The Oppenheimer Report - 2/20/07

There has been a lot of talk in the local news of late about the issues of public transportation and commuting. Some expert on the radio made the point that many Toronto commuters pay over $400 per week to drive long distances across the GTA (Greater Toronto Area). Urban sprawl has pushed the middle class commuter further and further out into the “affordable” suburbs, and that enormous weekly commuter cost suggests that perhaps public transportation is a viable alternative. As much as I like to drive, I’m fed up with city traffic problems. When possible, I use public transportation in Toronto, because many times, it is simply easier than driving and parking. The other day, I heard it suggested that Toronto may, some day in the not too distant future, levy a “congestion tax” for commuters entering the downtown core. London, England did so and apparently it has had a positive effect on that city’s horrible traffic problem. Toronto’s traffic problem has gone from bothersome to practically unacceptable in the 13 years since I moved here.

Though I often use the subways, I haven’t taken the bus all that often. The other day, I took the bus, because I was in between two subway stops on Yonge St. Rather than walk a quarter mile in the wind and cold to the nearest subway station, I figured I’d use my new and improved (harder to counterfeit) TTC token to pay for a bus ride. Conveniently, there was a bus stop right across the street. It wasn’t long before the bus came, and I assumed, from the TTC map I’d consulted, that I was on the right bus. Off we went, heading south, and I quietly congratulated myself on my intelligent and energy-saving decision. We’d only traveled about three or four stops when the bus suddenly made a left turn. I got a sick feeling in my stomach, thinking I’d taken the wrong bus after all, and was now going to end up in “Scarberia” (derogatory Torontonian expression for the eastern suburb of Scarborough). Thankfully, that was not the case, and the bus immediately pulled into a subway station. With no announcement, the driver got off the bus, and some of the passengers, including myself, wondered what was going on. After a few minutes, a new driver boarded the bus and took his seat. Apparently, we were involved in a shift change. That was fine, but it would have been nice if they’d told us what was going on. After a short delay, we were back on our way, heading south. Then, about ten minutes later, the new bus driver announced: “this bus will be ending its route at the Rosedale subway station.” That station is about a mile north and short of where I needed to go, and I’m not exactly sure why this happened, because that bus was supposed to head all the way downtown. I was told by the surly bus driver that I needed to get off the bus, and board a southbound subway car to travel two lousy stops south. Would there be another charge? Would I need a transfer pass? Would lunch and drinks be served? I was cast out into public transit limbo to fend for myself. I waited patiently for the subway to arrive, and when it did, it was of course packed full of passengers. For someone not accustomed to taking public transportation, this was all a bit confusing. I suppose I will need to consult the “TTC Commuting for Dummies” manual before I venture out again. I specifically took the bus to avoid inconvenience, but this journey wasn’t particularly convenient. Still, for about $2.10, I can travel anywhere across the city, and I can avoid the stress of rush hour traffic. It’s a trade off, but I guess it’s worth it, especially in the winter months, when driving around the city becomes particularly problematic. I’m tempted to pick up a weekly pass, allowing me unlimited use of all TTC services. Then I can get REALLY lost. I still haven’t been on a streetcar and hope to ride one of those before they are rendered obsolete.

I noticed on the news the other day that they still haven’t buried soul singer James Brown. The legend lives on, along with the stench of his decomposing corpse. By the way, is it just me or does anyone else see a resemblance between James Brown and Condoleeza Rice? Separated at birth? At present, the lawyers are playing tug of war with Anna Nicole Smith’s body. She could be in the fridge for a while, because there’s big money at stake there. I think her coffin should have two bump outs to commemorate her enormous fake boobs. Just a suggestion.

Final comments … with all the press this week about celebrity meltdowns -- Britney Spears is the latest (excessive partying, skipping out of rehab, shaving her head so she looks like Daddy Warbucks) -- I genuinely find it sad that celebrity and wealth so often destroys people. I liken this latest Spears crash and burn to the downfall of Twinkie-hoovering poster boy for star-rot, Elvis Presley (except that I think he was talented). At some point, the celebrity becomes so wealthy and famous that he or she becomes surrounded by opportunistic yes men and women. Don’t these famous people have any real friends??? Nobody has the balls to say “take that spoon out of your snoz and get some help, you f-up!” I watched a little of an old Anna Nicole Smith interview on Larry King Live, and wondered how anybody close to her could have ignored the fact that the woman was seriously over-medicated. Regardless of what I (representing the judgmental public at large) might think about Smith as a human being, was there no one anywhere who loved her? I think all celebrities should be required to take public transportation at least once per week … it’s very grounding.

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 2/15/07

According to three allegedly expert groundhogs, Punxatawny Phil, Wiarton Willie, and Hoser Harry (or whatever they call the one from Nova Scotia), this winter was supposed to end soon, but I think those groundhogs are lying little rodents. From where I’m sitting, it looks like Jack Frost has been taking steroids. Last week, I was moaning about our little snowstorm up here in Burks Falls, Ontario, which dumped about two feet on us in less than 48 hours. Then I saw on the news that in Oswego County, N.Y., they’d had steady lake effect snow for over a week, dumping as much as eleven on some unlucky residents. Now that’s what I call a lake effect snowstorm! I’d heard stories about the legendary snowstorms on the east end of Lake Ontario, but ELEVEN FEET? That’s a lot of snow! Every time I think of lake effect snow, I am reminded of the time a friend’s French poodle was plowed into a snow bank in Buffalo. It’s hard enough losing a pet, but how does one process something like that? Life is tough enough as it is, but when the Grim Reaper is a comedian, it’s even harder. Still, we Buffalonians are a hearty clan … we pry our frozen pets out of snowbanks and we move on.

And speaking of bizarre deaths, “celebrity” Anna Nicole Smith has left us for that great medicine cabinet in the sky. She was kind of like Marylin Monroe, but without the talent or the good looks. I know I should not speak ill of the dead, and yet I do. It never ceases to amaze me that this woman achieved any level of fame simply because she met some old millionaire in a club where she was stripping, he married her, and she instantly became rich and notorious. I couldn’t get enough of her slurred ineloquence, the stories of her many tribulations, and of course, her gigungas breast augmentations. She was the darling of the tabloids, the car accident we all slow down to watch. But who am I to judge? I’m judgmental, that’s who I am! Was her death an accident? Was her evil publicist and lawyer (interesting combination) involved? Would she ever get all the money from her deceased Texas millionaire husband’s estate? How many plastic surgeries did she have? So many questions remain unanswered, but I think the question on most people’s minds is, did she really have sex with that old man? Before she died, she was in embroiled in a bitter lawsuit over his $400 Million estate. Apparently, the millionaire’s son felt he was entitled to the inheritance as well. Now that both the son and Smith are dead (how ironical, eh?), the big question is, who will inherit all the money … I mean after the attorneys get their cut? My guess is that Smith’s newborn baby girl will be entitled to a good chunk of it, which probably explains why any man who has ever exchanged DNA with Smith is now claiming paternity. I give that little girl 14 years max before we read about HER tragic death by misadventure. Ain’t celebrity grand?

