the same train. I’m not the conductor, but the trick is to enjoy the ride.   

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/19/20

I met a lady the other day in the medical center as I was waiting to use the machine to pay my parking fee. She was having a problem, because the machine would only accept credit cards or cash. She only had a debit card, and the adjacent ATM machine was out of order. I suppose I could have just let her find another source of cash, which likely would have meant taking a long walk in the rain, but I paid her parking fee. It was my random act of kindness for the day. It made me feel just a little better about myself, and I helped someone in a bind. For all the people who have helped me over the year, I paid it forward.

 

If the growing list of mental health hotline ads posted online is any indication, there are a lot of people out there who are struggling emotionally right now. I know I’m one of the luckiest people in the world, and I’m having a hard time dealing with all of this. Several of my musician friends have really melted down over the past few months, and I cannot imagine how frightening the future looks to them. In many cases they were barely making ends meet before the pandemic, thanks in part to the downward spiral of the music business. Now, they can’t even gig on a regular basis.  As Toronto and other major cities face another spike in COVID 19 cases, there will inevitably be another series of mandatory shutdowns, which will likely be the death blow for a lot of restaurants, gyms, and small businesses. So many people are on their last nerve. Exacerbating all this uncertainty is the unsettling suspicion that bad behavior and lack of leadership are on the rise. Twitter, Facebook and other social media platforms fuel the flames and it takes nothing to ignite an ill-considered comment into a full-blown street fight. To quote an expression I think I first heard on Firesign Theater in the 70s, it might be time to stick my head between my legs and kiss my ass goodbye. Then again, I haven’t given up yet.

 

Yvonne Heath, one of our local volunteers at Hunters Bay Radio, a lecturer, a writer, and a former chemotherapy nurse, hosted a show on Hunters Bay Radio called “Just Show Up”. On it she interviewed people facing adversity with courage and dignity. She also wrote a very interesting book demystifying death and dying,  offering helpful advice about how to undo the stigma involved with discussing it. Just show Up is her catch phrase for helping someone out just by being there. Everywhere in this community I see courageous people coping the best they can with terrible news. Whether it’s the widow running the family marina business after her husband died following an unexpected diagnosis of ALS, or the friend recently diagnosed with an advanced case of a rare and difficult to treat prostate cancer, or  another friend who lost his house and all his possessions in a fire. The stories are all around us, and most of those people are coping the best they can, and sometimes what they need most is simply someone to listen and empathize. Most everyone in the world is struggling right now.

 

In less than a month America will elect a new president. Within the next year, there will likely be a vaccine to treat COVID 19. I think most people expect the world will go back to “normal” after these two problems are addressed. I’m not so sure. The problem is far deeper than Rump or COVID 19. It doesn’t take much to make a difference; sometimes it’s a simple as paying a stranger’s parking fee when they can’t. It made me feel good, for a moment anyway. I want to believe that person will now have just a little bit more faith in mankind because of my gesture. Maybe not, but I need a little hope injected into my life, some small reminder that kindness is not dead. I can’t fix this mess we’re in, all I can do is work to improve me. To quote Blanche Dubois: “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”    

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/12/20

When I moved to Canada in 1994, to celebrate the Canadian Thanksgiving was a little weird for me. The American Thanksgiving used to be our big holiday in Buffalo, and from the time I was a little boy, that was always the occasion when my family would gather. For the last 20 years of my parents’ lives, there were always at least 20 to 30 guests at our house for Thanksgiving dinner. Those guests included friends, relatives, and sometimes complete strangers. Our Thanksgiving celebrations were an excellent litmus test for the strength of a budding relationship. There is no better way to vet a potential spouse than to throw him or her into the middle of a bizarre family holiday gathering. If they survive, they may be keepers. I’m not saying MY immediate family was dysfunctional, but some of our relatives certainly fit the bill. Add alcohol to the equation and those Thanksgiving celebrations could be terribly entertaining. Thankfully, I did most of my foolhardy drinking in bars, after the family gatherings and far from the harsh judgment of a camera lens. Still, I sometimes wish I had taped some of the conversations I’d had with our guests. One uncle, proudly boasting of his son’s athletic achievements in high school, turned to me and asked rhetorically, “but you were never any good at sports, were you?” Every Thanksgiving, another uncle asked me how things were going in college, even though I’d been working in the family business for over 5 years. There was inappropriate kissing of the elderly, dogs throwing up after being fed hors d’oeuvres, red wine spilled on the carpet, and food fights at the kiddie table. I often sat at the kiddie table. Once, one of our younger (and claustrophobic) guests accidentally locked himself into the guest bathroom, and began to panic. Kicking the door violently, and screaming: “Open the goddam door!”, he was apparently unaware of the note on the door warning about the lock.  We had to remove to door to get him out. Such language from a child.

