The Oppenheimer Report 11/4/09

Hope you all had a happy Halloween. I was in Buffalo last weekend to see my mom, and once again, I did not dress up. I wonder how many people went with the ubiquitous “balloon boy” theme. I like topical costumes. Once, many years ago, there was a news story about some whales that got stuck in a block of ice, and I remember some girl coming to our Halloween party dressed as the whale. She used a giant piece of Styrofoam for the ice and made a whale with its head sticking out of it. It was hilarious, and very creative. One of my more elaborate costumes was a tuna fish. I spent a long time on that costume – I hand-sewed the whole thing - and it WAS amusing. Unfortunately, it looked nothing like a tuna fish; everybody thought I was a sea monster or a shark. The problem with Halloween is that we always have candy left over, and I feel obliged to eat it. To make matters worse, this year we gave out Reeses Peanut Butter cups, and those are my favorites.

While I was down in Buffalo last weekend, I stopped at one of my favorite fast food restaurants, Mighty Taco. Mighty Taco is a Buffalo phenomenon, and they’ve grown considerably since I started eating there. Mighty Taco is far from the best Mexican food available in Buffalo, but as fast food goes, it’s pretty good. They may have locations all over the Northeast for all I know. When I first started to eat at Mighty Taco, back in the early eighties, they had only one or two locations. Their first location, a little hole in the wall on Hertel Ave., was walking distance from one of my favorite bars. Many a late night was capped off with a garden burrito and a Super Mighty Taco (my particular favorite). Mighty Taco also had the rudest ads on radio, which, of course, appealed to me. One ad in particular involved someone farting loudly on a bus. You hear all the other passengers groan, but then someone comments that the gas smells pretty good, and he asks the gas producer where he ate. Why, Mighty Taco, of course! I think the owner of the company had a recording studio in his basement and he created his own very off color ads. Whatever he did seemed to work, because Buffalonians have been consistently loyal to Mighty Taco. Years ago, when Taco Bell, the great Satan of TexMex food, invaded Western N.Y with multiple locations, Buffalonians voted with their wallets, and within a few years Taco Bell closed most or all of their locations. Brief aside … the best burrito I have tasted to date is available at a little restaurant on College St. west of Bathurst in Toronto.

In the news last week, Hillary Clinton was in harm’s way when terrorist bombs went off in Kabul. As the U.S. contemplates sending another 40,000 troops to Afghanistan, there seems to be quite a lot of debate about what is the proper course of action for that war torn country. I like the strategy of winning the “hearts and minds” of the people, but I think maybe that will require a little more understanding of their culture than we have the patience to develop. I’m afraid it’s a pipe dream to hope that some of the billions in American aid will be used for anything other than fighting the dreaded Taliban. I wonder if anybody has actually done a cost benefit analysis. Which is more effective: $5 Billion for guns, tanks, and ammo, or $5 Billion for improved health care and the rebuilding of infrastructure? We lost seventeen or eighteen men last week along with two helicopters. And what about reports that Afghan President Karzai’s brother is on the CIA payroll? Yikes, are we now in the opium business? If that guy really is “on our side”, he’s a dead man now that his cover is blown. Remember when Geraldo was drawing maps in the sand during the Iraq war, revealing sensitive information about U.S. troop positions? War is hell, especially with guys like Geraldo in your side. Michael Jackson’s movie was released last week, and I had to laugh when I read an explanation for why the movie was rated PG-14 … apparently “crotch-grabbing” is considered something which requires parental supervision. Who knew? I do want to see the movie, because, like many other people, I want to see footage of that last rehearsal. Train wrecks R Us.

Finally, and with reference to last week’s report about the old T.V. programs, how could I have forgotten, “I Love Lucy”, Mr. Ed, and one of my favorites, “Green Acres”? I loved that double-dealing Mr. Haney character, remember him … and the scatter-brained Mr. Kimball …and Fred Ziffel’s pig “Arnold? I wonder what ever happened to Arnold. I hope he didn’t end up in a taco. Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/26/09

I heard on the news the other day that comedian Milton Supmon, AKA Soupy Sales, had died, and that made me a little nostalgic. I am just old enough to remember watching his show when I was a little boy. Back in the dark ages of black and white television, Soupy made me laugh , the good old fashioned way, with cream pies in the face and puppets. I watched a lot of kid shows back then … Kukla, Fran, and Ollie … Sherrie Lewis, with that annoying sock puppet Lamb Chop … Howdy Doody … Uncle Milty. I watched a lot of T.V. in general, but the T.V. shows I remember most fondly are the local shows from Buffalo.

There was a local Buffalo children’s show called “Rocket Ship 7” and it was hosted by Channel 7 weatherman Dave Thomas, along with his sidekicks Promo the Robot and Mr. Beeper. Mr. Beeper went on to gain notoriety as a popular tool of drug lords. I watched Rocket Ship 7 every morning when I was a kid. I guess my imagination was better in those days. One day, my dad took me to the Channel 7 studio in Buffalo, because he had to do some community welfare thing on T.V., and he brought me along because he thought I might find the experience interesting. When we got there, the first thing I saw was the set where Rocket Ship 7 was taped. My bubble burst the moment I saw that set because, even as a little kid, I realized how cheesy it was. Promo the Robot was in fact just a refrigerator box spray painted silver with some coat buttons glued on. I think his mouth was made out of a cheese grater or something. It was awful; I have never trusted the reality of television since. Other local shows I remember include “The Commander Tom Show”, featuring yet another local weatherman, Tom Jolls. He was no Bob Keeshan (AKA Captain Kangaroo), but he was alright. I remember watching a show called “Dialing for Dollars”, which was basically a show which aired a movie, and after each commercial break, the host, Nolan Johannes, would call up some lucky person and ask them a question about the featured movie. If they were watching and knew the answer, they won the “jackpot”, which rose every time someone didn’t know the answer. The best (and most ridiculous) part about that show was the musical accompaniment by the Johnny and Jimmy Duo. One guy played the accordion and I think the other guy played the organ. It was horrible, polka-like music, and probably very popular in Buffalo. “Strikes, Spares, and Misses” was another one of my local favorites. That was a bowling show, hosted by Buffalo sportscaster Chuck Healy, and it featured only women bowlers (hence the Misses). The winner earned prizes like a refrigerator full of unnatural luncheon meats, courtesy of the local supermarket.

Other black and white T.V. shows I remember watching, which were not local include, in no particular chronological order: “Make room for Daddy” with Danny Kaye, “Father Knows Best”, “Hazel”, “Leave it to Beaver”, “Gomer Pyle USMC” “My Mother the Car”, “My Favorite Martian”, “Rawhide”, “The Rifleman”, “Gunsmoke”, “The Big Valley”, “I Dream of Genie”, “Car 54 Where Are You”, “The Patty Duke Show”, "The Twilight Zone", “Dragnet”, “The Red Skelton Show”, “The Jackie Gleason Show”, “The Jack Benny Show”, “The Ed Sullivan Show”, “The Addams Family”, and “The Munsters”, I’m sure there were more, but those are the ones I can summon up on a moment’s notice. Last night, I watched an episode of “Law & Order” with my mom, and it was about a rock star accused of murder. In one episode, the following subjects came up: drug abuse, child molestation, homosexuality, infidelity, and statutory rape. Soupy Sales would not have been amused. Television has changed.

Written By Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10-19-09

Indignation is the sentiment du jour… Last Thursday afternoon, as I took a break from the chinking, I turned on the T.V. in the kitchen and was presented with the latest as-it-happened catastrophe featured on CNN. It was the now infamous “balloon boy” story. Six year-old Falcon Heene was believed to have crawled into the experimental helium-filled Mylar weather balloon that his father had made, and set it afloat. Fears were that he was in the balloon when it took off. The media circus that ensued was unbelievable. There was constant video coverage of this balloon, which looked like a big tin foil mushroom, filmed as it blew through the sky at 7000 feet. This was the exclusive story on CNN for almost the entire day, even after it was discovered that the little boy was NOT in the balloon. Then, the focus became the search for his spattered remains on the ground, before it was learned that he had been hiding in his parent’s attic through the entire fiasco. Even before they discovered that the kid was safe, I thought this was an awful lot of national attention on what amounted to a local story. I mean, look at what’s going on in Pakistan and Afghanistan right now, or the eight hundred other worthy stories worldwide! The Colorado National Guard was called out, and police in several Colorado counties were chasing this unmanned balloon for miles from the ground. Would the little boy freeze to death at the high altitude? How strong IS Mylar? Balloon experts were assembled and interviewed. It was insane. I can’t imagine how much money was spent on this story but it was probably in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. As of Sunday, they’re still talking about it, and little Falcon and his family were by then making the media rounds. His father seems like a bit of a flake, especially after I saw some clips of his “performance” on the reality show “Wife Swap”. I have no idea whether this nonsense was just an unfortunate accident or a media stunt (the father is presently being charged with causing this hoax)), but it certainly seemed like a waste of airspace. CNN, the very network that gave this story “wings” now calls it “hot air journalism”. Hmm.