And speaking of “where-did-the-money-go?” … last week, I was watching my favorite comedy show, Jon Stewart’s “The Daily Show” (my number one news source these days), and he did a story on missing funds earmarked for the rebuilding of Iraq. Apparently, shortly after the wildly successful overthrow of Saddam Hussein, the United States government shipped $12 BILLION in CASH over to Iraq to assist in the rebuilding of her infrastructure. There was so much cash that they loaded it onto a transport plane on pallets, each containing many large bundles of one hundred dollar bills. Now, several years later, it appears that only about $4 Billion is accounted for. If you ask me, Iraq is showing all the signs of a budding democracy. You might ask, where did all that money go? Really, what’s twelve million anyhow … three pork barrel projects for New Jersey? My guess is that the missing eight billion ended up in the hands of insurgents who are now dragging the country into a civil war, but that’s just a hunch. And nobody documents bribes, so I think we can kiss that money goodbye. I’m sure we’ll be more careful next time. Stewart had one suggestion for where the money went … it was Fatima in accounting.

We are still up in the Great White North, reclaiming hardware and paneling from the old cottage. Last night, at yet another town board meeting, we jumped over another hurdle in the excruciatingly long process of obtaining a building permit. Perhaps as early as the end of this month, we will say farewell to the old cottage. I look forward to the new house, complete with central heating! Later on today, I may take a break from the ongoing task of chopping wood to go hunt for groundhogs. Come on you furry little lying bastards … say hello to my little friend … make my day … heeeeere’s Johnny … ( fill in your own cinematic reference to imminent murder).

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 2/6/07

As usual, our trip up north was delayed until late in the week. We were expecting several large parcels in the mail and didn’t want to leave Toronto until they arrived. We had ordered samples of a metal roof we are seriously considering, and were also waiting for a package from Kamloops, BC, containing samples of the logs we are definitely using to build our house. We needed those log pieces on which to test different stains. When both packages finally arrived, we set out on Friday afternoon. On our way up, we visited a large fireplace store near Barrie to look at wood and propane stoves, and then we were to visit a window and door store in Bracebridge. We made both stops, but we were late arriving at the window store. By the time we finished with the window guy, it was dark and snowing quite heavily. After a quick pizza in Huntsville, wolfed down in the car (Jasper wasn’t allowed in the restaurant and we wanted to keep the car warm enough for her), we set out on the last 30Km of our trip up to the cottage on Little Doe Lake in Katrine. The snow continued to fall.

Between Huntsville and Katrine, we fell into one of the worst snow squalls I have ever experienced on the road. Had I not been following a large truck, I’d have had no idea where I was going. I still didn’t have a clue, but figured that, when the truck hit whatever obstacle popped up, then I’d stop. No flies on me. Turning off at an exit was not an option, because I simply couldn’t see one, and there was no indication where the road ended and the shoulder began. Perhaps I was foolish to keep going, but I reasoned that we were in more danger stopping on the highway and therefore running the risk of death by snowplow (or by clueless driver). There must have been 20 cars behind me in the same predicament. Boldly (read completely lacking common sense), I crept along at 20-30 KPH and prayed for a clearing. I think my Buffalo roots kicked in, and I channeled with the younger Jamie … that moron who thought nothing of heading down to ski country in the Western New York Southern Tier snow belt, on a Friday night (drunk night), in a blizzard. Heck, we Buffalonians EAT that kind of weather for breakfast. Nevertheless, I WAS a little out of practice. Shauna was a nervous wreck and, after about 40 minutes of this white knuckle driving, I was a bit frazzled myself. Finally, about 5 Km south of Katrine, the weather cleared, a bit. What had been a complete whiteout devolved into merely a blinding snowstorm. Eventually, we made it to our cottage, and although the new, long driveway had not been recently plowed, we were able to make it down the road with relative ease. A trip from Huntsville to Katrine, that should have taken 20 minutes, took well over an hour. Thank goodness for our new Acura MDX. I cannot say enough about the handling of that vehicle in the snow.

The cottage was predictably cold, but thankfully our builder had turned up the space heaters in anticipation of our arrival. I reconnected the water lines, turned on the pump, and immediately heard water gushing from another room. I assumed a pipe had burst, but as it turned out, I’d left a drain line open when I drained down the system a few weeks before. Oops, better mop that up. At least there were no frozen pipes. I fired up our (not air tight) wood-eating stove, and then we had running water and (some) heat. Damp and tired, we collapsed into the couch and reclining chair for an uncomfortable sleep.

It snowed constantly from Friday night until Sunday morning, dumping about 18” to 20” of additional snow on Katrine and the surrounding area. That’s a lot of snow! Apparently, we were unlucky enough to be in the center of a narrow band of lake effect snow blowing off Georgian Bay.

We cancelled a Saturday meeting we had scheduled in Huntsville, because our driveway was by then, impassible, and we called Harvey, our snow plow guy, to dig us out. I don’t know how many snow plow guys you know in the big city who will come and dig you out right after a snowstorm, on the same day you call, but good old reliable Harvey showed up Saturday night of all nights, safely enclosed in his large, heated tractor, and plowed our lengthy driveway. That was one dilemma addressed. Then, on Sunday, the temperature dropped to about –25 degrees Celsius, where it was predicted to remain all week. This is nostril-hair-freezing (and ear-hair-freezing, if you’re over 50) weather, and as I have said more than once, Nature is a Mother. We were low on stove wood, and I was expecting to be able to use our fireplace to burn our larger logs. I held off as long as I could, to save wood, but when I finally tried to light a fire in the fireplace, the cap at the top of the chimney was frozen shut and buried underneath a pile of snow. There was no way I was getting up on a ladder to try and remedy that situation, so the fireplace was not an option. We have been getting by so far on the heat from the wood stove, which needs to be stoked on the hour, and on four anemic electric space heaters. If we add ANY additional demand to the circuits, say a toaster oven or microwave, we immediately blow a 30 amp fuse and all the heaters and lights go off. The fuse box is outside and I can only replace fuses by taking my gloves off. The other day, as I was removing a blown fuse, it was so cold that the metal stuck to my fingers. Since I began this report on Wednesday, our Guardian Angel-like builder supplied us with enough firewood to hopefully see us through the duration of our stay, we can get out of our driveway, we have running (but not potable or hot) water, and we are well supplied with food (though I think barbecuing outdoors is out of the question). We had an important meeting with the builder yesterday, and although there is still much to do before we break ground, we are making good progress in this excruciatingly long process. I can’t believe we are still contemplating a winter start. I look around this little cabin and, perhaps for the first time, feel a bit sad that it may soon be gone. Shauna and Jasper are still asleep, buried underneath piles of bedding on the reclining leather chair, and I sit here avoiding the morning ritual of carrying Jasper though the thigh-deep snow for her morning pee and poop. I have shoveled for her a lovely restroom.