My favourite part of the feast were the after-dinner toasts. Every year at Thanksgiving, someone would be called upon to give a toast acknowledging our thanks and gratitude for our good fortune. My father was decidedly the most eloquent of the toastmasters, but no matter who got up to say something, the speeches were meaningful, emotional, and always well received. At the time, I took it all for granted and assumed I was being appropriately thankful. You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.

A habitual negative thinker, I am currently reading a book about changing that behavior. Especially considering everything currently going on in the world, the timing might be right for a little emotional tune-up. Two things are mentioned repeatedly as basic tools to combat negativity. One is acceptance and love of oneself. I am reminded of the Stuart Smalley skit (played by now disgraced Al Franken) on Saturday Night Live, wherein Stuart looks at his reflection in the mirror and affirms his self-love. I used to scoff at this kind of Pollyanna approach to life, but to older I get, the less inclined I am to make fun of it. The other main theme of the book is healing properties of gratitude and forgiveness. The fact is, I have plenty for which to be thankful, and the exercise of vocalizing it has been therapeutic for me.  In a song called “Scrapbook”, which I wrote when we began to build this house, and which last week went to #1 on the Hunters Bay Radio Top 20 chart (remember, self- affirmation is good), I speak of storing the good memories to shore myself up against the bad times. I’ve got a long way to go, but I am becoming genuinely more thankful for the good fortune I have experienced. First and foremost, that includes the love of my wife, my family, and friends, and the importance of music and writing in my life. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!    - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/5/20

This coming Thursday I will celebrate 65 trips around the sun, and wow is that ever a kick in the pants. Seems like just last week I was the idiot wearing the Lady Godiva wig and drunk dancing to Haircut 100 music at one of my wild Halloween parties. Decidedly no wiser, I am starting to feel older. So much has happened in the past thirty years, and it seems as if the more complicated my life became, the more out of touch I have become with the passage of time. To all you 20-somethings out there, be forewarned: time has a way of pulling the rug out from under you. Lately, when I look in the mirror, I see Festus from Gunsmoke looking back at me. Where did I go? I lost track somewhere in my 30s.  I wrote a song shortly before my 51^st birthday, out in Banff in the now famous room #421. It was a forbidding, cold, grey, wet mountain morning, and the wind was howling through the larch trees. I felt some kind of ominous vibe in the air (perhaps I was 15 years too early), and I wrote “The Wind Begins To Blow.” There’s a verse in the song which reads “Lately I’ve been thinking that 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.” Much has changed in the past 15 years; I try not to “sweat the little stuff” as much as I used to. I also try to avoid that to which I allude in the song; I try not to be disappointed by what I have not accomplished. As I write in an as-yet unfinished lyric: “Sometimes you’ve got to change your dreams before your dreams change you.”

Over the years, Shauna has arranged two surprise birthday parties for me. When I turned 50, she threw a surprise party for me at the Oban Inn at Niagara-On-The-Lake, where we first met. That was the last birthday I celebrated with my mom and dad attending, and there a lot of close friends and family at that party. It remains one of my happiest memories.  She arranged the second surprise party for me when I turned 60. I was at the radio station, broadcasting my Lyrical Workers show, and she secretly arranged for some friends to hijack me in the parking lot as I was leaving the station. The problem was, I wasn’t aware that anybody was waiting for me, I lingered at the station longer than I normally do, and people were shivering outside on a cold October night waiting for over an hour. I felt terrible. Both of those birthday parties were wonderful in their own way, but thankfully, I suspect there will be no surprises this year. Once again, I will celebrate this milestone birthday by presenting my Lyrical Workers show. It is something I love to do. This week, I’ve asked my listeners to suggest any unusual birthday songs they’d like to request.