There’s a new movie coming out later this month called “Vampire’s Assistant” and I’ve come to the conclusion that vampires are the new dinosaurs. Remember when Spielberg made the first “Jurassic Park” movie and suddenly, every kid wanted to have a dinosaur? There were dinosaur shakes at McDonald’s, and dinosaur lunch boxes, dinosaur pencil cases, dinosaur-shaped pasta in soup – dinosaurs were everywhere. Even Barney got a pay raise, and he’s not even really a dinosaur … more of a fat, purple hippo. I got really sick of all the dinosaur crap. Now it’s vampires. Suddenly it’s hip to be a vampire. I remember when I was young and there was only one true vampire; his name was Bela Lugosi. Bela may have been a drug addict, but he was one scary Dracula, and I had many a nightmare after watching his films. These days, vampires are the subjects of Harlequin romances. They fall in love, they have feelings, they have integrity, and virtue (ugh!), and they look like Tom Cruise. I take that back, I just watched “Interview with a Vampire” again … the new vampires, like the ones in the HBO series “True Blood”, are BETTER looking than Tom Cruise. Does anybody remember that Werner Herzog film “Nosferatu the Vampyre”? Now that was one ugly ass vampire, and that’s what they should look like. They are the undead; they are vermin who suck the blood of the living for heaven’s sake; they are evil beings from the underworld, they sleep in coffins! They should not look like Zack Efron.

It’s been a frosty October up here in the Great White North, and it was below freezing every night last week. I think I’ll pull the retractable dock up this week, because boating season has decidedly ended. The chinking work on the house should be done in the next few days, and everything else will likely have to wait until Spring. Time to go sharpen the chainsaw, something I just learned how to do, so I can cut up some more firewood for the imminent winter. Watch for those vampire blood milk shakes at McDonald’s. And to the balloon family, and to the news organizations who covered this non event as ad nauseam, I offer this bit of advice: get a friggin’ life!

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/12/09

Last Thursday marked my 54th birthday and for the first time in a while I had a really good one. Shauna threw me a surprise 50th and that was a good memory, but for the past few years, on my birthday I have moped around complaining about the passage of time and my general stagnation relative thereto. October 8th, 2009 started with Happy Birthday banners all over the house. The carpenters gave me a couple of very cool tools for my cordless drill. The lighting guy finally showed up and fixed the glitches in the kitchen lighting, hopefully for the last time, reprogrammed the fancy computerized lighting control system in the bedroom, and also installed the exterior dark sky, low voltage lights which softly highlight the back of our house at night. That lighting does the house justice. I got a call from my mom, albeit because Shauna called her to remind her it was my birthday (she’s a bit foggy these days), but I got a call nonetheless. That was a bonus, as were calls from several other friends with whom I’ve lost touch. I spent most of the day cutting and splitting firewood, which I enjoy doing. There’s nothing like spending a little time with a chainsaw to purge the demons within. My birthday present to myself this year was an electric wood splitter, and that worked like a charm. Everyone told me the electric ones don’t work, but this Ryobi comes with a two year warranty, and so far I am impressed. I’ve got two years to break it. Finally, I ended the day with a couple of glasses of red wine – o.k., more than a couple – and Shauna and a friend took me to Huntsville for dinner. I even got a birthday ice cream sundae, compliments to the restaurant. Nothing says VIP like a complimentary dessert.

The one thing that is just now beginning to catch up with me and remind me that I am no longer the rebel without a clue I once fancied myself to be, is the gradual and widening separation between what I think my body can do and what my body can in fact do. Of course, in general, I’m a little stiffer these days than I used to be, but after the latest wood cutting session, I was a hurtin’ cowboy. Knock on firewood, so far I have avoided many of the crippling injuries my peers have sustained by ignoring their limitations or denying their waning co-ordination. I haven’t broken my leg on an ATV like one of my contemporaries recently did, or screwed up my back shoveling snow as another friend did. Nevertheless, I do finds that Ibuprofin has become my new best friend.

The weather has been, as the Irish say, desperate; very rainy, with temperatures hovering around the freezing mark. We’ve even had a bit of the white stuff, though thankfully none that stuck to the ground. We’re making good progress on the chinking, and we’re over halfway done. As always happens in the fall up here, I delude myself into thinking that there will be a few hot summer-like days before the onset of winter. I leave the boat at the dock, thinking we’ll have that last fall foliage cruise, which turns into, why-didn’t-I-take-the-boat-in-and-put-the-dock-up-when-it-wasn’t-cold-and-miserable …again?! As the Canadian geese point south in their triangles of exodus, and the wind begins to blow the trees bare on this the weekend of the Canadian Thanksgiving, I am surrounded by the things for which I have reason to give thanks: an almost finished house, the love of my friends and family, the comfort of knowing that at least for five or ten more years I can indulge in the delusion that I am still a young man … and oh yes, I give thanks for electric log splitters.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/05/09

When I started coming up to Katrine, Ontario back in the early nineties, it was a fairly quiet summer community. Of late, there has been quite a lot of construction on our lake and on the big lake to the south. The nearby town of Burk’s Falls had a hardware store, a supermarket, a post office, a liquor store, a bar, a bank or two, and not much else. Highway 11, the north/south route from North Bay to Barrie and Toronto used to pass directly through Burk’s Falls, but it was subsequently diverted to circumnavigate the town. Because this diversion severely decreased the traffic through town, businesses suffered. Recently, we lived in that town for over a year during the construction of our new home, and the community didn’t seem to be doing all that well. There were probably half a dozen houses up for sale and the main street was dotted with “For Lease” signs. Well the times they are a changin’ and Burk’s Falls is experiencing a bit of a comeback. Last Monday marked the opening of a Tim Horton’s coffee shop on a lot across from the supermarket and directly across the main street from the police station (coincidence?). As anyone in Canada knows, where Tim Horton’s grows, so grows the community. One of our carpenters recently purchased a home in Burk’s Falls, and a few weeks ago, when I was driving into town for some groceries, I noticed that a traffic light was being installed at the intersection where the Tim Horton’s store is located. A traffic light in Burk’s Falls, now that’s a first! Long range plans call for a new, larger supermarket, a gas bar, and I understand there is even talk of a Canadian Tire store. Before you know it, we’ll have massage parlors, drug turf wars, and an airport. I am frothing in anticipation.

Over the past seventeen years, I have penned over 800 of these weekly reports, and it occurred to me to create some kind of anthology of the better ones I have written over the years, mixed in with accounts of what was happening in my personal life at the same time. My readership has increased substantially since I sent out the first “Hyman Report” to twelve people in January of 1992. Today, I’ll wager at least once a month, as many as twenty-four people read my work. This kind of spike can only be attributed to determination and hard work. Just like Burk’s Falls, I am developing. Most of you probably never read my earlier “work”; well, this is your chance. A book, you say? Is there a book deal … will there be book signings in fifty cities across North America and Europe? Hold on, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. While I’ll admit my life is arguably not all that interesting, there are a few anecdotes I can relay with which some of you may identify or even find entertaining. Most importantly, I think the reports themselves are an interesting if skewed take on the current events of the time. I will go out on a limb and say that, in some cases, they are even amusing. Now that I have opened the floodgates of my popularity by throwing my hat into the Facebook ring, fame and fortune are the next logical steps. Hopefully, this little exercise will be accomplished in three volumes, comprising the early, middle, and late years. Each volume should provide just enough reading pleasure for a week’s worth of reading sessions in the john and there are even a few surprises in store.

In the news last week … Letterman publicly revealed that a CBS producer had attempted to extort $2 Million from him over allegations he’d had sex with some of his Late Show employees. Letterman called his bluff and now, if convicted, Joe Halderman (any relation to the Watergate guy?) is facing 15 years in prison. You know, apart from the embarrassment factor, it’s not as if Letterman was presenting himself as a card carrying member of the Moral Majority, so what was this guy thinking? Typhoon Parma wallops the already beleaguered Philippines, lots of casualties in the latest Indonesian earthquakes, Rio wins the bid for the 2016 Olympics, and not since 1998 have so many banks failed in America. So far in 2009, 98 have gone under. I have put my money in a new bank, it’s called “The Bank of Serta”, and it comes with a free box spring.

Yours ‘til Niagara Falls.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/28/09

I begin writing this week’s report on the eve of Yom Kippur, the holiest of the Jewish holidays, and the Jewish Day of Atonement. I have not been to temple in a long time, so right away I have plenty of atoning to do. Traditionally, Jews fast from sundown to sundown for Yom Kippur, and I find that a meaningful gesture. Though I am not an observant Jew, I fast on Yom Kippur, and I think it is a pretty good practice. At least once a year, it’s not a bad idea to acknowledge my wrongdoings and to strive to do better in the coming year. While I am not likely to become an Orthodox Jew any time soon, the older I get, the more inclined I am to have some kind of faith. I realize that, at least for me, no comprehensive assessment of the world today is possible without some hope and belief that the future survival of mankind is not really in my control. One example of things that worry me: that bonehead Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. I watched him spread his special brand of ignorance on Larry King Live the other night, and the guy bugs me. Though I know very little about the dynamics of Middle Eastern politics, I know ignorance is dangerous. I also know everyone is worried about Iran developing a nuclear bomb, but has everyone forgotten that India and Pakistan already have them? And let’s not forget North Korea. Indeed there are enough bombs to incinerate the world one hundred times over, if anyone is foolish enough to use them. That’s I guess where the blind faith part comes in. Brief aside … I find it fascinating that, according to the all-knowing Mahmoud, there are no gay Iranians. Iran is probably the only country without them. It could be the Mecca for homophobes! I suppose Iranians don’t have the messy “don’t ask, don’t tell” problems we’re having in the American armed forces.