Absent the creature comforts of the city, up here we are constantly reminded of the need to respect Nature. We met with a lighting specialist on Sunday, who moved up here from Toronto with his wife several years ago, and I think he hit the nail on the head. In the city, we try to bend and manipulate Nature to accommodate our needs. Up here in the soon-to-be-saturated-with-city-folk Great White North, people adjust more willingly to the forces of Nature. I think that’s how it should be. Someday, all of this will be an amusing anecdote. This is “Grizzly” Oppenheimer, signing off.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The OppenheimerReport - 1/22/07

1/16/07 - As I begin this report (Tuesday night), Shauna and Jasper are bundled up on the reclining chair next to the fire, and I am taking a break from the ongoing task of stoking the wood stove. Tonight, the deep freeze has hit Doe Lake and the mercury is hovering around 25 degrees below zero. When it gets that cold, the water lines underneath the kitchen sink in this little old cabin freeze up. Tomorrow morning, before we head back to Toronto, I will likely need to thaw them out with a space heater before I drain down the water lines. Here in Ontario, after weeks of mild weather, we are just now getting a little of the horrendous weather the West has been experiencing for the past few weeks. The log supplier for our new home is located in Kamloops, B.C., and they’ve been getting walloped this winter. Speaking of Western Canada …

Accused of being Canada’s worst serial killer, possibly responsible for the murder of 27 (or more) women over the past 30+ years, B.C. pig farmer Willie Pickton goes on trial today. If what they suspect about this man is true, he will certainly put Jeffrey Dahmer, America’s top ghoul, to shame. Pickton is accused of abducting prostitutes and drug addicts from the streets of Vancouver, murdering them on his farm in Port Coquitlam, then feeding their remains to his pigs. Them pigs, they eat everthin’. I’m sure the locals who bought pork from this guy are delighted to hear this. Apparently, Pickton ran an illegal “boozecan” on his property and threw some wild orgies over the years. I wouldn’t be surprised if those pigs were in on the fun. I read some statistics about the investigation and they are staggering: 370,000 cubic yards of soil dug up and sifted through from Pickton’s farm, 200,000 DNA samples entered as evidence for the trial, 2,500 witnesses provided statements, and the real kicker … $120 Million spent on the investigation and prosecution. I’m guessing that cost severely eats into the “Save Vancouver’s Prostitutes from Predators Fund”. I think I’m going to become a vegetarian.

If you’re an American, will you be joining “Team Hillary”? Former First Lady Hillary Clinton has thrown her bra into the ring, announcing that she will seek the Democratic nomination for Presidential candidate. Yikes, A GIRL PRESIDENT?? Are we ready? Could be a horse race between her and Rockstar Obama. Though I remain a Republican at heart, I do hope that the Democrats can show some leadership next year and keep from shooting themselves in the foot. If the recent House carnage is any indication, they could put up a serial killer and beat the far right, war-mongering elephants. Then again, the Dems do have a recent history of sabotaging their own momentum, so we’ll see.

Another season of “American Idol” began last week, and Shauna and I joined the record numbers of clueless viewers who watched the first episode. Though I don’t regularly follow the show, I am interested in the first auditions because, in addition to the highly entertaining bad candidates, there are always a few shining stars. I like to try and figure out who has a chance to go all the way (so to speak). Reluctantly, we head back up to the frosty north this week to continue packing up the cabin. So much to do before we break ground. Remember, try to stay away from that “Pickton” pork!

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The OppenheimerReport - 1/11/07

Contrary to popular belief, I am far from perfect. For those of you who really know me, you know I am not one to obsess over personal grooming. I wash regularly, I brush my teeth, I am (I think) lice-free. Nevertheless, I am unlikely to comb what’s left of my thinning hair, I don’t always keep my beard properly trimmed, I don’t care if my shoes are polished, and I am anything but a snappy dresser. Of late, I have new grooming challenges: unexpected and unwanted hair has been growing on unlikely parts of my body like Japanese Ivy. I can’t keep up with it! The nose hair is manageable, and I have my battery powered personal groomer, or “nose hair whacker” as I call it, to keep that problem in check. Back hair is a relatively new, more bothersome blight, yet I have learned to effectively address that annoyance as well. Now, there is a new hair plague, and this one really took me by surprise … EAR hair! I used to laugh at those old men I’d see on the street with forests of thick hair growing out of their ears, but now I am beginning to feel their pain. I’m not quite to the “forest” stage yet, but let’s just say I need bigger tweezers. What a cruel and ironic joke Fate has played on me that, as my once wonderfully thick head of hair thins out, sentencing me to an imminent future of Uncle Festerdom, the unsightly hair on the rest of my body has picked up the slack. Aging is not for sissies.

Technology is a double-edged sword, and of late, I am convinced that we are reaching the point where technology is causing as many problems as it solves. I don’t need to watch television on my cell phone (nor do I need to listen to music on it, text message with it, play video games on it, use it as an electric ear hair mower, etc.), and when I do watch television, I want it to be simple. Within the past two years, our cable provider has forced us to upgrade our service to digital, and this has been anything but simple. They notified us in their bill, in tiny print, but we didn’t actually respond until we noticed that our old equipment no longer worked properly. The system upgrade has required new equipment that we needed to pick up, or pay to have delivered, and now our analog VCR does not properly communicate with the new service. We now have switches and buttons and manuals to insure that this works properly. To rub salt into the wound, these “improvements” cost more than our original service. The other day, we got a call from Shauna’s elderly aunt, asking us to help her. A power outage had blown out her old analog cable converter, and she didn’t know what to do. She has one of those old Zenith consoles that will work forever, but which is not “cable ready”. As fate would have it, her cable provider (and ours by default, because it services our apartment building), and a company whom I have grown to loathe because of their atrocious customer service, wrote her a form letter informing her that her new and improved service would require a digital converter box … and oh yes, she would no longer get some of her favorite channels, unless of course, she bought an additional package of bundled channels, which included championship lineups of such “must-sees” as CSPAN, The Accounting Channel, The Chess Channel, Wombat Planet, and of course, everybody’s favorite, al Jazeera (the French version). It used to be popular to hate the phone company, but these days, cable companies have passed them by a country mile.



It shouldn’t be long now, and it has probably already occurred, that some disgruntled customer or employee will soon be spraying automatic weapons fire through the offices of a local cable provider.

I caught a few minutes of Gerald Ford’s funeral on CNN last week. At one point, captured in its entirety on CNN, a piper was playing “Amazing Grace” in the background as pallbearers moved the casket, so badly that someone made him stop halfway through it. The guy murdered that hymn. One final comment: after hearing Kissinger and Brokaw speak, Dubya’s fumblings to follow were glaringly anti-climactic. New rules for Dubya’s speechwriter … nothing over two syllables and NO foreign pronunciations! No President left behind.

We are back up north, perhaps for the last time before our old cottage comes down. The space heaters are blaring and the wood stove is crackling, and outside there is a stiff breeze churning up mini snow tornadoes on the lake. After some annoying hiccups, the Township of Armour has basically approved our land addition, the driveway is in, and the logs have been ordered. There is still much to do, and much to clean out, but hopefully, 2007 will be the year we see the plans of these past three years come to fruition. After all the setbacks of the past few months, I am cautiously optimistic, but count on nothing.

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 12/31/06

“HALFWAY”

“It’s a rainy New Year’s Eve, and it’s so hard to believe
That the woman I used to hold so tight won’t be spending tonight with me
From my high rise I can see all the parties in the street
But the joy and celebration seem so far away from me

‘Cause I’m halfway through this bottle, halfway through my blues
Halfway to oblivion, but I’m nowhere near halfway over you.