I don’t really have many big regrets so far. Sure, I’ve squandered some of my time in life’s casino, but who hasn’t? I was going through an old photo album the other day, and I saw some photos I have not seen in a long time. One of the positive results of this self-imposed seclusion is that it has given me ample time to reflect. Last week, we Jews just celebrated Yom Kippur, our highest holy day of the year. It is a day we fast and atone for our sins. I am not a religious man, but I take stock annually of how I have fallen short, and that is a meaningful exercise to me. Everything has been going too fast in the past decade. In some strange way I am relieved that the world has slowed down. Now, I am not quite as attention-challenged, and a photograph of a bunch of my merry pranksters, launching a water balloons at the Comet roller coaster in Crystal Beach, makes me smile.  The guy staring back at me in the mirror might look like a grumpy old curmudgeon, but the guy inside those eyes is still waking up the neighbours with loud rock ‘n roll. As my late brother-in-law used to say: don’t postpone joy.

                        - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/28/20

 

I watched a video the other day, taken shortly before everything changed, when none of us had any idea what was to come. This pandemic has been a wake-up call for us all, perhaps more for some than others. In our current state of emergency, I am astounded by all the zealotry surrounding the issues, on both sides. Everybody has an opinion about how to proceed, but I take my cues from health care experts. Hunters Bay Radio volunteer Chris Occhiuzzi wrote an interesting article the other day, trying to put this pandemic into perspective. In it, he suggested that the zealots, on both sides, should tone down the rhetoric. I agree. For my part, I’m trying to follow common sense directives in order to protect myself and to keep the virus from spreading to the weakest and most vulnerable in our population.

My wife Shauna reposted an article the other day on Facebook about the nature of viruses, and the gist of the article is that, 6 months later, we still don’t know all that much about COVID-19. The article is worth reading. You can take from it what you will. If what you conclude is that “Science doesn’t know” well, time will tell who has made the right decisions. I’m just as concerned and skeptical as the rest of you. What concerns me are the potential long-term effects of this virus. I do know something about chronic illness, as I am a caregiver myself, and I’d like to comment about that role.

Illness is, by its very nature, isolating and discouraging. Anyone who is living with it will likely agree. Shauna suffers from a chronic pain condition. In her twenties, she almost died after being hospitalized for two months due to a severe case of food poisoning. She had contracted Campylobacter poisoning after eating bad chicken from a fast-food restaurant chain. That dangerous bacteria, together with the powerful antibiotics needed to kill it, virtually ripped apart her digestive tract. As a result, she now has Crohn’s Disease and a myriad of related complications. I suspect that it is her compromised gut that has led to so many of her other immunity problems over the years.  Regardless of the cause, she has been very sick for a long time. In the early days of our marriage, we were more active, but we were often forced last minute to cancel our plans, for travel and social engagements. Friends and family were often disappointed with us because we were always late or unreliable. To our frustration, many of her symptoms were unable to be successfully treated by doctors. The immune system is probably the least understood function of the human body. I’ve read 5 or 6 books on the subject, and I am even more confused now than before  reading them. To those who have told us that “it’s all in your head – there’s nothing really wrong with Shauna”, I say walk a mile in our shoes and then offer your opinions. Ultimately, our decision to leave downtown Toronto,  move up north, and to build our primary residence on the site of the Taylor summer cottage was based on the need to live in a cleaner, quieter environment. We have attempted to move away from the judgment, and the obligations we could not fulfill. Everyone has an opinion about what makes us sick and what cures us. Believe me, one becomes a little less all-knowing and judgmental when chronic illness invades your life or that of someone you love.