9/28/09 – It’s Yom Kippur and I am watching a storm and heavy rain creep up from the south over the lake. There will be no chinking done on this house for the next several days; we need dry weather, above 40 degrees Fahrenheit or the stuff does not set up properly. At this point, we are racing against time to finish this job. It’s hard to figure out where the summer ended and fall began, because the weather has been so strange of late. I am gun shy. Winter comes without much warning up here, and it is not uncommon to get snow in November. Now the storm is in full force and water is pouring off the roof like Niagara Falls. Maybe we’ll have water in the basement again. Big floods last week in Georgia, and the Philippines are also flooded from a recent typhoon. A quickly as it came, the storm is gone, for the time being.

Yesterday, I went out on my little folding boat and took a leisurely row over to a nearby point. A week last Sunday there had been a fire there. Some new owners had been burning brush from their recently cleared lot, and they left to go home without properly extinguishing the fire. Around dinner time we heard someone screaming Fire! From across the lake, and Shauna called the volunteer fire department in Burk’s Falls. By the time I drove the firemen over in my boat, our next door neighbor and his son had already put the fire out with buckets of water. There was so much dead wood on that property that the fire could have burned the house down had the wind picked up. I must say my adrenaline got pumping when I saw all that smoke in trees, just 300 metres from our house. There are laws about what can be burned up here and when. I’m guessing that these new neighbors will be receiving a visit from the local fire department sometime soon to remind them of the rules. Nice to know those firemen are ten minutes away (one of the captains lives on this lake), but a lot can happen in ten minutes.

With a growling stomach I sign off. Time to atone.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/25/09

A few weeks ago, while I was in Toronto on my way down to Buffalo, I stopped at the Canadian National Exhibition for a couple of hours. I have now been to the event twice in my life and I love the carnival atmosphere. Of course, there are all sorts of exhibits I do not see, but there is something about the garish colors, the cacophony of the crowds and the rides, and the callers at the midway games that I love to experience. Years ago, when I was a boy, we used to go to Crystal Beach Amusement Park near our Canadian summer home on Lake Erie, and Crystal beach was one of the last of the old-fashioned amusement parks. So endeared was I to the place that I wrote two songs about it. These days the rides are slick and fast, but give me a rickety old roller coaster any day. The big coaster at Crystal Beach was called The Comet, and the first climb gave riders a bird’s eye view of Lake Erie, with Buffalo in the distance. Back in the early Nineties, on the last day Crystal Beach was open, I and a group of my friends made one last visit, and my friend Bob videotaped his last ride on The Comet. Within months the whole park simply disappeared. Rides were removed and the midway soon became a residential development. We still watch that video with maudlin reminiscences of that last day.

“There is a certain wisdom only fun can teach,
I think I’ll always remember Crystal Beach…”

As I write this, we have begun to chink the new house, hoping to be done in about two to three weeks, expecting, as we do, consistently unpredictable weather. For those of you who are not familiar with the term, chinking is the material used to fill in between logs in a log home. In the old days, it was mortar, or clay or mud. These days, the material is a high tech, very effective and easy-to-apply, elastic, caulk-like substance, but with a much greater durability than caulk. First, we lay in thin strips of foam backer rod, meant to displace some of the gap between logs and allow for a thinner bead of chinking to be applied, then we use a bulk caulking gun to apply the chinking. Finally, the chinking is spread into the space with a special tool to create an even seal across the logs. Once applied and cured, it provides a weatherproof seal for the house. Logs typically insulate quite well, and we’re hoping that now that the house has done most of its “moving” and checking (cracking), it will stand solid against whatever the Northern Ontario climate can throw at it. Last winter was a bit drafty in sections of the house, and there are places where rather large gaps have opened up. Logs are very unpredictable in the ways that they move. Some will twist, some will warp. The new chinking is designed to move and flex with the movement of the logs. We purchased the Neville Log Home package because they sold us on the idea that their dead standing logs had done most of their shifting and drying out. Now that Neville has gone bankrupt, I’m beginning to wonder if we were told the whole truth. The amount of sap coming out some of these logs and the severe checking leads me to believe that they were greener than we were led to believe.

“Roller Coaster reservations, you’ve got them, so do I
But this love deserves consideration, and I think this love can fly
On this hot and humid summer night, the sun closes down a blood orange sky

The lights go in in the amusement park; electricity that lovers spark

Cho: Come on decide be mine decide tonight/ Come on get on that roller coaster ride

Put unspoken fears aside decide tonight

Come on decide be mine decide tonight, cause it’s a midway night….”

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Openheimer Report 9/18/09

While I was down in Buffalo last week, I had the pleasure of attending the Music is Art celebration on the grounds of the world famous Albright Knox Art Gallery. The festival boasted over thirty bands playing on four stages throughout the day, and while I only heard a brief sampling of what was being offered, I enjoyed the experience. My contribution to the Buffalo music community was to purchase a 3 CD compilation, for the bargain basement price of ten bucks, featuring Buffalo bands from the 2006 festival. There are over sixty songs in the set and though I have only listened to one CD so far, I liked many of the songs I heard. Buffalo has always had a vibrant music scene, and though we usually hear about artists who make the big time, such as Ani DeFranco or The Goo Goo Dolls, there are plenty of good bands who do not make it.

Back in the days when I was young and wild, I used to frequent a music club in Buffalo called The Continental. In the early eighties, when punk and new wave music were just becoming big, this bar was pretty hot. Maybe it still is. Back then, MTV was in its infancy, and music videos played on monitors around the bar. I remember seeing now-defunct Buffalo bands like The Elements, Electroman, Paper Faces, and my favorite, The Celibates. There were moments of extreme joy as we, the collective audience, fueled by beer and cheap mixed drinks, throbbed in a frantic wave of mutual appreciation to songs like “Whipped Cream Girls”. No one but a few forty to fifty year old Buffalonians are likely to remember those bands, but the point is this. Local bands rock, and even though the hair band Eighties was not my favorite decade for music, I was and continue to be proud of my city’s contribution to the national music scene. Many of the really creative local bands typically flame out after a few years, realizing that local popularity or a CD release party is not a guarantee of fame, fortune, or even a decent living. Still, I applaud the fireworks, and to this day enjoy these local battle-of-the-bands-yer-fifteen-minutes-onstage-are-up-bub music extravaganzas. Ninety-nine point nine per cent of those bands will never reach more people than can fill a medium-sized bar, but if you happen to be there on the night they shine, it can be magical.

I was in one of my old Buffalo watering holes about ten years ago, and I saw the former female lead singer for one of those old Buffalo bands I remember hearing at the Continental. I liked her band and thought she was cooler than James Dean, but there she now was, no longer the skinny, sullen bassist for a new wave band, but instead something akin to a soccer mom. Her band was simply a moment in time.

There is a line in the Rolling Stones song “No Expectations” off one of my favorite Stones albums “Beggar’s Banquet”, and it goes something like this: “Our love was like the water that splashes on a stone/ our love was like our music, it’s here and then it’s gone.” Music IS art, and like sidewalk art, sometimes it’s here and then it’s gone. Some of the best music I’ve heard is spontaneous, live, and unrecorded. In the purest form, live music, if you’re listening, forces you to be in the moment. I am reminded of a great line in a book I just read, written by a talented Buffalo writer named Greg Ames … “If you have one leg in the past and one leg in the future, you’re pissing on the present.” One of these days, I’m going to figure out how to be in the present on a regular basis; I think it’s a good place to be. In the meantime, it’s nice to have live music to remind me what that’s like.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/9/09

9/1/09 – Yikes, is it Labor Day yet? Sure feels like summer is over, or never started. I got a call from one of the carpenters we’ve hired to finish up our house in Katrine, and he told me that Gravenhurst, about an hour south of us, had had a damaging tornado – I think he said it was an F2. He was bidding on some rebuild work down there. Vaughan, just north of Toronto got hit as well, rendering 38 homes uninhabitable. I don’t remember a summer with this much rain or cold weather, and now, I watch with some interest as the hurricane season fires up. Hurricane Bill has already soaked the Maritimes, and the Frisbees of bad weather are beginning to hurl themselves towards North America. I understand a pretty sizeable F4 (Jimena?) hit the Baja Peninsula last week. Summer in Buffalo is always short-lived, and about the second week in August, when we get our first north wind, that’s when we know we will soon be seeing the leaves turn. Up in the Great White North, Fall is ushered in by the invasion of one of my most unfavorite birds, the grackle. The Hell's Angels of the bird world, these miserable black birds travel in flocks and chase away all the other birds. It’s a fitting way to say farewell to summer.