Headlights on the highway heading downtown for the count
But I just want to fly away, take me out of this crowded town
And the rain outside is timely, because I’ve recognized that finally
When I lost you, and I’ve lost you, that was such a foolish move

Now I’m halfway through this bottle, halfway though my blues
Halfway to oblivion, but I’m nowhere near halfway over you

It’s a rainy New Year’s Eve, and it’s so hard to believe
That the woman I used to hold so tight won’t be spending tonight with me
In a moment this year will end, and you’re out with some other man
And it tears me in two to think about you giving your love to somebody new … so

Cho: repeat

I wrote that song back in the late nineties on a particularly blue New Year’s Eve. Shauna was not feeling well, and we decided to order some Chinese food and quietly usher in the New Year at home. Contrary to the tone of the song, it actually turned into quite a pleasant evening, but that moment in time inspired me to write one of my better blues songs. I don’t know why I used to feel impelled to celebrate on New Year’s Eve. I’ve had and been to some good New Year’s Eve parties, but as often as not, I would have been better off at home, with the woman I love, eating Chinese take-out and watching the world’s oldest living teenager announce the ball drop in Times Square. I’m not sure Dick Clark will be involved this year, but that’s probably how we’ll welcome in 2007.

There seem to have been a lot of notable casualties this past week so, before the birth of 2007, I will begin with the Grim Reaper. Dubbed “The Godfather of Soul” and the “The Hardest Working Man in Show Business,” R&B legend James Brown died Christmas Day at the age of 73. I never could understand much of what he sang, but it’s hard not to move when I hear his music. When I think of James Brown I am reminded of that Eddie Murphy “Hot Tub” spoof from Saturday Night Live. A Rock and Roll Hall of Famer, Brown had more than one brush with the law. I recently read somewhere that he got his start in the music business after a stint in reform school. It’s sad that the most common file photo shown on the news before he died was his mug shot, taken following an aggravated assault charge in South Carolina. I think he and Nick Nolte had the same mug shot photographer. Another notable obituary: Gerald Ford, dead at 93. Ford will probably best be remembered as the President by default who pardoned Nixon, and historians will likely debate that decision until the end of time. Often depicted as clumsy and not-that-bright when he served (Chevy Chase did my favorite impression of him on Saturday Night Live), Ford probably looks like a rocket scientist now, especially when compared to our current Commander-in-Chief. Other notable obituaries: Steve “The Crocodile Hunter” Irwin, Peter Boyle, Shelly Winters, and the annoying old man down the hall who, every time we rode in the elevator together, asked me if I’d found Jesus (to which I almost always politely replied that I wasn’t looking for him). Former Iraqi tyrant Saddam Hussein was executed last Friday night, shortly after his desperate Hail Mary appeal was denied to become a legal resident of California. The arguments will linger on about the legitimacy of Hussein’s trial, as will the debates in the international community about the U.S. influence on his public vilification and swift execution. In this day and age, it was strange to see anyone with a hangman’s noose around his neck, given the North American aversion to capital punishment. I’m glad Hussein is gone, as I’m sure are many Iraqi countrymen who suffered under his oppressive rule. Still, his death underscores the hypocrisy of U.S. foreign policy. We used to feed that monster.

Finally, I don’t know where to begin with my resolutions. I’ve had so many meltdowns in the past two months, I suppose one of my resolutions should be to remain calmer in crises. Patience is always good, and I could use a lot more of that, especially with my long-suffering wife. I’d like to learn more about Muslims, and especially about the differences among them. I hope to see more of my parents in the coming year and in general, to be a better son to them. I want to write at least five good songs in the upcoming year. I’d like us to see one Academy-nominated film before the awards are announced in 2007. In 2006, I was not consistent in writing this report weekly, and I want to get back to that schedule. Overall, I hope to be more understanding and less judgmental. And, as I do every year, I vow not to say nasty things about the French. Shauna, Jasper and I wish you a happy, healthy, safe New Year … and if you’re going to get schnockered, do it at home or take a cab. Until next year!

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2006 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Happy Holidays! - The OppenheimerReport - 12/24/06

The Night Before Christmas (In a Crumbling House)…

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
Not an appliance malfunctioned for me or my spouse
The sewer was augured, the fridge was replaced
The dishwasher’s new in its stainless steel case
The electrical panel is expanded and new,
Now we can turn on the microwave and not blow a fuse
The fifty year-old furnaces were torn out and scrapped
Now the new ones are efficient and they don’t blow out crap
The toilets that exploded have now been removed
The new ones are perfect with less water use
The carpets are up and the floors have been sanded
The bids are all in to have the bathroom expanded
The lights have been checked, and the faucets don’t leak
Indeed all of these problems are beyond our belief
And as I lay down to sleep having written this spoof
I’m just praying that Santa doesn’t screw up our roof

It always seems to me that this time of year is stressful for a lot of people. Indirectly, I’ve always picked up on the materialism and enforced gift-giving, and consequently, I have always rued the Christmas season. This is probably because I am so truthful and good that even a hint of insincerity sends me into a tailspin. Ironically, this year I haven’t had the time to notice the holiday mayhem. The other day, I suddenly realized that Christmas was upon us, when I was wandering around in Home Depot, for about the tenth time in a week, and there was very strange Christmas music playing over the P.A. I think I’ve been in a stupor of shocked disbelief for the past four weeks, expecting a new crisis to surface at any moment. The Christmas music was merely haunting background noise.

Though I’ve never been much of a fan of the holiday itself, I am a big fan of the music it has spawned over the years, particularly the comedic songs. Certainly, one of MY favorites – and I’m not even sure if I know the proper title – is “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer”. Speaking of laughter, I got a belly laugh out of some pictures in this week’s Saturday Toronto Star. On page B4 there are 9 photographs of Santa with children, and only three of the thirteen kids aren’t crying. For some reason, the photos reminded me of a very funny David Sedaris story, which I am sure I have mentioned in this report before, called “The Santaland Diaries”. In it Sedaris recounts his experiences as a hired elf at Macy’s in Manhattan during the Christmas season. It is one of the funniest things I have ever read. I realize that the real Santa is busy at the North Pole, and that these impersonators / helpers are perhaps not as jolly and comforting as the real deal, but come on folks. Is forced exposure to this parade of pseudo-Santas really good for your kids? Most of them don’t know this guy from an ax murderer. I suppose it is a holiday tradition to snap a photo of your toddler with Santa, crying hysterically, then to throw that snapshot back in the child’s face when he or she is old enough to find it embarrassing. I think it has something to do with a subliminal desire by the parents, after having sacrificed everything for their ever-demanding children, to mess with their self-esteem. Come on Mom and Dad, be nice … (the real) Santa remembers everything.

Anyhow, I hope to be back to my weekly missives soon … if the dust settles (we just had the hardwood floors sanded). May your holidays be peaceful and filled with friends and family. Jasper, Shauna, and I send you a collective hug from Toronto.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2006 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The OppenheimerReport - 12/15/06

This has been a particularly bizarre four weeks, and I’m not sure where to begin. We stopped off at the Taylors' to pick up some food on our way to the cottage, and we’ve been here ever since! Dr. Taylor just came home from the hospital today, almost four weeks after we began the lengthy and frustrating process of getting an Ontario doctor to properly diagnose his ailment. He is still far from 100 per cent but greatly relieved to be out of isolation.