This novel coronavirus is still relatively new, with increasingly complicated side effects, for example the long-haul syndrome. When venerated medical professionals are imploring us to be vigilant, I am inclined to believe them. That is my choice. To complicate matters further, a few years ago, Shauna was rushed to Toronto and hospitalized again after suffering a severe neurological attack, and was ultimately treated with steroids for a year. As a result of the two major attacks to her health, my wife is immunocompromised, and I live in constant fear of bringing a potentially deadly virus into our home. We have lived with chronic illness for the past 28 years. It has changed the life of the person I love the most, and it has changed our life a couple. Some of our contemporaries have begun to contend with serious illness in their own lives. As their social lives suffer, they are beginning to relate to what we have already been through and better understand what isolation feels like. Unless you’ve experienced chronic illness firsthand you might not understand the pain you could cause yourself or spread to someone else. May you never learn. I suggest you consider the possibility that ignorance is not bliss. Believe me, you want to avoid chronic illness at all costs. It is at times baffling to me that the generation before mine, often referred to as the “Greatest Generation”, made huge sacrifices  6 year during r world war, and yet in a period of only 6 months, many people these days cannot agree to make some fairly basic sacrifices in order to fight a common and deadly enemy. It seems like common sense to me. Choose to practice physical distancing, wash your hands on a regular basis, avoid large gatherings, and wear a mask when in public. Then again, these days, common sense seems to be on injured reserve. It is no wonder that those elders that are still with us are concerned and afraid.   

                        - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/21/20

 

After almost four years of nonstop verbal diarrhea from the Orange Emperor, the spewer of poo, the prince of prevarication, I did not think that anything he could say would get a rise out of me. I stand corrected. He finally said the dumbest thing I have ever heard any human being say (so far), let alone the President of the United States. When grilled about the wildfires raging in the Western United States, and in response to a question wherein the science of climate change was referenced, his response was that “Science doesn’t know.” Those were his exact words. Disregard for a moment the fact that this jackass has the communication skills of a kindergarten student, and that what he likely meant to say was “science is incorrect”, or “scientists don’t know”, I don’t think I have ever heard even Rump say something so ignorant. Yes, the science of climate change may be inexact, but Rump’s ignorance is dangerous. I don’t want a leader who thinks that gravity is magic. Now that the Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg has passed on, and may she rest in peace, I fear the repercussions of a Supreme Court Justice picked by this rocket anti-scientist. Will Roe vs. Wade be reversed? Will we reinstate public stonings, perhaps bloodletting? The political climate is changing.

Indeed, climate change is a polarizing subject. Ever since former VP Al Gore came out with the documentary “An Inconvenient Truth” that subject has been a little more in the public eye. My nephew, a meteorologist for NOAA down in Virginia does not like that movie. He believes that climate change has become far too politicized, and he questions the accuracy of the scientific predictions made to support Gore’s message. He doesn’t deny that climate change is taking place; clearly it is. His contention is that climate change is cyclical and not likely to be changed appreciably by man. We have only been keeping climate records for a relatively short time, and these cycles take place over long spans of time. Certainly, our massive generation of greenhouse gases exacerbates the problem, and absolutely, we should move away from fossil fuels.  Still, for our survival, perhaps there are more effective and economical ways to adapt to the coming changes.  A few years ago, my nephew sent me a very interesting book entitled “Cool It”, written by a Danish statistician names Bjorn Lomborg. In the book Lomborg suggests that, among other things, adjusting to the inevitable changes might be a more productive use of our energies. Lomborg believes that it is economically unfeasible and simply unrealistic to think that newly industrialized countries will jump on board to make a significant changes in the global warming trend, at least in time to make any difference. Population control and better land management might be more productive solutions. Rump would probably love this guy, but he likely hasn’t even read the Constitution, so I doubt he will read “Cool It”. He probably doesn’t even know where Denmark is.

As I mentioned in a previous report, with the help of Hidden Habitat Ecological Landscapes, we put in a proper raised garden bed and planted a wide variety of vegetables this season. Thanks again to Laura and Tyler Thomas for making that happen. Tending to a garden has been good therapy during these strange times, and those fresh vegetables and tomatoes taste great. Even if it is only a token gesture, the idea of growing something locally has been a learning experience for us. Regrettably, we did not plant until early June, but we’ve had a pretty good crop for our first year. After the recent cold snap, that season may soon be over. I’ve been tarping every night to save what I can from the nightly dips into the frost zone. Contending with the weather has been a challenge, and an important reminder of the effects of climate change on farmers. Up here it’s a short growing season, and when we have had rain these days, it’s coming in torrents. That is not helpful. My rain gauge is my little folding boat at the dock, and at least five times in the past three weeks it has rained so hard that the boat was in danger of sinking.  