9/4/09 – I’m back down in Buffalo, where I have just sold Dad’s car, and spent last Monday packing up and giving away most of his clothing. I remember him wearing a lot of that clothing, and it was weird to give it away. Lately I have been making an effort to pare down some of the personal possessions in our Chapin Pkwy. house, knowing as I do that a lot of this stuff needs to go. Mom was pretty good about getting rid of junk in the house, but over the last ten years, quite a lot has accumulated in the basement and attic. We must have thirty half empty cans of paint in the basement, as well as remnants of old carpeting and wallpaper, vestiges of long past remodelling projects. Of course, Mom is still living in that house, and I wouldn’t remove anything she might notice or want to keep. Still, there is A LOT of stuff stashed away in this big old house. There must be some kind of service that collects not-so-valuable but usable stuff from a large house and liquidates it for you, but I haven’t found it.

Mom’s 90th is next week, and I will stay down here until then. Shauna ordered chinking and backer rod for the new house which will be delivered to Buffalo late next week, so I have an excuse to stick around. We originally thought we’d have the materials sent directly to Katrine, but the shipping costs as well as the time delays with customs brokers was going to make that an expensive and complicated process. Speaking of cross border hassles, I needed to mail a letter up to Canada, and I went to one of those Mailbox places to buy a stamp. They wanted $1.60 for ONE STAMP, over double the actual cost of the postage, claiming the post office charges them a premium. And we wonder why they are closing post offices all over the place! I hope I can fit twelve five gallon pails of chinking along with 4600 feet of backer rod in the SUV. We should have Dad’s estate matters squared away by the end of next week, and my duties as an executor will soon be less demanding. I can’t say my time in Buffalo has been all that bad. I have enjoyed spending time in my childhood home, as well as being walking distance from my best friend.

Notable deaths: Ted Kennedy finally succumbed to his brain tumor last week; tests confirm that the anaesthesia drug Propofal killed Michael Jackson (big surprise); 60 Minutes founder Don Hewitt died, and acerbic Vanity Fair columnist Dominick Dunn also bit the big one.

9/7/09 As I end this report, I am sitting in the living room of my family beach house on the north shore of Lake Erie. This belonged to my grandfather, and has been in our family for over seventy-five years. I have many happy memories of summers spent in this house, but I have not spent the night here in six or seven years. I am looking forward to falling asleep here, because something about the sounds on this lake at night puts me right to sleep. A belated Happy Labor Day! Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/23/09

Always a few steps behind the general public, I recently joined Facebook. I am now officially a face. Having been faceless all these many years, it’s good to finally have an identity … you know, something for some criminal cyberweenie to steal. A few years ago, I joined MySpace, for no other reason than that Shauna was doing it and she signed me up as well. I still have a profile somewhere in that labyrinth of MySpace profiles, along with demos of four of my songs, but I don’t think I’ve changed anything on that site since we first put it up. I now understand that MySpace is “so yesterday’s news”. Desperate to free myself from the fetters of complete anonymity, I have therefore joined Facebook, and in so doing have boldly proclaimed: I AM NOT NOBODY! However boldly I proclaim this, it is the subject of some debate.

So now I’m a face, and my anemic profile is out there for all to see. It’s just a picture of me, and no birth date, no special likes and dislikes, no favorite television shows; not even a favorite color. I prefer to cultivate the mystery of my non-existent life … keep ‘em guessing. Do I like Cheerios or Fruit Loops … or neither? I did not realize that so many people I know are also faces, but every day I am greeted by at least three or four new old faces who request that we be “friends”. The odd part about that is that I thought we already were … that is, before I lost touch with just about everybody I knew. Here they all are, coming out of the virtual woodwork to get re-acquainted in cyberspace. I have opened up Pandora’s Email Box. In theory, I am all for sites which promote any kind of non-criminal social interaction, and it’s honestly good to once again make contact with some of these people. On the other hand, it’s just a little spooky how many people, through whatever search engine or networking tool is incorporated by Facebook, have “found” me. I now have a wall, and messages from people with whom I have not spoken in thirty years. It’s a little like the high school reunion I recently attended, absent the angst or the necessity to respond.

What I was not expecting was the immediacy of current information. No longer do I wonder “what
ever happened to so-and-so”, because whatever happened to him or her is spelled out, in detail, by the hour. By joining Facebook, I have become privy to a whole slew of current (albeit brief) posts I might never have seen otherwise. Apparently, e-mail is a thing of the past, or in any event, not as likely to reach the entire network (read my two or three friends). Somehow, my being friends with a few people has opened me up to the social airwaves of just about everyone I know. One friend is indignant about the recently proposed health care plan, another reports that her husband is having an affair. There’s a photo of my niece holding her sister-in-law’s baby girl. Naturally, I posted a rude and off-color comment. People like me probably shouldn’t be allowed to post comments on Facebook; I suspect the Face Police will soon be on my cyber tail.

Up until a few years ago, my dad was class agent for his Cornell Class ‘32. Recently, when I was sorting through his papers, I came across just about every correspondence he’d had in the past ten years with his classmates. Most were in the form of letters, but some of those codgers were using email. The correspondences were, for the most part, eloquent, well thought out missives, and the stories they told were often entertaining and interesting. I still maintain that there is something more satisfying about receiving a good old-fashioned, carefully written, page-long letter. Facebook is even faster food than email. I haven’t yet become a “twit” or whatever Twitter users are called, but I understand that that is the state-of-the-art medium for brevity and immediacy. I look forward to someday becoming even less communicative, while reporting my every move in an effort to “tell all”. I am sure that, several years after it is out of fashion to do so, I will embrace my inner twit. There is a reason why the phrase “Too much information” has become so overused. Some information is in fact not really information..

I could spend months, maybe years, getting caught up, but the sad fact is, I HAVE lost touch with many of these folks and they have lost touch with me. As much as I would love to keep up with everyone I’ve ever known and liked, the older I get, the shorter has become the list of those I feel are really interested in my life. Likely, many want to know if I disgrace my family and friends by getting caught fooling around with someone named Bambi, who really is a deer, or if my pulpy remains are recovered after I fall into a hotdog making machine, or should I suddenly be rocketed to notoriety when I am viewed on the internet interviewing Bin Bombin’. Short of that, I doubt many but my closest friends really give a flying Walenda about my day to day. Regrettably, I’m just not all that interesting. That said, anyone so bored that he or she wants to spend the next month catching up on my life full of unevents need look no further than The Oppenheimer Report … it’s a real page turner, and available at a blog site near you.

1:11 PM Gone Fishin’. J.W.O. Jr.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/17/09

I have loved powerboats since I was about three years old. When I was a toddler my aunt bought me a toy which was a small scale model of a wooden runabout with little battery-powered outboard motor. I used to play with it in the bathtub all the time. Many of the boats around our summer cottage on Lake Erie were kept in boat lifts when they weren’t being used. I made a lift for my toy boat out of an upside down foot stool with string tied across the legs for slings. My very first “real” boat was a little red wooden craft made by a local carpenter, perhaps four and one half feet long, and I passed many a hot summer day floating around in that little boat in Lake Erie. I think I was about five or six when my parents bought me a used 10’ Feathercraft aluminum boat, the boat which later became the legendary “Raging African Queen,” and therein began my serious boating career. I have had many boats since, but that Feathercraft aluminum dinghy was the boat I loved the most.

Funny how some memories stick with you. I remember the day they bought it used, from a man on the next bay. The details are sketchy, but I remember seeing it floating in the water, and I remember the excitement I felt. I now owned a boat, which I could row and in which I could carry several other passengers. I loved that little dinghy. Over the next thirty years, that boat would have five very different outboard motors. The first motor my father came home with was a small outboard that one of his friends had given him. It was an Italian motor called a Girelli, and it was probably one of the first jet-propelled outboards. The friend had bought it for duck hunting, because he thought that, being prop-less, it would be good in the weeds. It was not, and it was an entirely unsatisfactory motor on all counts. It was heavy, hard to start, loud, slow, and every so often let out a backfire that shot flames though the end of its pistol grip. I was afraid of that motor and it did not last long. The next motor was my favourite. It was a 1961(+-) Johnson 5 1/2HP and I owned that motor through most of my youth. It always started with one or two pulls, and with that motor I travelled hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles, through some very rough seas. Regrettably, it was stolen one summer many years ago. The next two motors were about as bad as that first Girelli. One, I bought on a whim from a used outboard shop. It was a 1953 5HP Scott Atwater “Bail-O-Matic” (see above photo) and it was a noisy bucket of bolts that spit oil, took about fifty pulls to start, if it started at all, and was loud enough to wake the dead. My friends all made fun of me, but I suppose that motor paid for itself in the amusing stories it generated. We nicknamed it “Bobo” which was an allusion to a joke about sodomy. My antique outboard phase was short-lived. The next outboard was a 1980s Evinrude 4HP which was an awful motor, had a poorly designed throttle lever, and a pull cord that periodically broke. I beat the crap out of that motor, sold it, then bought the motor I’ve had for the past fifteen years, a very reliable Yamaha 3hp.