Shauna and I have been living at the Taylor residence since Dr. Taylor went into the hospital, and it has become obvious to us that the Taylors have been overwhelmed for quite some time. They have not been properly maintaining their house, and the myriad of little problems and hassles began to pile up. Somehow, Shauna and I have been deluding ourselves into thinking that everything was O.K., and that her parents were taking care of their needs. Unfortunately, that has not been the case, and it has become painfully apparent that Mom Taylor, pre-occupied with the task of attending to the needs of her husband, has put off some desperately-needed repairs to their house. During the past three weeks since we moved in to this house, the sewer backed up, we discovered that there are serious plumbing problems which caused, among other things, damaging leaks in the finished basement, the alarm system has malfunctioned, more than once, and we realized that the house has had some very serious electrical problems.

It all started when we noticed some work had been left undone in their bathroom. An irresponsible plumber, hired to address the afore-mentioned leaks, had torn a big hole in their shower stall and then simply left the job unfinished. It became obvious, after consulting several other contractors, that there was a serious leak coming from somewhere in the floor. Perhaps it was a drain problem, or a water supply line, but whatever it was, it was a bigger job than originally anticipated. Then we noticed there were leaks coming from the kitchen sink, which had damaged most of the ceiling directly below in the basement. Then the sewer backed up, leaving the laundry room in the basement filled with raw sewage. This all happened within a week of our arrival. Several days later, the security alarm went off for no apparent reason, cutting off our phone line as we were getting an important update on Dr. Taylor’s progress in the hospital. Then the fridge died, and in the process of replacing that appliance, we came to the realization that the electrical service in this house was in need of some extensive repairs, which turned into a decision to replace the 25 year-old electrical panel down in the basement.

When the refrigerator died, we decided to replace the dishwasher as well. It hadn’t totally quit working yet but was in need of repair as the dry cycle was weak so we felt that the machine had reached the end of its useful life. The crowning blow occurred the other day, when we had the furnace guy come in to replace what we thought was a faulty thermostat. As it turned out, the problem was with the furnace. The repair man took one look at it and asked me somewhat astonished: “How old IS this thing?” I called the Taylors in the hospital to find out that they had lived in the house for 48+ years and had never replaced the two furnaces. Those furnaces were likely over 50 years old. Upon further investigation, the furnace guy looked at me and said, and I paraphrase: “Heat exchanger’s gone, I’m gonna have to red tag this one.”

“Excuse me, what does that mean?” I asked somewhat desperately.

“I have to shut this one down for good, by law, I cannot fire it up again …. too dangerous. I can’t stop YOU from doing it, but I’m telling you not to do it, for your own safety.” Actually, firing it back up was not an option, because I wouldn’t know how.

Keep in mind that by that time, Shauna and I had been coordinating additional health care for her father in the hospital, dealing with deadlines for the new log home, attending to Shauna’s business, shuttling Shauna’s mom to and from the hospital, dealing with the constellation of other house-related disasters, and averaging less than four hours of sleep per night. When this furnace repair man told me that we would now be without our heat source, I practically flipped out. Then came the sudden realization that, yes in fact this WAS happening and we would now need to scramble to get a new furnace (probably two, because the basement furnace was just as old) … all before the next cold snap rolled in. The next two hours featured a frantic series of phone calls to investigate our options. Those furnaces were not going to be easy to remove, because a room had been built around them AFTER they had been installed. Just before Christmas is not the best time to be shopping for this kind of work, but Shauna managed to convince the Taylors' furnace repair people to do the job quickly. Luckily, the owner of the company was a family friend, and he really helped us out when he found out what was going on in the Taylor family. Within four days, we had the furnace room wall partially knocked down, the old furnaces demolished and removed, and the new furnaces, new air cleaner, and new humidifier installed in the basement.

Just as we were breathing a sigh of relief, believing that we had fixed all the problems in the house, the two main toilets in the house malfunctioned.

Now that Dr. Taylor is finally home, I think Shauna and I might sleep for the entire weekend, confident that Dr. and Mrs. Taylor will not die of carbon monoxide poisoning or in an electrical fire. Next Tuesday, the electrician comes back to finish some of the elective rewiring work. On Wednesday, we’re moving furniture out of the way, having wall-to-wall carpets pulled up from 3 large areas, having the original hardwood floors sanded, stained, and varnished, and we will hopefully get started on the work to remodel the ensuite bathroom. I’m beginning to feel like a general contractor!

Happy Chanukah, Merry Christmas, and Seasons Greetings to one and all.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2006 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The OppenheimerReport - 11/28/06

Did you ever have a song rumbling around in your head that you can’t seem to shake? Right now, I can’t get Elvin Bishop’s “Fooled Around and Fell in Love” out of my head. I recently bought a CD of Elvin’s greatest hits, and it’s a genuine toe-tapper. My favorite Elvin Bishop song, and there are quite a few, is “Travelin’ Shoes”. On my new blog site, there is a section for my profile (enough about me, what do YOU think of me?). The truth is, there is so much music I like, it’s hard to pick favorites … and in what category? Favorite songs? Favorite albums? Favorite songwriters, singers, musicians, style of music? “Yummy Yummy,Yummy (I’ve Got Love in My Tummy)” by Tommy Roe is my favorite vacuous pop song, but how many people even have a category for that?

Shauna and I saw a commercial for PetSmart pet stores the other day and it gave us both a belly laugh. In it, a Dachshund is obviously enamored of a special toy which looks like a long, furry, stuffed hot dog. The dog carries it everywhere, and it’s hilarious to see this little wiener dog trotting along furiously with this 18” long furry hotdog in its mouth. We, the presumably dog-loving-and-would-do-anything-for-our-beloved-pet consumers, are led to believe that the dog is inseparable from its toy, but when it’s time to replace the toy, the owner sneaks in while the dog is sleeping (upside down, I might add), extricates the ratty, saliva-saturated toy from the obsessed pet, and throws it in the trash can. The next scene is of the owner and her pet at PetSmart, procuring an exact replacement. The final scene is a rear-end shot of the happy pet, merrily trotting out of PetSmart, little tushy wiggling, carrying the replacement toy in its mouth. What a sales pitch that was! Of course, we had to get one of those hotdog toys (loofah dog toys I believe they’re called) for Jasper, and it was not false advertising; Jasper loves that thing and sleeps with one paw draped over it. If you’ve never been to one, and you need pet supplies, PetSmart is worth a visit. It’s not your average pet store. Whereas most pet stores probably allow you to bring your pet inside, PetSmart actually encourages it. I went on a Saturday, and there were dogs all over the place, some who were obviously not very well house-trained. In the middle of the store, there was a dog training class with a circle of hopeful dog owners and their disobedient pets. From what I could tell in my brief observation of the class, there was much to be learned, and the pupils seemed to be a bit attention-challenged. There was also a section where dogs were being groomed, and there was a lot of barking and howling going on in that store. In this petdamonium, I had a hard time finding my hotdog toys, so distracted was I by all the crazy animals and their owners. For people and pet-watching, it doesn’t get much funnier than a pet supermarket.