I think someone should get T-shirts printed up with Rump’s bloated face on it that read “Science Doesn’t Know”, or better yet, print it all on red baseball caps.  

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

The Oppenheimer Report 9/14/20

 

It’s time for another fuzzy memory.  I told this story many years ago in another report, but it bears repeating. A few reports ago, I posted a photograph of a group of my friends, riding in my old Chris Craft Sea Skiff, and one was wearing an orange pig mask. At one point, I and some of my friends each had our own latex pig mask. They were our official party masks. Because they only covered the top half of the face, they did not interfere with one’s ability to drink beer. That was of the utmost importance in those days. Those masks unleashed our partying superpowers, and perhaps they even transformed our personalities. Anyone who has ever worn a Halloween costume knows the power of a mask.

For sheer debauchery and untoward behavior, one vacation stands out. Back in the 1980s a group of us rented a large rooftop condominium on Grand Bahama Island for a week’s vacation of nonstop partying. The eight or nine of us in this group frequently celebrated together in Buffalo, so moving the party to the Bahamas was a slam dunk. On our first day, we rented a dilapidated, 1970s mint green Cadillac the size of Nebraska, with bad suspension, balding tires, and a badly peeling dark green vinyl top. We drove that beast all over the island, stirring up mayhem and chaos. There was gambling, drinking, and of course, there was an abundance pig mask-wearing behavior. That Caddy was on its last legs when we rented it, and we were the nail in the coffin. After the first night on the town we somehow lost what was left of its decaying exhaust system. There is nothing like to sound of an unmuffled, big block V8 engine to wake the dead. Everybody knew when the pig people from Buffalo were coming, that’s for sure.

One day, we took our loud, smoking, lime green chariot on a road trip to the other side of the island. We’d heard about the fancy Jack Tarr Village resort, far removed from the froth and fray of the other side of the island, and from scofflaws like us. We wanted to see for ourselves how the other half lived, and we had every intention to behave ourselves. We planned to have one over-priced drink, maybe hang out on the beach for an hour or so, and then head home. The day did not turn out as planned.

We got off to a bad start, because our Caddy had a pre-ignition problem. When we arrived at this fancy resort, parked and shut off the car, it shuddered for a good 5 seconds, after which it let out an ear-splitting bang and emitted a huge cloud of blue smoke. That was a sign of things to come. Unfamiliar with the all-inclusive resort experience, we discovered that Jack Tarr Villagers prided themselves on their privacy. If you were not an official Jack-Tarr-Village-card-carrying guest, you were persona non grata. I can’t imagine why a quiet, exclusive, family-friendly resort, would not welcome a group of loud, young adults, four who were wearing pig masks, but regardless, we were summarily rejected. Some of us, not the designated driver, were a little intoxicated, so that rejection, by those pseudo-exclusive resort imposters, just fanned the flames. Indignant, we “pigged” the pool area, then moved on to the bar and lobby. With each rejection we became more obnoxious, until we spent the remainder of our ill-fated stay eluding security guards and photo bombing befuddled residents while they stood for carefully posed family photos. Somewhere I have a photograph of my friend Michael popping out of the bushes wearing his pig mask just as a carefully posed family portrait was being snapped. What did Groucho Marx said about country clubs? I felt like he must have been talking about us. Anyhow, we now had not only had security guards chasing us, but also angry hotel guests as well. We all scrambled back to our rusty land yacht as the gathering crowd of disgruntled people chased us. After what seemed to be an eternity, our designated driver managed to get the engine to turn over, and we beat a hasty retreat with tires squealing. In our wake, shrouded in a thick cloud of blue smoke, were the angry residents and security guards waving their arms and shaking their fists. They reminded me of the angry villagers gathering to lynch Frankenstein’s monster. I do believe that was my last visit to a Jack Tarr Village resort.