Finally, the story of how the “Raging African Queen” came to be named. Over the years, the Feathercraft went by several names. When I was a boy, I named it “Wasp” after the aircraft carrier. It then became the “Asp”. Years later, and shortly before Bobo met its untimely demise (I did keep the engine cover which I now use for a unique lampshade), one of my artist friends, who happens to be gay, decided that he would paint a new name on the transom, in yellow Rust-o-leum. We’d been joking about renaming it “The African Queen”, and someone (not me) decided that “The Raging African Queen” was an even better name. Before I knew it, there was my artist friend Peter, painting that name on the back of the boat. Rust-o-leum is forever. The name, like the paint, stuck, and from then on, this legendary aluminium boat, which I’d now owned for over thirty years, and which was still providing us with hours of boating fun, became affectionately referred to as “the Queen”. A while ago, it too was stolen off our beach, and I was crestfallen. The idea that someone would steal a boat with that name painted on the transom is unbelievable to me, but someone did. We did some pretty silly things with and in that boat. I distinctly remember one night, with several other passengers aboard, probably somewhat intoxicated, driving that boat around half full of water. At one point, I had to jump out of the boat in waist deep water and rescue the motor before the ship went down. One of my favorite boat photos is a rear shot of the Queen, pulled up on shore, Bobo mounted on the transom, covered in seaweed, tar, and other lake grime. Boating with attitude. I keep hoping that someday the Queen will resurface, but now, these many years later, I think the prospects are slim. Funny, the things we hold dear in life.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheiimer Report 8/12/09

A week later, I’m still buzzing from the WNY Poker Run. I can still hear all of those high performance V-8’s roaring as fifty-one powerboats took off from Erie Basin Marina. I have not done all that much boating over the past fifteen years, but that event brought back some fond memories. Ever since I was a little boy, with my first outboard-powered dinghy, I’ve loved going out in a boat when the water was rough. I used to take that little dinghy out in all kinds of weather. The trick was getting out past the initial breakers without sinking the boat. After that, the sky was the limit. I think my friend Bob and I missed our calling, because we both love to go out on boats when the water is rough. Perhaps we would have made good offshore racers – it’s in our blood. Even in this last poker run, there were probably fifteen or twenty boats in our group which were faster and perhaps even more seaworthy than we were, but on the last leg of the run, when we headed out into the open lake towards Angola, I believe we passed all of those boats. And it wasn’t even that choppy on the lake.

When Bob and I were kids, he had a red 16’ fibreglass Starcraft with a 60 HP outboard, and I had a 13’ Boston Whaler powered by a 40HP outboard. I think Starcraft and Boston Whaler should have hired us to market their boats, because we definitely beat the living daylights out of those two boats over a series of summers. We would go out on Lake Erie when small craft warnings were in effect and jump waves. From time to time, we’d chase lake freighters to jump their wakes. Lake freighters are surprisingly fast when they get up to full speed, and they’re not easy to catch. That was an adrenaline rush because, once you’ve committed to a freighter wake jump, there’s no turning back. I remember several jumps wherein I knew I’d made a huge error in judgment, and it a strong testimonial to the seaworthiness of the Boston Whaler that I am alive and in one piece today. I should have been wearing a kill switch. I never got a photograph of my boat leaving the water, but I can tell you what it looked like seeing Bob’s boat jump. There were several occasions when the bottom of his outboard was several feet out of the water.

Over the years, we upgraded our boats, but our love of rough water remained about the same. We’ve toned it down a lot, because we now wish to avoid back problems. The perfect jumping weather was right after the wind had died down, and the rollers were a specific distance apart. I suppose it was a little like finding the perfect wave for a surfer. On that rare occasion when the wave patterns were perfect, one could, if one was a skilful driver, leap from wave to wave, get incredible air, and land softly in a trough. It was a little like flying. Of course, more often than not, conditions weren’t perfect, and the landings were bone-jarring. During my Boston Whaler days, I had many an unsatisfactory landing, and more than a few passengers still complain to this day about their uncomfortable rides in that boat.

I gave up jumping as a driver a long time ago, but still love the rough water. I now own a very seaworthy 20’ Hydra-Sport, but it’s not designed for “getting air”. Bob has had much better boats for that, and he has had many. The 27 foot Magnum he now owns is a great boat in rough water, but my favorite remains his 18 foot Donzi. Bang for your buck that boat was crazy fun in the rough water, and I remember more than one exhilarating ride off Point Abino, near my parents beach house on Lake Erie..

This Poker Run, albeit a relatively tame ride in comparison to some I’ve had, conjured up all the memories of the fun we’ve had over the years in our many boats. I miss the Raging African Queen. More about that in another report.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/4/09

Last Saturday morning, bright and early, my pal Bob picked me up at my parent’s house in Buffalo and we drove over to his boat house at Rich Marine on the Niagara River. There we picked up his classic, 27 foot 1972 Magnum Marine sedan powerboat and headed up the river to the Erie Basin Marina for the annual Western New York Offshore Powerboat Association Poker Run. For anyone not familiar with the event, poker run is not a race, but rather a course with a series of checkpoints. In the run I attended, there were five checkpoints, and the participants picked up a playing card at each checkpoint. At the end of the run, the drivers handed in their cards – they’re not allowed to look at those cards until they've handed them in -- and the driver with the best poker hand won a cash prize. Really, the event is an excuse for people with really big boats to enjoy them, in the company of other like-minded boaters. Bob has invited me to this event at least ten times, but circumstances always precluded my attendance. I’m so glad I was able to make it this year.

Thankfully, we had the best possible weather of the summer for boating. Sixty-five MPH in the rain is not a whole lot of fun on a boat, but Saturday was uncharacteristically (for this summer) sunny and warm. After we’d signed in at the marina and were clear on our course, it was back to our boats to head out to our first destination, down the river to Grand Island. There is nothing quite like to sound of fifty-one offshore power boats firing up their high performance V-8 engines all at the same time. The roar was music to my ears. We were divided into two groups, the under and the over 65MPH boats, and each group had a pace boat. Bob’s boat was in the slower group and our pace boat was named “Deeply Disturbed”. How appropriate for Bob and me! The fast boats left first, and it was a rush to watch those high powered floating rockets take off. Some of the boats in this club are capable of top speeds in the range of 140 MPH. Of course, with high performance V-8’s come high performance problems, and often one or more of these boats will experience some kind of engine problems. One of the guys in the club gets ribbed a lot because his enormous catamaran seems to have an inordinate amount of engine problems. The other guys in the club nicknamed him “Peace Bridge Joe” (Joe’s not his name) because his boat never seems to make it past the Peace Bridge and out into the open lake without experiencing some kind of engine problem. I think he was trouble free for this poker run. I’ve attended several offshore powerboat races wherein we were on a boat, moored and watching the race from a fair distance. This poker run was much more satisfying, because we were actually running along side a lot of these big boats, at least before they took off and left us in their wakes. For a powerboat enthusiast such as me, this was nirvana; I had an inside look at some very exotic offshore boats, and not just on a trailer in a boat show.

The run officially ended at a beach bar down in Angola, N.Y. on the south side of Lake Erie, where we all moored, had a bite to eat, and enjoyed the rest of the day before cruising back to Buffalo. The cruise back was excellent, with just enough lake chop to make the ride interesting, but not bone-jarring. After the run, the power boat club hosted a barbecue back at the Erie Basin Marina, wherein the winners were awarded their cash prizes. In keeping with the good vibes of the day, all cash prizes were donated to a favorite charity of the boat club, which enables disabled people to enjoy various boating events. Some people, mostly the idle rich, trail their big boats all over the country to attend these poker runs, and that certainly would be fun. I was in my glory just to have been a passenger on one of the handsome old Don Aronow classics. I had great fun tooling along at 50-65 MPH, watching the big boys blasting around much faster in their $500,000 Apaches, Fountains, and Cigarettes, while churning up the water on the open lake. Thank goodness I didn’t have to pay for the gas! Three days later I’m still buzzing from the adrenaline rush. Thank you Bob for including me in this outstanding event.
–Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

The Oppenheimer Report 7/28/09

Last week I had the very interesting experience of taking some garbage to one of the Toronto transfer stations. Because of this never ending garbage strike, my mother and father-in-law had some uncollected garbage, which had been building up in their garage over the past several weeks. I, the good son-in-law, offered to dispose of it for them, not fully realizing what that would entail. When I arrived at the transfer station, there were picketers and police cars, and a bit of a line up. When it was my turn, I realized that, before I could actually dispose of my garbage, I must listen to one of the striking workers present their case. Of course, after he was through with his little talk, I had a few questions for him. In all, it was an edifying exchange of words, and no punches were thrown. Clearly this strike has caused a great deal of animosity, but it takes two to tango. I read an interesting article in the Toronto Star the other day – I do read sometimes – suggesting that the reason this crippling strike has gone on so long is that both sides have gone public with their negotiating strategies. By doing so, they have painted themselves into a corner, because once they have stated their position publically it becomes much more difficult to compromise. Wasn’t it the SALT talks three decades ago, before the end of the cold war, when Russia and the United States were in dispute over the shape of the negotiating table? Yikes.