We are still at the Taylors' house, almost two weeks after Dr. Taylor fell ill. He is still in the hospital suffering from a bacterial infection known as “C-Difficile”. This illness is quite serious, and can, if left undiagnosed, be fatal. Apparently, we all have good and bad bacteria in our bowels. C-Difficile is one of the bad ones, and if allowed to flourish, it can cause all sorts of problems. Most of us are healthy enough to ward off the bad stuff, but in Dr. Taylor’s case, the combination of his age, his compromised immune system, and a dose of antibiotics he took for some dental work, allowed this opportunistic bacteria to grow and take hold. Right now, he is participating in a study designed to test a new polymer drug which essentially wraps itself around the bad bacteria and prevents it from releasing its damaging toxins. At present, the conventional therapy for C-Difficile is more antibiotics – the very treatment which can cause it in the first place! Dr. Taylor is in isolation and visitors must wear rubber gloves, a mask, and a gown each time they enter the room.

Once again, our lives are on hold as we attend to the needs of our parents. At present, we are arranging for health care and dealing with a myriad of deferred maintenance issues at the Taylor home. We were supposed to have our revised plans to the log home builders two weeks ago, but that will have to wait. One of my favorite quotes (I heard it in a John Lennon song), and I paraphrase: Life is what happens to you when you’re making other plans.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2006 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Mayberry Revisited - The OppenheimerReport - 10/10/97

It’s time to play “Where are they now?”. This week, we return to Mayberry RFD to see how that sleepy little town has fared over the past twenty-five years ....
Remember Clara? She had to be institutionalized after, in a state of dementia, she was discovered flashing schoolchildren at a local elementary school. Lost without her best friend, the lovable Aunt Bea becomes a compulsive gambler, and eventually loses her house and all her worldly possessions betting at the track.

Helen Crump catches Andy (to whom she is now engaged) in bed with the town slut, dashing any hopes she might have had of marital bliss. Betrayed and jaded, she becomes a waitress/table dancer at the local biker bar, subsequently losing an eye trying to break up a vicious knife fight. Sporting her signature black eye patch, she becomes known as “One-Eyed Helen”, the meanest barmaid in Mayberry.

Unable to cope with the pressures of student life at NYU, Opie flips out one day and, before he can be subdued, sprays automatic gunfire across a crowded floor of Christmas shoppers at Bloomingdales. He is sentenced to life in prison with no chance of parole, and Andy disowns him.

Still the town drunk, Otis becomes a successful real estate entrepreneur, buying up 300 acres of farmland on the outskirts of town and developing it for industrial use. When some of the property is sold to a large landfill operation to service a nearby big city, the resulting pollution and groundwater contamination virtually decimate the once pristine Mayberry, landing it on the state toxic waste hit list. Otis profits handsomely and buys a seat on the N.Y. Stock Exchange with the windfall.

Now married, Thelma Lou and Barney raise eyebrows in the little town when they are caught in a bizarre sex scandal. In a heated session of kinky sex, they accidentally handcuff each other to their bed and, because Barney’s keys were in his pants pocket across the room, they are forced to remain in that compromised position until they are discovered the next morning by the cleaning lady . That Barney.

Howard Sprague, the honest, mild-mannered, and kind-hearted accountant grows weary of being Mr. Nice Guy. Using his computer skills to siphon off state aid targeted for Mayberry, he loots $375,000 from the town coffers, then runs off to the Caymans with Floyd's wife. Humiliated and unable to face the embarrassment of being a cuckold in a small town, Floyd stabs himself to death with his barber’s shears.

Goober is nabbed by the Feds when it is revealed that for years he had been running a “chop shop” out of his small Mayberry garage. Widely believed to be a simpleton by the local townsfolk, Goober turns out to be the most feared and respected crime boss in the state. All told, his net worth is estimated to be in the neighborhood of $23 million. He is tied to the Hoffa disappearance and several other conspicuous hits, but law officials are unable to make any charges stick. When all the witnesses in the investigation disappear without a trace, Goober gets off with a fine and a warning.

To make a long story short, Mayberry went down the crapper the day the show went off the air. Needless to say, I was shocked to hear about Aunt Bea ... and who knew about Goober?

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c1997 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The OppenheimerReport - 11/13/06 - I Have a Blog Site!

The big news this week is that I have finally entered the 21st Century and am now the proud sponsor (or whatever one calls it) of my very own blog site. If you travel to: http://theoppenheimerreport.blogsite.com/ on the Information Traffic Jam, you will find a better alternative to the emails I have been sending so far. There are photographs on the site, and text will be, perhaps for the first time, properly formatted. Unfortunately, the site is somewhat unorganized at present. Right now, there is no rhyme or reason to the order of the posts. I have included some of my favorite reports from the past fourteen years for your perusal and/or comments. I will also be able to archive past reports, which is a big plus. Most important, it is much easier for me to post now, and I hope all of you will continue to read my musings when I no longer spam you with them. In any event, you will no longer need to delete me from your email box after this report. This is a long way from the post cards I used to type up when I first began to write this weekly report to my “twelve loyal readers” back in 1992. In my first report, then President George H. Bush vomited all over some important Japanese guy. Who knew his son would be a bigger bozo?

Shauna, Jasper, and I are back in the big city for a week or so, and we will head back up to the cottage this week to sew up some loose ends. Permission to build our new driveway should be granted as soon as the town superintendent of roads returns from his hunting trip, and hopefully work will begin on that later this week. So begins Phase One. The plans for the house have been all but finalized, environmental authorities have given the project the green light, land severances should be finalized early next year, window sizes and locations have been determined, electrical and lighting locations are under consideration (log homes present a challenge in that wiring must run through log walls, and decisions tend to be final once construction drawings are completed), etc. etc. There are a lot of etceteras! The dilemma at present is whether or not to level the existing cottage. Shauna feels that all or part of it can be moved to the side while the new place is being built, thus providing us with a living space during construction, a storage facility, as well as buying us some time to salvage the paneling and other (debatably) useful building materials for use in the new place. She then anticipates using part of the old cottage as our storage shed. While I sympathize with her desire to remember the old cottage, I say, “out with the bad air”. If you go to the blog site, you will see some pictures of our property in Katrine, as well as some photos from our various mountain trips. Once I get things organized properly, new posts will appear at the top of the page.

Finally, as for the political bloodbath which recently took place in the States, I’m not at all surprised. Though I am a registered Republican (easy now), Bush and his ultra right wing conservatives lost me a long time ago. In his crusade to finish what his father started, or whatever myopic vision was his motivation for invading Iraq, he has squandered any goodwill America once had around the world. His Neanderthal views about science and right to life are crippling medical progress. How do the ethicists justify “saving” an embryo, but not a mother of three dying of cancer? The “architect” of the Bush administration, Karl Rove, has pushed the party to the far right and he has alienated moderate Republicans like me. One of my more conservative friends wrote me the other day in response to “Blue Tuesday” and he basically said “throw the Republican bums out”. Does anybody in politics ever admit they were wrong? How about that evangelical religious leader recently accused of fornicating with a gay male prostitute, AND purchasing drugs from the guy? Oops. Preach what you practice! One of the great things about democracy is that the system can and does self correct. For a couple of years, we may have a Congress that leans too far to the left, but then the pendulum will swing back. I hope.

Goodbye to 60 Minutes journalist Ed Bradley, who died last week of Leukemia. I wonder if a stem cell breakthrough might have saved his life. And thanks to our friend Zura for finally setting me up on a blog site!

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2006 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

My Beautiful Wife Shauna Leigh

Doe Lake (Old Cottage, New Dock, Jasper, etc.)