As I said, those masks were to blame, I would never have behaved that way if I wasn’t wearing a pig mask. As a final note, when our vacation was over, as instructed, we left the very tired Caddy in the airport parking lot. That very well might have been it’s last rental. By now, on top of the myriad of other mechanical failures, its rear differential was bone dry. It was smoking from the friction of an unlubricated rear axle. As we took off in our puddle jumper to Florida, we could see our legendary beast, our weary dragon in combat, possible about to catch fire in the airport parking lot, shrouded in a gathering plume of smoke. Those Caddys take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’.

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/7/20

 

I’ve always had a thing for campy, bad television and movies. Sometimes it drives Shauna crazy. I’m not proud of it, but I have learned to accept myself. I ask you, how can you go wrong watching any Ed Wood movie, or “Attack Of The Killer Tomatoes”? They’re going to make you laugh, and that’s a good thing. Back when I was a kid, I gravitated to the bad sitcoms. I vaguely remember watching the obscure sitcom “My Mother The Car”, which was the Edsel of sitcoms. I also watched “McHales Navy”, “Gilligan’s Island”, “Hogan’s Heroes” (of course), “Gomer Pyle, USMC”,  “My Three Sons”, “Mr. Ed”, “Batman”, “The Addams Family”, “The Munsters” and probably most of the old sitcoms you might now find on Nickalodeon or internet sites like Amazon Prime Video and Netflix. The other day, I was flipping through the thousands of videos available on Amazon Prime and watched the very first episode of “The Real McCoys”. What a time capsule revelation that was! Even as a child, I knew those shows were not intellectually stimulating, but I was entertained. Then came reality television.  

When it first emerged, reality television caught my interest because it was so strange and different. Here was an entirely new genre of terrible television which, by its very nature, highlighted the worst mankind had to offer. There didn’t seem to be anything real about it. “Survivor” and “Big Brother” were the two shows that I followed, but from time to time I’d watch anything and everything that aired. The bar just kept getting lower, (along with my IQ) and the shows kept getting worse. Reality television represented the canary in the coal mine of entertainment, but like the train wreck, I simply couldn’t look away. I remember one show which followed some guy who was roughing it “alone” in some frozen northern wasteland. At some point his snowmobile conked out, at night, when he had to walk perhaps ten miles back to his home. It was so strange watching that guy schlepping home, knowing that an entire camera crew was following him in heated trucks. After a while – and it took an embarrassingly long time - reality television lost its allure, and I gradually weaned myself from it. Well, for the most part. I still follow “Big Brother”. I find the show fascinating; it is like a televised Skinner Box.

I’m not proud of myself. This whole pandemic thing has caused me to make some even more terrible television choices. Sometimes it’s not a choice at all. Most of the time I’m too distracted and anxious to sit through a feature length movie, so oftentimes, we just have the television on in the background while we’re doing other things. I’m trying to limit myself to an hour or less of “news” per day, because that has become reality television on steroids.

Last week, I might have inadvertently watched an entire episode of the worst reality television program I have so far encountered: “Love Island.”  I was preoccupied writing something on my computer and the television was on.  I wasn’t paying attention, but then the sheer stupidity of the program reeled me in. That show might be too awful, even for me. Keep in mind, I have watched more than one episode of “Jersey Shore”, so clearly my bar is pretty low. The old addiction came back, and I’ve put a call in for RTWA (Reality TV Watchers Anonymous). I could not turn away. “Love Island” is another one of those musical chairs shows wherein young adults couple up and one by one are eliminated from “the game”.  In this case, a bunch of singles pair up in a Las Vegas villa, and the drama unfolds from there. People are required to choose a mate on day one, and then, as time goes by, they swap partners and trash talk each other. Oh the drama! Eventually, someone is deemed the odd man out and is summarily thrown off a high-rise balcony. Ok, I’m kidding about that part, but people get voted off.