I came up north last weekend with the good intention of completing some of the outside staining work I have not yet been able to finish, but the weather would not co-operate, In fact the weather continues to be atrocious here, and what has been particularly frustrating has been its unpredictability. One minute the sun is shining the next there is thunder rolling in. Today, I was at the dump in Burk’s Falls, dropping off some of the construction debris from our site. I seem to be spending a lot of time in these places of late. Unlike the fancy Toronto transfer station, the Burk’s Falls dump is basically a big landfill, with a little building for recyclable materials. Once one presents one’s dump card, one is let through to the landfill to dispose of one’s garbage. Before I could get out of the car though, the heaven’s let loose and we had a downpour the likes of which I have rarely seen. Even the ever-present black bears, who roam around picking through the plentiful supply of bear delicacies, were driven off. By the time the twenty minute deluge was over, there was a waterfall of muddy crap streaming down from the top of the fill and pools of water everywhere. I had a desperate call from Shauna to come back to the house, because apparently one of the old culverts near our property had backed up diverting an over-abundance of water onto our property. I understand the town of Huntsville, thirty kilometres to our south, had some substantial flooding, causing washed out roads and sink holes. Within several hours, our property had drained off, but how devastating this weather must be for the folks in low lying areas. There is great song by Chuck Pyle called (I believe) “Here Comes the Water” describing a flash flood in a valley. When the ground is already saturated and we get rain such as we got today, the storm drains back up, and there is no where for the water to go. Too bad we haven’t found a way to divert our over supply of H2O to the more arid regions of our country.

This coming weekend, weather-permitting, I plan to participate in a power boat poker run on my friend Bob’s 27’ Magnum. Though he’s invited me to attend many times, this will be my first. He claims his will be the slowest boat out there, at 65mph. I hope to report on that adventure next week. Stay dry! Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/20/09

Esteemed anchorman Walter Cronkite died last week at the ripe old age of 92. Once dubbed “The most trusted man in America,” Cronkite was, along with Edward R. Murrow, one of the pioneers of responsible reporting in America. It’s sad to note that his passing will likely receive one fiftieth the media attention that Michael Jackson’s did. It seems we have a short attention span for stories about those whose lives are not riddled with scandal or misfortune. I turned on CNN the other night, and was just in time to see the never-before released clip of Jackson’s hair catching on fire in a fireworks malfunction, which occurred during the filming of a Pepsi commercial back in the 80’s. Talk about your prime time video. How does one compete with that “news”?? Perhaps the clip was released posthumously to provide some spin doctor explanation for why the pop superstar might have undergone multiple plastic surgeries, or why he became addicted to prescription painkillers. Take your pick … a clip of Walter Cronkite, crying as he reported the assassination of John F. Kennedy, or a clip of the gloved one’s head on fire.

Celebrity’s a bitch; if you can’t take the heat, stay away from the fireworks, or at least don’t put flammable stuff in your hair. But why is it that so many of us gravitate to the train wrecks and completely ignore that which is truly important and noteworthy in our culture? Why does bad news sell so good? In so many cases it’s not even hard news. So much of what we read and hear today falls into the “infotainment” category and it is often saturated with spin. Someday, there will be a movie or a biography special on Michael Jackson, and we will finally know “the truth,” but for now we must settle for whatever dirt the butler, nurse, nanny, chauffeur, cook, chimp handlers, iron lung salesman, and tabloid photographers choose to dig up. I figure we’ve got a few more months of this the-public-wants-to-know nonsense before we move on to the next dead zebra on the savannah. Meanwhile, poor Walter takes his seat in the nosebleeds, doomed to obscurity, because I’ll wager a growing majority of Americans are now too young to have known how important he was. Then again, Walter probably wasn’t all that interested in glory or fame. I doubt he ever considered doing a Pepsi commercial. He probably would not have been a spokesman for Nike. I’ll bet he was approached by Viagra, but I think the disclaimers would have scared him away.

Final note …we are closing in on the one month anniversary of the beginning of Toronto’s garbage strike, and I can say from firsthand experience, this city is a smelly mess. As much as the mayor would have us believe it’s not really that bad, in fact it is, and Toronto residents have begun “get-off-your-lazy-fat-asses-and-DO-something” pep rallies in front of City Hall, in a vain attempt to move this thing off center. It’s a PR standoff, with one side hoping the public indignation will push the other side into caving. I’m no fan of Mayor Miller - I wanted John Tory for mayor - but as well, city employees, who receive benefits many in this city don’t, are striking for, I believe 3+% per year salary increases. Perhaps they need to wake up and smell the rotting tuna. How does NO job sound to you?

It’s too bad Cronkite’s hair never caught fire. He wasn’t involved in any scandals, and I understand he was happily married. I don’t think he even had any plastic surgery. Venerable is boring; he needed some kind of signature disaster news clip, something by which to remember him. He’ll be yesterday’s news in no time.
Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/14/09

Once again I was pleasantly surprised by the reunion to which I referred in last week’s report. I spoke with a lot of distant cousins and some of their grown up kids. My recovering alcoholic cousin seems to be on the wagon, and remarkably much the same as the charismatic character I remember from our ill-spent youth. My logger/farmer cousin from Oregon and his wife were there, and it was better than I could have imagined to finally meet her and to re-unite with him. We all have some miles on us, and I find that these reunions are strangely reassuring in that they remind us that we are not alone with our problems. In my recent myopic stupor, I needed a little dose of that reality. What was especially meaningful is that those relatives from Oregon were able to stop by and visit my ailing Mom.

At the dinner I attended - and there were three or four other dinners - I sat next to the granddaughter of the hostess, along with her fiancée. He’s a microbiologist from New Orleans who left the Big Easy after Katrina struck, and she is a horticulturalist. Together they raise rats - cute ones of course, not the plague-spreading, boot leather-gnawing kind - which they sell as pets in order to defray their living expenses. That’s right, rats. And people BUY them, so hogtie me and feed me beets. I asked the two of them the question everyone asks young lovers … “where did you meet?”, and when they told me it was online, I thought to myself, judgmental soul that I am, “Hmm…I suppose that’s marginally better than meeting at a bar.” Then came the zinger … “at a body piercing site,” after which she proudly pulled out her nose earring, which she had conveniently tucked up inside her nostrils, because “grandma wouldn’t approve.” I nodded admiringly, secretly relishing the thought that this person, who was probably twenty-five years younger than I, would presume that I am hip enough to approve. As is happening more and more these days, I am beginning to feel old, and I feel as if the part of me that used to be open-minded is starting to atrophy. The truth is, these young adults were interesting, intelligent, albeit quirky individuals, and, when I was able to discount my notions of what constitutes an acceptable pet and appropriate body jewellery, I genuinely enjoyed speaking with them. Who buys a rat for a pet?!

What is going on with the weather? If I hear the term “upper level low” one more time as an excuse for all the wind, rain, and below-average temperatures, my eyes are going to pop out in an indignant rage. Up north we have had copious amounts of rainfall in short periods of time. I put an empty bucket out in the back yard one day, and within a few days it was at least a third filled with water. Storm drains are being taxed, driveways are washing away, and the heavy wind, cold temperatures and rainfall are no doubt the subjects of many conversations. Speaking with friends out west in Exshaw, Delbourne, and Edmonton, Alberta, I’m told that the weather in that part of the country has been atrocious as well. There seems to have been more severe weather all over the country, and last night I heard on the news that there had been a “travelling microburst” somewhere around Oshawa, Ontario which had much the same effect as does a tornado. Of course, all these accounts of abnormal weather bring out the Prius-driving, anti-carbon, Gore-loving, told-you-soers, who arrogantly proclaim that all of this is the meteorological Second Coming, substantially caused by our over production of greenhouse gases. Absolutely, we should try and reduce our carbon footprint, as we should in general try to recognize and reduce our negative impact on the environment. But as well, don’t rely on bad science. We are guilty of extreme hubris when we assume that we can control Nature. I remind you that Nature is a mother, and we should listen to her! Weather patterns like El Nino and La Nina likely have a far greater influence on the weather than Bubba with his supercharged, gas hog 1975 Dodge Challenger. Address the things you can more effectively influence, like population growth, food production, less solid, un-biodegradable waste, and more potable water.

On a related note, at this writing, Toronto is heading into day 24 of its garbage strike. Actually, it’s a city worker strike, and other services are affected as well, but garbage is the olfactory bell ringer for media attention. We’re infamous, and last week our mayor was even interviewed on CNN trying to put a positive spin on this public relations and tourist industry disaster. There is nothing so effective in reminding us how much crap we generate than to see it piled up, in and around our city of 2+ million people, in parking lots, in parks, and overflowing from street corner garbage receptacles. This has been an ugly, ugly strike, and tempers are flaring, especially among residents in close proximity to the temporary dump sites. All the rain hasn’t helped, but if the weather was hotter, it would probably be even worse. Perhaps something good will eventually emerge from this problem. I am becoming more and more aware of the excessive amount of non-bio-degradable packaging I personally generate. What is the solution? I’ve bought the re-useable bags for the supermarket, though I keep forgetting to bring them with me when I shop. I suppose the single most effective step for all of us to take would be for us to be more sensitive to what we throw away. I call charities up on the phone and tell them
I will not contribute if they mail me any more paper. Given the choice, I will buy fresh vegetables and skip the plastic bags. I’m told by some in the know that a little co-operation from everyone would likely go a long way to stem this red tide.

Final note. More than one of my readers asked why, several weeks ago, in a report dealing with Michael Jackson’s demise, I displayed a picture of rock legend Jimi Hendrix. Don’t you think they look alike? Seriously, the idea was that Hendrix was also a remarkably talented and in some ways tragic star. Though their circumstances were quite different, their ends were eerily similar.

And as for the Toronto union workers, I understand that yesterday, finally, the first olive branch was extended. Boys and girls, it’s time to “stink or swim!”

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/6/09

A belated Happy Canada Day for my friends in the Great White North, and a Happy Fourth to my friends and family stateside. On the Fourth, I was mowing the lawn when Shauna called me up to the house. To my great surprise and amusement, I was presented with Shauna, her parents, and a friend, slowly walking towards me, carrying the star-spangled banner on a makeshift flagpole, as they sang the American national anthem. My father-in-law was even limping. All that was missing was the bloody bandage and a piccolo. They even got most of the words right (thanks in part to the fact that it is sung at most NHL hockey games). I’m not a very good singer, but I instinctively put my hand on my heart and joined in as well. I don’t know why the Founding Fathers picked that particular anthem to be our National theme, because it has a three octave range, and it is hard to sing. “America the Beautiful” or “God Bless America” are much easier to sing, and in my opinion, better songs. Then again, I’ve never written an anthem. Well, I suppose “Swamp Queen” is sort of a love anthem.

I always used to take the Fourth of July for granted, and never really thought much about the significance of the holiday. As I watched what Mr. Obama promises is the beginning of the end of the American presence in Iraq, and the coverage of the sham elections in Iran, and as I take note of the mounting casualties in Afghanistan, I am reminded that freedom can be a bloody business. People die so that others may be liberated, and over the years, I have become increasingly thankful for the sacrifices of all those who fought for my right to express my ridiculous opinions. More and more, I value and appreciate the freedom I have been so fortunate to know, but what concerns me is our propensity to foist it upon other cultures that may not be ready for the unsettling change freedom necessitates. How would North Koreans fare if they were suddenly “liberated”? How have we done in the Middle East so far? Is it a matter of national security that we liberate other countries – is that why we fight other people’s battles? Is it for oil, real estate … other natural resources? Maybe, just maybe, not everyone is ready or willing to fight or sacrifice their stability (albeit enforced) for our ideals … or for Big Macs, celebrity suicides, and reality television. Just exercising my right to offer a ridiculous opionion.

Next week, I will travel back to Buffalo to see my mom and to attend a family reunion on her side of the family. Sadly, she will likely not attend, although I hope some of the attendees can visit her. This week, Lehman relatives will arrive in Buffalo from Dallas, Oregon and Florida. As the Lehman/Oppenheimer side of my family rapidly erodes, I take every opportunity to connect with those that are still with us. Mom’s brother “Peanuts” Lehman passed away a while ago, but his son will be at this gig, and I haven’t seen him in perhaps forty years. He was once active in the horse logging business in Oregon, and I believe bred draft horses for a while. I love his emails, because they are colorfully written vignettes of life on a farm, described with a unique, stream of consciousness style. We share a love of music and good song writing. Another cousin, with whom I have lost touch and not seen since a funeral brought us together almost twenty years ago, will come up from Florida. I am told he has wrestled with demon alcohol most of his adult life. Back when we were teens, we were just rebels without a clue, and alcohol and drug use was a badge of honor. Now, these many years later, he is soberly struggling with the payback years. Everyone has one of those in their family. I wish him luck. Somewhat less so than with the trepidation I felt going to my boarding school reunion, I am nonetheless a little nervous about what I will see, and how I will be seen by these distant relatives. It should be interesting.

As I sign off this week , I can see the American flag waving in the wind outside the living room window. Corny as it is to say, I am thankful that I live in a free country, and I’m thankful to have a family with whom to share that freedom. Next year, bandages and a piccolo.
Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

The Oppenheimer Report 6/29/09

Michael Jackson died mysteriously last week, and of course it’s been all over the news. It might have been the ubiquitous “celebrity flu” we hear about so often, but it doesn’t really matter. Another great talent is now a legend. Now we see his top ten video clips: The young child star of the Jackson Five singing one of their big hits, Michael Jackson dangling his baby precariously over a balcony for his adoring fans in Germany, Michael Jackson’s creepy photo op kiss with Lisa Marie Presley, Michael Jackson standing on the roof of a car, looking like an extra from a George Romero movie, to greet his adoring fans outside the courthouse where he was being tried for pedophilia. We see the chronological transformation of his appearance after multiple plastic surgeries, and these images, along with the damaging accusations in the print media paint a picture of a crazy freak … or perhaps a really lonely man child who needed help and never got it.

Over the years, I have taken great pleasure in mocking Michael Jackson, and I’m still inclined to believe that, no matter what kinds of out-of-court settlements were arranged, he had a problem with little kids, and may have, upon occasion, even crossed the line. What is indisputable, even to a skeptic, is that the guy was enormously talented. The fact is, very few people know what really happened to him, or why he was as weird as he appeared to be, but I would wager that most of us have an opinion. It’s in my nature to judge; I do it all the time. Maybe he was a drug addict, or he was finally punished for his deviant lifestyle, or he had a mental meltdown, or it was the multiple surgeries that finally did him in … maybe he was assassinated by (really) White Supremacists … who knows. Perhaps he was a naïve little boy who, screened from the reality of human nature, simply existed precariously in a parallel universe, unaware or in denial of the judgment foisted upon him daily. Jackson was such an easy target, because he so publicly eccentric and so fabulously successful. The world loves a freak show, and he delivered in spades. Why are so many celebrities flakes? I keep thinking that I’d remain grounded, and I would be able to handle the fame and fortune. The truth is, I haven’t a clue what it is like to be so consistently hounded by fans and press alike.

All the rumors and the innuendo, the scandals, and the reports of his tortured existence will eventually fade away and, regardless of the imperfections of the individual, the star will shine forever. Jackson takes his place in the immortal short list of entertainers and celebrities who stood far above the rest. Though I was not a huge fan, I respected his talent, for pop song writing and dancing. I can’t say I’ll miss him, any more than I’ll “miss” the thousands of other deceased celebrities I never knew. Besides, there is plenty that he left behind to remind me of his talent. But I do feel just a little guilty for judging him so harshly without knowing who he really was.

In a few weeks we’ll find out that some toxic combination of pain killers or other medications ended his life, but that won’t really explain much. In truth, his life ended as enigmatically as he’d lived it, and what is sad is that his upcoming tour might have been very entertaining. Apparently there is a video of a recent rehearsal. We throw the word “tragedy” around a lot these days, but perhaps there are elements of real tragedy in Jackson’s short life. In my mind it was a tragic fantasy, and when they write his biography, perhaps the biographer should begin it with “Once upon a time, there lived a little boy named Michael Jackson.
Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 6/24/08

I am just back from Buffalo where I have been for the past week, foraging through safe deposit boxes, rummaging through files, and talking to lawyers, accountants, and bankers. Dad was pretty good about putting his affairs in order, five years ago. I suppose he felt that the end was near when in fact it was not. Always the organized record keeper, the problem over the past five years was that he kept EVERYTHING. I have been sorting through reams and reams of paper, trying to sort out what is and is not important to keep. As one of the co-executors of his estate (my sister is the other one), we are the detectives who must collect all his assets for evaluation. I find myself going through all of Dad’s possessions. In one folder, hidden in a bottom drawer, I found letters from my sisters and me to Dad, written when we were little children. I found foreign coins he’s collected from his many trips abroad with Mom. I found old photographs of distant family members, along with copies of their birth certificates … why in the world would he have those? Shortly before he passed away, I brought some of those old photos to him for identification, and surprisingly, he was able to put names to most of the faces.

During his last months, I spent quite a lot of time down in Buffalo. Perhaps it was guilt at not having been around much for the past few years, or perhaps I genuinely felt that my presence was helpful. Dad slept for most of the day, but sometimes he would rally late at night. It seemed that in the wee hours of the morning, all the mundane hassles of life on a death bed would drift away, and his memories would re-surface. Certainly, there were the anecdotes I’ve heard a hundred times before - I’m beginning to do that myself, so I can hardly fault him for doing it at 98. But what impressed me about those midnight talks was that invariably, there was a story I hadn’t heard, an anecdote that was new. I learned a little bit more about his early days in Buffalo and about his family in those last few months than I’d ever taken the time to learn in the past forty or fifty years. I came to realize how much there was about my father that I did not and do not know. I used to grumble that my father didn’t understand who I am, but in truth that complaint works both ways. I think a lot of us are strangers to the ones we love. I’ve been philosophical of late. This house is almost finished, and the combination of its construction and the concurrent decline of my parents has been pretty hard. We put all our energy into these projects, and sometimes we lose sight of the big picture, whatever that may be.

Just out of college, I bought a very used Triumph Spitfire and, with the help of someone who actually knew what he was doing, I rebuilt the engine. Unexpectedly, it was one of the better learning experiences of my life. On top of the lesson that it is much better to let a professional handle certain tasks, I learned something about coping with the unsettling prospect of unfinished projects. The rebuild took much longer than expected. Parts were not readily available, others required machining. One night I went out to the garage, and there were all the components of the engine, laying neatly on the floor. Pistons, valves, lifters, push rods … everything. I looked at all of these pieces and felt like at that point in time, this unassembled labyrinth of parts was a pretty good metaphor for my life. I’m in that unsettled state again. I comfort myself by believing that it will all come back together again, and it likely will. But it’s a little like losing my wallet, or my compass when I’m hiking…that feeling in my stomach that comes from the fear of being vulnerable. We all know the future is unpredictable, but sometimes we forget or simply ignore what we know. I’ve learned that no matter how organized I am – and admittedly, I am not well organized – and how much I try to steer the great rudder of my life, there are storms that I never saw coming. Keeping that notion actively in the back of my head has been helpful when the wind begins to blow.

Meanwhile, the world continues to spin on its axis. Iran is in the midst of a political crisis, the H1N1 Swine Flu virus is still a global threat and, just in time for the hot weather, Toronto is in the midst of a garbage strike. Doesn't that stink?

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

The Oppenheimer Report 6/7/09

The last two weeks have been very strange because, although I knew Dad was very old, I had become used to the notion that he would be around forever; I think a lot of people did. He seemed unstoppable, and the idea that he is gone is just now beginning to sink in. The other night, as I was watching the Detroit Red Wings beat the Pittsburgh Penguins in game two of the Stanley Cup finals, I caught myself starting to phone him in Buffalo. What did he think of that penalty call, for whom was he rooting? He would have been watching the game for sure, probably wearing his silly red knit Cornell Sherpa hat, which he wore almost constantly near the end, because he was almost always cold. He customarily wore the hat for Sabres games, presuming that would bring them luck. Invariably, it had the opposite effect. A while back, before Dad became permanently bedridden, my niece took a funny photo of him wearing that hat. He was sitting in his favourite chair in the den, reading a copy of Mad Magazine he found lying around, grimacing like an old curmudgeon because he did not approve of the off-color humor. The photograph is priceless, and a copy was sent to every member of the immediate family. Indeed there are many snapshots of him worth “a thousand words.” So many faces.

I had a complicated relationship with my dad, and I suppose that is fairly common in father-son relationships. Because he was so much older than I, we fought a lot when I was a teen. As I think Mark Twain humorously pointed out, fathers can improve considerably as time passes. I worked for and with Dad for over twenty years, and really came to know him best during that time. Of course he had his faults, but what I remember most about him was his uncanny ability to size almost anybody up in one conversation. He was remarkably intuitive and smart, and I came to admire him a great deal. Whenever anyone says that I remind them of my dad, I am proud of and at the same time humbled by that comparison. Shauna says that I talk to the dog with the same baby talk he used, and that many of my mannerisms are similar. I guess it is inevitable that one absorbs some of the character traits of one’s parents, and perhaps we are genetically hard-wired to do so. I remember a story he used to love to tell, and it always used to bother me. When I was perhaps three or four years old, Dad took me to a place near our first house in Kenmore where they offered rides on a miniature train. He obviously thought this would be big thrill for me, and I suppose he was vicariously delighted that his son was going to have such fun. When the ride was over, he asked me how I liked it, assuming that I would have been overcome with joyous enthusiasm. My reply was simply, “I could walk faster.” He loved to tell that story; perhaps he was a little proud of the fact that, at such a young age, I was already a wise ass. I can only guess, because I was not around in 1914, that maybe my father was a bit of a wise ass himself in his youth. Sadly, none of his contemporaries are still around, and stories of his indiscretions are hard to come by. I did get a few from his sister Edith, before she passed many years ago, but I have no hard evidence.

As time passes, I will likely screen out the past six months or so when Dad was so infirmed. I will remember more and more what a good and virtuous man he was. Home movies and photographs will likely color those memories, and even perhaps embellish them. I miss my dad, but take comfort in the long and productive life he lived. I only hope that, as time goes by, I will become somewhat worthy of the comparisons some have made.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Eulogy for My Father - 5/22/09

To all my readers...

My dad passed away last Monday, quite peacefully, in his home. He had a good life. To follow is the eulogy I gave for him last Friday afternoon at Temple Beth Zion:

I’ve had a long time to think about what I wanted to say when I got up on this podium. Dad began to prepare me for his imminent demise thirty-five years ago, when I was still a boarding school student at Taft. I remember he took me out to lunch one Father’s Day weekend and reminded me of the 45 year difference in our ages, and that I would likely be called upon to “man-up” and take care of Mom when, as he predicted, he would leave us prematurely. Indeed, throughout the years, my father had his share of formidable health challenges, but he was one tough son of a gun, and he endured for 98 years. Still, we all leave some day.

In the past few months, before Dad passed away on Monday, my sister Jill and I spent a lot of time in Buffalo with him and with Mom. I sensed Dad might be losing perspective on all he had done in his long and productive life, and I made it my challenge to remind him wherever and whenever I could of all that he had done, seen and accomplished over the past nine decades. We watched old family movies together, we went through a lot of our old photo albums, spanning back to his early childhood, and of course, we talked. I found one photo of Dad as a young boy, sitting in one of Buffalo’s first electric cars which, I believe, belonged to his mother. There was one picture of Dad that I particularly like, taken back in 1962. Both Mom and Dad loved horses and horseback riding, and while they rode primarily English saddle, they used to take a trip out to Palm Springs, California every Spring. There they spent a good deal of their time riding quarter horses in the desert. The photo in question has Dad up on his horse, standing on a mountain ridge overlooking what was back then the sleepy little town of Palm Springs. Below him, the empty desert stretched out for miles, and there he sat, tall in his saddle, wearing a cowboy hat – a real one - tanned and handsome; in the prime of his life, confident, in control. As I stared at that photo I realized that this image was an almost perfect representation of the man I knew. I take great comfort in knowing that this man was my dad. I’ll come back to that picture in a little while.

Most of you are here because you knew my dad. Some of you knew him well. Judging from the written correspondences and phone calls I have fielded over the past week, many of you had great affection and respect for the man; some of you even used the word love. I loved him as well, but I lived with the man for a good portion of my life, and the love I have for him is tempered by fifty-three years of my life with him. How lucky I was to have had that experience. And I think I grew to know him pretty well. Dad was a complex, fascinating, intelligent, generous, and really funny man. I am pretty sure most of you have at least one Jim Oppenheimer story that highlights his wonderfully irreverent wit, or his famous generosity, of spirit and deeds. I’m not going to share funny anecdotes about Dad here because, for one thing, he was a much better story teller. Besides, I wouldn’t know where to begin. Let it suffice to say, and I think we will all agree on this, we appreciated the fine man he was.

Mom doesn’t want long speeches, so what I want to say is this. Over my short lifetime, I have spent far too much time pre-occupied with the elusive concept of success, though I have never really understood that concept. What I am finally beginning to understand, largely through my association with this humble and self-deprecating mentor, is that success will elude me, if I seek it. Dad never bothered with a score card, and he never called attention to his achievements, though they were too numerous to mention. Surrounded by a world filled with self-promoters, he simply set about to accomplish every goal he ever put his mind to, with unfailing drive and with flawless organization. He was an amazing and selfless father, husband, brother and son, he was a well-read intellectual, a gifted writer, a confirmed expert in his profession, and he came to be respected by any and all who had the privilege to get to know him. He simply walked through his long life, consistently enriching his friends and family with his generosity, his unstoppable wit and charm, and his intelligent common sense. That, I have finally come to understand, is the definition of a successful man.

So I come back to that photograph of Dad on the ridge. In a world of shifting sands, my father was stability. The man on that horse was real, not some illusion, not some imposter. He was consistent, stable, good, honorable, and dependable, and he made me and every one in my family feel safe. I have relied on his strength most of my life, and I am quite sure it has made me a better person than I would have otherwise been. Dad I salute your long and beautiful life, and I hope that, as I lately imagine, you are back on one of your favorite horses, cantering through the verdant farmlands of heaven.