 
 
  

 
 
 
  

 
 
 
  

Doe Lake Dusk

Assiniboine Hike with Shauna

  

Canadian National Exhibition Air Show 2006

 

Avalanche near Sentinel Pass - Alberta

 

Santa - The OppenheimerReport - 12/13/98

The OppenheimerReport - 12/13/98
Most people don’t know this, but Santa and I are old buddies. I first met him back in ‘79 at a Shriners convention in Milwaukee, and we became fast friends. I’ve partied with him a few times. Santa was a real womanizer, and he had a thing for super models. It almost cost him his marriage, which is no great loss, if you ask me. In my opinion, Mrs. Claus could guard a bridge. Anyhow, I don’t enjoy chronicling Santa’s gradual physical and spiritual decline over the past several years, but better it should be me than say, Geraldo. Briefly, here’s a four year review of some of the problems that have plagued the “Teflon Elf,” leading up to this year’s nail in the coffin...

It all began to unravel for Santa after he received an FWI (flying while intoxicated) back in 1993. It had been a particularly stressful year, and Santa had been deluged by all the requests for politically correct toys, not to mention a potentially crippling elf strike. One night, after a major bender with several of his upper management elves, Santa was pulled over for driving erratically ... he was trying to mow down birds with his sleigh. To rub assault into the wound, he punched his arresting officer. Using every last ounce of his North Pole clout, he managed to avoid jail, but was sentenced to a 36 month probation along with two hundred years of community service. Worst of all, he was grounded for Christmas that year, and everything had to go out Fed Ex. That was a financial nightmare for the Clauses. Then in ‘94, there was the class action lawsuit, initiated as a result of sixty-two sleigh-damaged roofs on Long Island (that was a bad year for the reindeer... Rudolph had had them all out late the night before, and they were very rusty on the approach). This culminated in a $12 million settlement. His insurance company reluctantly covered the claim, but of course Santa was dumped right after the settlement. Now he’s completely uninsured. In 1995, perhaps suffering from “menoclaus,” Mrs. Claus had an affair with a Kuwaiti arms dealer. That whole mess was extremely embarrassing, especially when this lover was caught selling weapons to the Iraqis. Talk about pond scum! Because of all the bad press, Santa had a nervous breakdown. I won’t go into the sordid details, but let’s just say Santa desperately needed some quiet time. I’ll wager that, if it hadn’t been for the combined efforts of Dr. Ruth and Tony Robbins, Santa would today be a drooling cretin, incarcerated in a mental institution and living day to day for his paper cup full of anti-depressants. That Tony Robbins is a god.

On top of all this there was the major elf problem in 1996. A bloody elf turf war over drugs practically shut down the whole toy making operation, and three of Santa’s main elves, Guano, Horker, and Merkin, were slaughtered in a rain of bullets from a fly-by shooting. Santa never really recovered from losing them. That was also the year of the ugly copyright dispute with Disney, SPCA allegations of reindeer abuse, problems with the IRS, charges of mail fraud, toxic toy litigation, and stricter FAA regulations on air travel. In short, over the past four years, Santa has been swirling head first down the toilet of misfortune. Now, just when he’s starting to get back on his feet, scandal rears its ugly head again. In September of this year a fourteen year-old gymnast named Tiffany Kaputsky came forward claiming she can prove Santa sexually abused her last year. It’s possible this is yet another Republican smear campaign, designed to take down what is widely considered to be a Democratic icon. Of course, Santa denies everything, but apparently somebody has uncovered a pair of gym tights with Santa’s you-know-what on them and well, I think you know where this is going. I don’t know how Santa gets into these situations, but this one could turn ugly. Why anyone would want to bring down Father Christmas is beyond me, but Santa has always been a bit of a hound dog. This could be the toughest scandal he has ever faced. Somehow, through it all, he has remained focused, and every Christmas Eve, he has managed to deliver toys to boys and girls around the world. The naughty and nice have been duly recognized and coal has been put in all the appropriate stockings. Amazing if you think about it. By the way kids, no cookies for Santa this year, OK? He has a blood sugar problem.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c1998 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Lost in Space - The OppenheimerReport - 3/3/96

The OppenheimerReport - 3/3/96
More Fluff. At two o'clock this morning, while in a semi-comatose state, I was flipping around the dial for some golden nugget of late night television to watch, when I was rewarded with an episode from “Lost in Space”. Have you ever watched this show? Before it was banished to the catacombs of really late night TV, I used to watch “Lost in Space” a lot. Yeah, yeah, I know, get a life ... I tell you, this is good stuff!

Last night’s episode was, as usual, predictable (like “Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea”, wherein Kowalski always gets turned into a sea monster, but never gets killed, because they need him for the next show) ... Dr. Smith, who, in case you didn’t know, is a total jerk in every episode, once again endangers the whole family, this time by giving away one of their thrusters (no, not June Lockhart) to some bad guy from “Andy of Mayberry” who was playing a careless miner and who, in the process of digging for cosmonium (which comes in a little bottle and looks like a urine sample, but which is really the essence of life as we know it), causes the planet to become unstable and to disintegrate. It was so funny, I had tears streaming down from my eyes.

Whoever dreamed this show up deserves ... well, something. I haven’t enjoyed TV this much in ten years. The family space ship looks like an overturned Tupperware dog dish - what happened anyway, did they let the robot drive? The costumes are 1950's ski attire, and the robot, who, by the way, is my favorite actor in the series, is a moody, wise-cracking, reconditioned gravity feed furnace, with all-terrain treads for feet, a goofy big flat lightbulb for a head, flailing pool vacuum hoses for arms, who sounds like the guy who used to announce for Letterman, and who yells, “WARNING! WARNING!” a lot. The family pet is a moon chimp with furry antennae that look a little like they were ripped off a giraffe. Instead of making normal chimp noises, this thing bloops like a pot of thick chili turned up too high on the stove. They must have had a stunt chimp too, because in one scene, when the ground begins to shake, that ape is literally catapulted off the set. I wish I had taped it, because, one second it was there, and the next, all I saw was an antenna and an arm at the other end of the screen. Let me tell you, that stunt monkey earned its bananas ... I’d rather have Jackie Chan’s job. And I think that chimp was Bubbles’ mother (you’ve probably read about her torrid affair with Cheetah), which would explain a lot of things.

The evil Dr. Zachary Smith is a truly complex character. A stowaway and unwanted guest aboard the big upside down dog dish, he flits about with Will (the little boy), and the robot, pining incessantly for Earth. The writers have chosen to make him an effeminate coward, which must have been how the writers in the early 70's viewed homosexuals ... evil, selfish, and cowardly. Of course to complete the stereotype, we have three women who are total fluff heads; pretty, but too stupid and frail to handle the heavy equipment and fun-to-drive moon vehicles. Presumably, they do their hair a lot, because it is always exactly the same in each show. A critical aside: June Lockhart’s hair was a lot better on “Lassie”.

What ever happened to the cast of “Lost in Space” ... are they still out there? Maybe they can find that $460+ Million satellite NASA just lost. Maybe they’ve just faded into obscurity. Perhaps they’re selling maps to the stars’ houses. Heavy sigh.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©1996 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Barbie - The OppenheimerReport - 9/14/96

The OppenheimerReport - 9/14/96
The other night, I was surfing the tube, looking for something to watch for half an hour that wasn’t completely depressing, and I was rewarded with a documentary on Barbie ... the doll, that is. Of course I had to watch.

Forget that Saddam Hussein is very close to provoking a war with the United States, forget about the increasing use of heroin among young American adults, as reported by Dan Rather ... we have some really important news here. Barbie has big boobs ... and Ken is a rich, apathetic twit without a pecker.

When I first started watching this program, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Admittedly, I came in about a third of the way through the show, but I think I caught the drift. Basically, it was a commentary by several so-called Barbie experts about what Barbie has “done” through the ages; what she was feeling, whether sex was on her mind (tough call, because Ken doesn’t have any genitalia), and who she “became” as time went on. Is she a gum-chewing, licentious, conniving (albeit well-dressed) she-devil, or a sensitive, intelligent wonder woman, preoccupied with helping others? Does she get depressed? People were actually discussing these “issues” with a straight face.

They even went so far as to cover interviews with women who sought to be Barbie. That was frightening ... that they have Barbie look alike contests ... with real women choosing to compete in them! I recalled seeing a show about some woman who had multiple plastic surgeries in order to make herself look like Barbie. I don’t know how any of my readers feel about this, but I think what we have here are some people with way, way too much time on their hands. Surely, Barbie has provided hours of fun and entertainment for her billions of adoring, young (and old) fans. Still, at the end of the day, is not Barbie a plastic doll, with detachable limbs, painted eyes, and synthetic hair punched neatly into her empty plastic head? I don’t get it. Does Barbie worry about world peace? I think not. Is she an insult to the feminist movement in America and abroad, because she represents everything that is shallow and superficial about women? I haven’t given it much thought, but what kind of person would? Does she “do” Ken? My goodness, is NOTHING sacred? Besides, I always thought Barbie was saving herself for marriage.
There are all sorts of Barbie Dolls, and Barbie has changed over the years to reflect the times. I have a few suggestions for Barbies that I think would typify these turbulent 90's ...

Since everyone is so serious about attaching real feelings and emotions to this doll, how about ... “Pregnant Teen Barbie”, “Crack Whore Barbie”, “Single Mother on Welfare with Six Kids Barbie”, “Dominatrix Barbie”, “Wasted Rock Star on Heroin Carrying the Ashes of Her Dead Husband Around in a Backpack Barbie” ... you get the idea.

At one point during this programming gem, it was suggested that Barbie might one day be responsible for world peace, and I do think this is possible ... in fact, I have a suggestion. Why don’t they paint Barbie onto all the missiles they’re about to lob at Saddam and his unfortunate countrymen. Then she can make her small contribution to world peace ... but Mother Teresa she will never be.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c1996 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Medieval Feast - The OppenheimerReport - 1/9/00

The OppenheimerReport - 1/9/00
I watched a commercial for one of those Medieval Feast places the other night, and by golly I want to go. For those of you who don’t live in a large metropolitan area, with a glut of entertainment options, you probably don’t even know what a medieval feast place IS. This is basically a fun-filled evening for which you pay an all-inclusive admission fee to sit in an auditorium, eat meat with your hands, and watch men on horseback try to spear each other in a mock jousting match. Occasionally, there is the odd hand-to-hand skirmish and maces and balls and chains are called for, but mostly, it’s just skewering. Picture yourself tearing apart an unmanageable slab of cheap, underdone cow meat (heaven knows from what part of the cow), as you watch chainmail-clad horsemen try to impale each other with giant pool cues. If that isn’t enough excitement, their galloping horses fling large gobs of mud and saliva up into your food as they race by. You have a front row seat for all the feudal carnage and savagery you can stomach. Relive the good old days for one, very reasonable, all-inclusive admission charge. Fun per dollar, I don’t know how you can do better than this.

Call me a testosterone-choked moron, but I love crap like this. It’s not that violence turns me on, it’s more that this is simply such a ludicrous concept. It makes about as much sense as watching the Foot Surgery Channel on TV as you sit down to your spaghetti dinner.

I am reminded of a funny experience I had a long time ago, when I spent a semester studying abroad in Dublin, Ireland. I and my classmates were taken on a field trip, as part of our cultural experience, and one of our stops was dinner at a place called Bunratty Castle. It was a genuine, ancient stone castle, dating back to Celtic times, which had been transformed into a rather bizarre restaurant. First, we were served mead wine by real wenches, and then, once sufficiently lubricated, we were led into a large banquet hall for a good old-fashioned throw-the-bones-over-your-shoulder medieval feast. They BRAGGED about this. The feastitorium seated about two or three hundred, but on the night we were there it was only about half full. The tables were long, seating between forty to fifty diners, and each place setting consisted of a serrated knife and a plate, but no other utensils. For the tour group of geriatric bible thumpers from Iowa, this must have seemed quite a primitive feast, but to my study group, made up in large part by scoundrels of questionable Irish decent, armed with their somewhat muddled interpretation of what was proper medieval decorum, this was a green light to party.

After several more tankards of mead wine, we realized that the folks at the next table were a rugby team visiting from England, and that they too were getting into the spirit of things. Once our slabs of animal flesh had been served, it wasn’t long before the mother of all food fights broke out. It was instant mayhem, the likes of which I doubt the managers of Bunratty Castle had ever anticipated or even imagined.

Entertainment during our feast was supposed to be a quartet of musicians playing music from the period, and they were all dressed in those balloon pants and those funny hats with big feathers. I’m sure they felt silly enough dressed like that, but no words can describe how silly they must have felt fending off projectiles of beef with their lutes and drums. Amidst the chaos - and let there be no mistake, this was CHAOS, there sat the Iowans, calmly eating their meals with as much dignity as they could muster, (remember they have only knives with which to eat), ducking occasionally to miss the odd incoming roll or slab of meat.

Needless to say, we, the School of Irish Studies and the rugby team, were summarily escorted out of Bunratty Castle before we could finish our medieval desserts, but not before leaving our indelible mark on the patience of these tourist trap imposters. Covered with food, we were bussed back to our hotel where we spent the next four hours drinking even more and embellishing what was already a slam dunk in the “memorable experience” department. By the way, I grudgingly admit that the rugby guys won the food fight. Now, whenever I see an ad for one of these Joust-O-Rama places, it triggers fond memories of that Bacchanalian orgy in which I was so blessed to have participated.

As I approach that stage in my life to which I loathingly refer as “approaching respectability” ... that point where I would never in a million years dream of behaving with such a careless lack of decorum, I look back on my Bunratty adventure as one of the high points in my Irish experience. Sometimes, while eating dinner with my wife at a fine restaurant, I’ll toss an olive at her, just for old time’s sake. In response, she will look at me as if to say “I married a single cell organism” ... or, worse yet, she’ll simply ignore my token nostalgic gesture. That hurts. In my mind there can’t be enough of these medieval feast places to satisfy the base needs of men all over the world. It’s in our nature to be this way, and all this rubbish about the rules of civilized behavior is totalitarian hogwash, foisted upon us by prudes like Emily Post and Miss Manners.
Oh, to be medieval again! Honey, do you know where I put my good feather? It’s time to feast!

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2000 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Pastel Sunset at Little Doe Lake, Katrine, Ontario