 

I have no idea how dating works, Shauna found me eating scraps out of a dumpster behind Burger King and took me home, but intellectually, I might be just a notch above these lovers in the romance department. The thing that most astounded me while watching those young adults discuss their matters of the heart was their anemic communication skills. I needed subtitles to follow the dialogue. What has happened to the English language while I wasn’t paying attention?! I know I rant about this a lot, and I also know I wasn’t the king of communication when I was in my twenties, but the English language has really taken a tumble in the last decade or so.  When I watch television now or read copy in an advertisement, I feel like I am on another planet. Example: “Hey Bro did like you like, like her, or what? She was chill, right? Hyuh! Wha? Hyuh! Like, whoh, right? I know. Whuh? Yuh!” I believe that was, verbatum what I heard on “Love Island” the other night.

I’m sure most of you have judged me harshly at this point, and what can I say in my defense? I yamwhatIyam. In about one month, I’ll celebrate my 65^th birthday, and I seem to have stalled in the maturity department. Nevertheless, I am slowly learning to accept and embrace my inner 12-year-old. Yuknow, that being said, like whuh, you know bro, like, it is what it is.

 Mr. Ed is beginning to sound like Shakespeare these days.  Whuhh!

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/31/20

When I was young “funnelators” were popular.  They are basically slingshots on steroids. We used them to launch water balloons, and they were typically made out of surgical tubing attached to a medium sized funnel or pouch for launching the water balloon. In my high school days, many a water balloon war was waged with these giant slingshots, and I’ve been on the receiving end of one of their watery projectiles. They decidedly take water balloon fights to a new level.

Jump ahead fifteen years, and I am now a young adult (I use the term “adult” loosely). One of my friends who was an avid sailor told me of a commercially available version of the legendary funnelator. Marketed as a “Winger” it was much more sophisticated than the primitive makeshift weapon I had once used. Sailors liked them because, when there was no wind during a race, water balloon wars were a popular distraction. Wingers made the delivery a lot more accurate. Of course, I immediately ordered one, and over the years I had a lot of fun with it. Together with my crew (it takes 3 to operate a Winger) we did some crazy things with it. One hot summer day, armed with my Winger and a bucket of water balloons, half-filled for maximum distance and velocity, my scofflaw friends and I motored over to Crystal Beach Amusement Park in my 1957 Chris Craft Sea Skiff, “The Ahoy Vey”, and terrorized unsuspecting amusement park attendees. It was an assault by lake. We moored about 200 yards offshore and started catapulting water balloons at the Comet roller coaster which, if you remember Crystal Beach, was located right along the shoreline. After some test shots, we became quite proficient at shooting water balloons directly over the peak of the coaster. Imagine their surprise when coaster riders reached the top of that first drop and saw a water balloon fly by just above their heads at 70+MPH. I suppose some people in the park, waiting in line to ride the Comet, were hit by these balloons. I’m sure they had no idea wherefrom those water missiles came.

There were countless incidents of lawless behavior; cocktail parties invaded, unsuspecting beach walkers attacked, bonfires destroyed. One night we performed a stealth night attack on two bonfires which were situated about 100 yards apart. We sat out in the boat in the darkness, and launched balloons at one bonfire, then on the other. As we were invisible to our victims in the darkness, the people at each bonfire thought the other participants were the attackers. We watched in delight as the two parties began to argue. No one suspected that water balloons were coming from 150 yards offshore. One night, fueled by a combination of reckless abandon and boredom, we got the bright idea to shoot balloons straight up into the air. Again, we did this on my Chris Craft utility, out on the lake, in the dark.  The surprise of not knowing where one of those balloons would land was remarkably exhilarating. Once launched, the balloon took what seemed like an eternity to come down, and it was always exciting to see how close to the boat the rogue balloons would land. It might not have been the stupidest thing I ever did on a boat, but it was close.

Speaking of fun, I have one final note in the nostalgia department. Cynthia Doolittle, one of the iconic mothers from my old neighborhood in Buffalo, passed on last week, and I miss her already. The woman was the personification of fun. I was reminiscing with her eldest son about his mom, and one of my favourite Cynthia stories involved that elder son and another friend roughhousing with the younger Doolittle brother down in the basement. The younger brother came upstairs and complained to Cynthia that he was being abused, to which she replied: “You’ve got to be tough to play with the big boys.” The Dootlittles were hands down the most entertaining family on our block. Cynthia would have approved of the Winger. - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED