The Oppenheimer Report 6/27/07

Transporting logs from British Columbia is not without its share of complications. The most recent delay was a quality control problem from at the log supplier, requiring that their plant be shut down for several days while they addressed the problem. As well, last week, our log load number four was supposed to arrive in Katrine, Ontario, but there was yet another problem with transport. On its way to pick up our load of logs in Kamloops, B.C., our truck hit a bear, ripping off its fuel tank and severely damaging the vehicle. You should have seen the bear. Because that was the only truck available for our load out west, our logs will not even begin their journey East until the middle of this week ... just before a big long weekend. I think it is optimistic to assume that those logs will show up on Friday as scheduled, because the highways will be jammed with Canada Day and Fourth of July holiday travelers… not to mention the inevitable road construction delays.

Last Friday was a momentous day, as we watched two large sections of the first floor ceiling laid down on the log floor joists. The builder had already stained the tongue and groove ceiling before it was laid down, so we were able to see for the first time how the stain we’d chosen will look on the house. As with any color choice, it’s impossible to make a determination based on a small color chip. Until one sees it on a wall or ceiling, one is never really sure. I’m happy with our choice.

As I write this, the first vertical logs on the lake side of the house are being fastened to the wall. This procedure was not without its own complications, and some adjustments were required to ensure a proper fit. Someone with whom we recently spoke was astounded that this project will take 8-10 months to complete, but having observed the first 35+ days, I can easily see why it will take that long. Our builder explained that log homes are the most difficult to build, because every round log, no matter how straight and true, is a little different. Field cuts and adjustments are often required, and add considerably to the time required for stacking. I’ve watched many high rises going up in Toronto and, in my 25 year career in industrial real estate, I’ve seen quite a lot of construction. I don’t think I have ever been so interested in the construction process as I have been with this house. Granted I am not a disinterested party, but log home construction is fascinating to watch.

I flipped on the tube last night and was amused by the nonstop media pre-occupation with Paris Hilton’s release from prison (after what, 23 days?!). Will she go out and party on the town right away, or spend an intimate first night of freedom, alone with her immediate family, gorging on cupcakes and champagne? Yikes!I’m sure that every generation has had its share of celebrity nonsense over which to obsess, but the cameras and the coverage seem to be growing like weeds. How about a little hard news, like the growing Republican opposition to the war in Iraq, or the increasing likelihood that Hillary Clinton could be our next President? And what happened to Rock Star Obama … I figured an endorsement by Oprah was money in the bank? I guess one needs to be careful about admitting to past drug use. It’s difficult to say you “didn’t inhale” when the drug was cocaine. – Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 6/4/07 - Happy 97th Dad!

Today is my dad’s 97th birthday and I will start this report by wishing him a happy, healthy birthday. My dad has a disarming sense of humor, and that humor hasn’t failed him well into his nineties. We took him out for dinner to a fancy wood oven pizza place last year for his 96th, and he ordered a pizza with fresh basil as one of the toppings. When the pizza came, it was piled high with fresh green basil, and he said to the waitress who served him, with his typical dry sense of humor, “I ordered a pizza, not a G-D salad!” He’s slowing down a bit, but he’s still pretty sharp, and he can still make me laugh.

On the log home front, we have had a few minor setbacks. There was a potentially serious, (but luckily not serious) mishap off-loading the second shipment of logs, we noticed some mysterious black marks on some of the logs (traced back to a Bobcat loader in B.C.) which will need to be removed, and a downed telephone line, caused by a piece of construction equipment, cut off service to our next door neighbor for about a day. Hopefully, last week was just a speed bump, but I’m guessing there will be many more surprises in store for us. Building a custom log home is not for the faint of heart, and Shauna and I have had to make some quick and irreversible decisions. We spent a good deal of our anniversary last week on the first floor of our new home, with the builder’s designer, in the hot sun, resizing many of the first floor windows. What looked adequate on the plans needed adjustment once we saw the house going up. Log homes require much larger cuts, or “rough openings”, for windows than do stick frame homes, and therein lies the problem. We thought we were being clear about how large we wanted our windows to be, but something got lost in the translation. Our builder would likely have avoided this problem, had he known about it before we finished designing the home. Unfortunately, we hired him after the house was designed, and after our first builder dropped the ball. Another complication in log home construction is that all electrical outlets and switches need to be pre-drilled for wire. Once the logs are stacked, there is no turning back. As of this week, the first floor logs are almost completely stacked, and some of the vertical logs will begin to go up soon… that is, if weather permits. As I write this, our jobsite is a quagmire of sand and mud, and at present, the temperature is hovering around 40 degrees F. The temperature dropped almost 50 degrees in one night and there have been frost warnings for Southern Ontario.

About our trailer … It includes most of the comforts of home, and we have our builder to thank for allowing us to remain on site for much of the construction process. We are still on generator power, and our water supply is a stream near the trailer, from which we pump water into a holding tank. That needs to be filled every three or four days. As well, we are beginning to become accustomed to the periodic stench which occurs whenever our sewage holding tank is pumped out. The first time this happened was a rude awakening. Now, whenever the pump truck shows up, Shauna and I scamper out of the trailer like a couple of roaches avoiding Raid. Living here is decidedly more taxing on Shauna than it is on me, but the trade off is well worth it – we are able to watch our new home take shape.
- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/28/07 - Skeeters

There’s a sculpture to which I’ve referred in earlier reports, and which we used to see on our journeys to and from Banff. I think it stood in Ignace, Ontario (I know it was somewhere in Western Ontario), and it was of a man being carried away by a giant mosquito. If you scroll down on my blog site, perhaps you will find it. Everybody who owns a cottage in Ontario’s cottage country knows that this is black fly and mosquito season. Black flies are nasty little biting insects about a third of the size of a normal housefly, and their bites are as annoying as mosquito bites. One of my resident insect experts told me that black flies are a major pollinator of blueberries. Ahh, the yin and the yang of Mother Nature. The mosquitoes are particularly bad right now, and every time we open the door to this little trailer, which is, at present, our home away from home, we let in a swarm of them. Everybody hates mosquitoes, except perhaps bats. Over the years, we’ve tried everything from Skin-So-Soft (works for about fifteen minutes) to citronella bracelets (stinky) in order to ward off these pesky insects. We use mosquito mesh jackets, which cover our faces and upper torsos, and those are fairly effective. Nothing short of insect repellant with lots of DEET seems to work. One of my favorite bug weapons is a battery-powered paddle with an electrified wire grid. One simply pushes a button to send current through the grid and it zaps the offending bug into oblivion. As a satisfying side effect, there are sparks and smoke. That paddle is about as effective as a fly swatter, but MUCH more fun to use. I’ve had hours of entertainment over the past few days (I know, I know). The other day I went to Canadian Tire to examine my options for mass extermination. We won’t opt for the mosquito fogger, because we don’t want to poison our dog. There must have been twenty different products designed to get rid of the pesky flying insects. There are bug zappers, and coils, and electronic devices, and propane contraptions, and bug patches, not to mention ten different kinds of bug repellent, ranging from highly effective, DEET-saturated, to ineffective, DEET-less, smelly herbal solutions. In keeping with my theory that throwing away large sums of money is the best way to eradicate a problem, I just purchased a “Skeeter-Vac”, which is one of several propane-fired contraptions designed specifically to attract and eliminate female mosquitoes. Females are the blood suckers (no offence, ladies), and one female can produce 25,000 offspring in her short life. In theory, if you use this device early enough in the season, you can significantly reduce the mosquito population on and around your property. It is supposed to have a range of about an acre. I’m skeptical, because we are already well into bug season, but I’m desperate enough to try anything at this point. I hooked the thing up a few days ago, and it looks like a space ship. It hums and has LED lights, and if it doesn’t work, at least it is a decorative lawn ornament.

For the past several nights, sleeping has been a challenge, because the buzz of mosquitoes is constantly distracting. All it takes is one bug to keep me awake. The morning before last, I took Jasper out for her morning pee at 6:30 AM, before the workmen were to arrive and the diesel fumes were to begin. In my sleep-deprived state, I cluelessly walked outside unprotected, wearing only a tee shirt, my boxer shorts, and rubber boots. Jasper took her sweet time doing her business, and I was eaten alive. I was covered in mosquitoes and black flies in a matter of moments, and I can’t imagine what I must have looked like to any spectators as I thrashed about wildly trying to fend them all off. By the time I re-entered the trailer, I was a quivering, twitching mass of frayed nerves. Jasper thought I’d gone nuts.

Next week, perhaps I’ll thrill you with tales of our foray though utilities hell. The first course of logs is going up as I write this. We still do not have Hydro hooked up, in the trailer or the job site, and that means that we rely on a generator for power. I figure it cost us about a buck thirty to watch “House” via satellite (and well worth it!). Until next week…

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 4/30/07

A few weeks ago, I decided to renew my U.S. passport. Though it was several months away from expiration, I was advised by a customs & immigration officer that it would be a good idea to renew as much as three months ahead of time. I went to the photo shop next door and paid a ridiculous sum of money for the predictably poor 2”x 2” required photos. Though I had briefly considered renewing my passport by mail, when I read up on the procedure, I realized that I would have been required to surrender my old passport. Under no circumstances could I see myself handing my passport over to Canada Post, who it seems raise their postal rates monthly, and in inverse proportion to the service they provide. With so much talk in the news about identity theft, I didn’t feel right about surrendering my valid passport to any postal system, be it registered mail, overnight delivery, or pony express. Therefore, bright and early one frigid Tuesday morning, I rode my bicycle down to the U.S. Consulate to renew in person, existing passport and overpriced photos in hand. Oblivious as I am to the post-9-11 era of security – keep in mind that neither Shauna nor I have been on a plane in over ten years – it never occurred to me that there might be heightened security involved in this venture.

The first problem I encountered occurred before I even entered the front door of the consulate. A very serious looking security officer told me that no cell phones or electronic devices of any kind were permitted in the building. As I had on my person my electronic organizer and my cell phone, with no car in which to lock them up, I stuck them in my gloves and hid those in my bicycle helmet, which I then locked to the bike. I suppose someone could have stolen them, but at least the items were out of plain sight, and both devices are password protected. Relieved of my electronic devices, I was permitted to enter the building, where I immediately underwent an X-ray, and a rather comprehensive body scan. No cavity search? Piece of cake! Next, I was told to go down the hall and take the elevator to the third floor. That sounded simple enough, but when I walked down the hall, I saw a line of at least one hundred foreign-looking people waiting anxiously. Thankfully, that was the line for political refugees and other wannabe North Americans. I did not need to wait in that line. I then came to another security checkpoint, and they led me through another locked door and into a room with even more people waiting to be seen. Next, I was ushered through yet another locked door (I was by now beginning to feel like I was living out one of my numerous frustration dreams), through another checkpoint, and finally to a little room with an elevator. It was very odd to be waiting in a small, secured room, simply to take an elevator. After I got off the elevator on the third floor, I was greeted by yet another security officer who let me though yet another locked door, and finally, into the passport room. I waited in line for a few minutes to be informed by the expressionless lady to “Take a number, go over there, pick up a renewal form , fill it out, then wait for your number to be called.” No “have a nice day” or nothin’. When I followed her instructions, I noticed that I was now in another room filled with applicants. There were two seemingly identical forms on a table and, of course, I filled out the wrong one. Neither form had the word “Renewal” on it, and there were no clear instructions (and no one to ask without waiting in line again) directing me to use one form or the other. Was this a test … had I already failed?



In fact, the form I did fill out seemed to address renewals in some vague and ambiguous way. I found out my mistake when my number was called and the expressionless lady with no personality berated me for my stupidity. She didn’t actually use the word “stupid”, but her actions strongly implied that she thought I was a cretin.

The rest of the experience was textbook bureaucratic foolishness – go to this booth, then go to that booth, no the other “that” booth dummy … now jump through a hoop of fire while yapping like a Yorkshire Terrier … you know, the usual government nonsense. I was reminded of the “Bring me a shrubbery” sketch from Monty Python’s “The Holy Grail”. Finally, I ended up back with the expressionless lady, who punched a bunch of holes in my perfectly good passport, stamped it “cancelled” and told me she was done with me. Thankfully, exiting was much easier than entering. When I got back to my bicycle, my organizer and phone were still there. Cynic that I am, it briefly occurred to me that, if they are so concerned about security, perhaps no vehicles should be allowed to park next to a consulate.

Given all the red tape I went through to renew in person, I might have been better off just mailing it in. After all my efforts to protect my identity, I realized that the new passport would be arriving by mail anyhow. The good news is that, about four days after I made the renewal application, my new passport arrived by Fed-Ex. With its watermarks and holograms, and special paper, the new passport looks as if it would be difficult to forge. I’ll bet that when I next renew in ten years, passports will be entirely different. Perhaps by then, technology will render paper passports obsolete, and citizenship will be determined by retinal scans, fingerprint identification, or perhaps even DNA testing. As with all technology, someone will then figure out a way to undermine it and to do something evil with it. Then again, perhaps evil will be rendered obsolete.

One final observation related to the above-mentioned exercise: I think it’s time America changed her national anthem. Even if one CAN sing, which, judging from the last hockey game I attended, clearly most of us cannot, the American National Anthem is a horrible tune, which is difficult to sing, and includes too many references to violence. While I understand that freedom comes at a cost, and that brave men and women have lost their lives to protect my freedom, I think it’s time to downplay references to “the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air”, in favor of more emphasis on our love of freedom. I wonder if anybody is working on the Iraqi national anthem yet. Perhaps that is a bit premature. This passport exercise reminded me of how lucky I am to live in a (relatively) free country, and that I must never take that freedom for granted.

-Written by Jamie Openheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 4/16/07 Demolition!!

This is a momentous week for Shauna and me because, after three years of planning, several false starts, and a lot of plodding through the labyrinth of town regulations and government bureaucracies, our site plan was finally approved. Last week, our builder obtained a demolition permit, and our little cottage was knocked down. We were not able to make it up for the demolition – probably for the best – but the builder e-mailed us almost 70 photographs documenting the process, from beginning to end. Looking at those pictures was harder for Shauna than it was for me and, of course, there were tears. Shauna had been going up to that cottage every summer since she was a little girl and, like so many other people, she equated the physical structure with the memories that it embodied. I had mixed emotions, because I’d spent a lot of time fixing the place up. In the past ten years, I’d painted the entire cottage twice, veneered the fireplace mantel, rebuilt the concrete and tile floor around the fireplace, patched other sections of concrete floor, stripped and refinished transom windows, rebuilt screen doors, re-pointed the stone chimney (which we will thankfully reclaim for the new place), rebuilt two of the three beds, replaced screens and window glass, etc. As any cottager will tell you, every dwelling has its idiosyncrasies. Dr. Taylor had mentored me well on how to cope with all the eccentricities of this cottage … things like how to jury-rig the finicky old water pump, how to ream out the pipes in the bathroom when they became clogged with silt, and how to deal with all the quirky electrical problems, etc. There was always something that needed fixing up there. Near the end, I began to feel a little like the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike. That crazy poltergeist/electrical problem to which I referred in one of my recent reports, was the final straw. Still, it was strange to see the demolition photos. To console Shauna, I reminded her that many people who experience a fire or a natural disaster do not have the luxury of controlling the change to their living situation. We were able to salvage much of what we wanted to save from the old place, before it was knocked down, and we have all the furniture and mementoes safely stored away to put in the new place. In our hearts we know that this change will be a good thing, but we embark on this journey with just a hint of apprehension.

It is somewhat traumatic to see the vacant lot … an empty canvas, if you will. We’ve spent well over 18 months designing the new home and, with the aid of the log home company and our builder, I think we’ve created (on paper, at least) an amazing new home, custom designed to meet our special needs. That said, in so many ways our design is unlike any other log home, and we won’t really know if we got it right until it is up. While we have seen elevation drawings, we really don’t have a clear picture of what it will look like in 3D. It’s much bigger than the cottage it will replace. Eventually, we intend to spend most of our time living up there, so we feel considerable pressure to create exactly what we want. There will be no one else to blame but ourselves if we don’t get it right. Log home design is very unforgiving; get it wrong and it cannot be modified once the logs are cut. It has been almost a year of designing, researching and interviewing door manufacturers, window companies, hardwood floor providers, lighting specialists, HVAC options, stain companies, etc..


There have been countless hours on the phone with our guardian angel, Dave Schemenauer, our representative from Neville Log Homes out in British Columbia. With Dave and our fantastic builders, The Thornton Group, we’ve spent hours in meetings and on the phone, hashing out such issues as window placement, log size, roof profile, placement of decorative stone, and what turned out to be the extremely challenging task of determining where to place the stairs.

Our builder predicts that this project will take about 8 months to complete, if everything goes as planned. Of course, that never happens, and I’m sure there will be plenty of obstacles along the way. As soon as our builder began to dig out the basement he came upon two huge boulders which were too big to move with an excavator. Their removal will likely be the subject of another report, and I’m sure that future reports this summer will be filled with references to this building project. To quote an oft-repeated redundancy, this is our “new beginning.” It’s been a long time coming, but our new log home is finally underway. Yahoo!

Author Kurt Vonnegut died last week at the age of 84. Most people know him for his most famous book “Slaughterhouse 5” but did you know he penned the lyrics to that Ambrosia hit “Nice, Nice, Very Nice”? Shock jock Don Imus can kiss his broadcasting career goodbye after his disparaging and racist remarks about the championship-winning Rutgers University women’s basketball team landed him in hot water with just about everyone in America but the KKK. I find it somewhat ironic to see and hear some of the media hyenas passing judgment on his blunder. And I know I have said this before … we know we’re in trouble when Al Sharpton is deemed to be the voice of reason. Clearly what Imus said was wrong and inexcusable, but anybody who has listened to the guy over the years (I’ve caught a few minutes here and there), will see that he is overtly offensive on a regular basis, and he is an equal opportunity offender. I am somewhat encouraged about any controversy which can spark a debate about racism in America, but let he (or she) who is without sin cast the first stone… I won’t be casting any stones. This latest controversy brings to mind that Tom Wolf novel “Bonfire of the Vanities”, and I think there is a character to mimic Reverend Sharpton in there somewhere. After the recent racial slurs spewed by comedian Michael Richards (a.k.a. Kramer from Seinfeld), it is clear that some of us have rage and hatred in our hearts. The good thing about the Imus and Richards controversies is that they out that rage, and their words have caused me to look within myself to review and assess my own prejudices.

“We have seen the enemy and he is us.”

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 4/9/07 - New Demo

First of all, a belated Happy Easter to those of my readers who celebrate. Though I am a member of “the tribe”, I participated in my share of Easter egg hunts in my youth. I have a fuzzy memory of one Easter, a long time ago, when my mother hid a dozen boiled eggs in our house. After the hunt, my sister and I had found only eleven eggs. Somehow, that twelfth egg remained undiscovered for several months, until someone turned on a seldom-used lamp, and it began to stink like nothing we’d ever smelled before.

In the “enough-about-me-what-do-YOU-think-of-me” department, I recently had one of the most rewarding experiences of my songwriting career. Anybody who has heard one of my songs knows that they seriously lack proper production. All too often, when I have recorded a song I wrote, the comments from my friends have had a familiar theme: “Well, Jamie, that MIGHT be a good song, but it’s hard to tell, because you so hopelessly suck as a performer.” I think several of my songs are pretty good, but writing a good song and performing it are often two very different things. Dylan is a gifted writer, but his voice sounds like a dying moose. He can get away with that, but I need all the help I can get.

In the past, I’ve had some unsatisfactory experiences having demos produced. A demo should be a fair representation of how you want your songs to sound, but demo guys don’t always share your vision. I think that happens a lot in the arts … an artist creates something - a song, or a book, or a painting - and then some so-called expert tells him or her how to make money by changing it. Some of those experts are effective, but as often as not, they simply ruin what was once very good. One of my biggest problems with pop music today is that it represents the antithesis of creativity. It seems to me as if everything has been passed through some kind of song homogenizer … the same insipid lyrics, the same forgettable melody lines, the same synthesized drum beat, the same Mariah Carey trill-laden voices. Even rap has become pop-sanitized. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d hear some English drum machine band from the Eighties (music I used to hate) and think to myself, “Gee that didn’t sound half bad … maybe I should give Flock of Seagulls another chance!”. Whatever happened to pop anthems like Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out” or Deep Purple’s “Hush” or Spirit’s “I Got a Line on You”?

Recently, I had a small hand in producing the first demo of which I am truly proud. For the first time ever, I’ve heard one of my songs played the way I’d hoped it would be performed. The best part was that I was able to watch the process from beginning to end, and to be a creative part of it. You may have heard me praise my singer/songwriter friend Bobby Cameron. He’s one of a handful of unique Canadian musician/songwriters who have so far fallen through the cracks of a myopic and fickle music industry. Luckily, with the advent of digital music and the internet, the listening public can decide for themselves. Bobby’s getting a lot of hits on his website www.bobbycameron.com and on his www.myspace.com/bobbycameron site, and I think his “buzz” may finally be building. Click on either of these sites to learn more about Bobby and to hear samples of his music. I was extremely excited when he agreed to produce a demo of several of my songs, and a few weeks ago, we just about finished the first song, entitled “Strange Holiday”. Though this is merely a demo, without all the bells and whistles of elaborate production, Bobby nailed that song, and he made me proud to have written it. It’s odd, because out of the 120+ songs I’ve written to date, “Strange Holiday” was one of the last songs I would have chosen to demo. I wrote it fifteen years ago, and I never dreamed it would come alive the way it has with Bobby’s creative influence. While recognition and compensation are generally considered to be the benchmarks of success in songwriting, I can honestly say that nothing so far in this creative process has been as satisfying as hearing a song I wrote professionally performed.

Final comments about the changing trends in the music industry: In the past month or so, Shauna and I have been exposed to some unbelievably talented artists through the Internet. With the advent of sites like MySpace.com, and YouTube, free, world-wide forums for anybody to broadcast their “story” (bio, music, writing, etc.), there are finally places on the Internet where the public can pick and choose. I hope that the enormous sums of money now being spent to promote mediocrity in pop music will eventually be diverted to promote more worthy artists, or in some way provide a suitable venue for those artists. A few months ago, I’d never heard of an Aussie guitarist named John Butler, now the John Butler Trio is one of my favorite bands, and their popularity is quickly building in the States. Their new-found fame is in large part due to Internet exposure, not to mention a brilliant live act. I think this massive cyberspace forum for alternatives to the Timberlake’s and the Puff Diddley’s will eventually level the playing field. A talented band with good songs and a good live act might now have a better chance to break the chains of anonymity. Perhaps we can even wrest the music industry market from the undeveloped hands of twelve year-olds and return it to the adults.

I hope you will give Bobby Cameron a listen; I expect to get an MP3 of “Strange Holiday” up on a site soon for any and all to hear. Long live the Internet!

Happy Easter … and remember, find all of those eggs, or you’ll be sorry!

–Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

OLDIE -The Oppenheimer Report - 9/21/97 Kitty Kelly

There is no shortage of books relating to the Royal family and now, probably because of Princess Diana’s recent death, there is yet another unauthorized biography to throw on the dung heap, this one by Kitty Kelly. In “The Royals,” Ms. Kelly digs her own little cellar out of Royal dirt and, with all the diplomacy and tact of Attila the Hun, she insinuates, among other things, that the Queen Mother could have been illegitimate, and that Charles beat Di during their marriage. Why not just entitle this one “The Royals Are a Bunch of Philandering, Illegitimate Bullies.” I wonder if Ms. Kelly brings up (or just causes others to bring up) the episode in which Prince Charles was caught chasing one of the Corgis around the palace, buck naked, wearing the Queen’s crown, and flailing a broadsword. It’s a good thing they were able to keep that one out of the tabloids. This latest book by Kelly will be just another nail in the coffin of the struggling and scandal-plagued British monarchy, but more important, it is confirmation that the book publishing industry has its share of bottom feeders, just like the tabloid industry.

And speaking of crap... I just watched the MUCH Music Video Awards on T.V. - that’s a Canadian version of M(usic)TV in the States - and I have two words to say: it sucked (as did the MTV version suck last week). I’m not slamming the videos - some of those music videos were extremely creative, but the groups generally stunk ... bad enough in fact to make rap sound good to me. Actually, I’m beginning to like rap ... go figure.

I used to think I was fairly open-minded when it came to the subject of popular music, but I am officially declaring myself an intolerant old fart. I didn’t get the alternative stuff, and I don’t get this latest fashion show. To me, a lot of it isn’t music, it’s bad performance art, and a lot of real musical talent will never get air play because these aberrations with agents are hogging the limelight.

I watched the controversial Marilyn Manson perform the other night ... have you seen this guy? He looks a little like Morticia from the Addams Family and he performed as the last act on the MTV Awards. Dressed in a sort of dominatrix leather teddy, butt cheeks fully exposed, wearing black lipstick and lots of eye makeup, Mr. Manson regaled us all with one of his grating “hit” singles. The music was devoid of melody, his lyrics were unintelligible, though passionately delivered, and the spectacle was intentionally nightmarish. My wild guess is that Mr. Manson wants to use his “art” to decry our vanity-driven society, and that he is on a crusade to rid the world of superficial, fashion-driven icons. He certainly got rid of this fashion-driven icon. Hey, somebody must be buying this crap, because Mr. Manson was one of a number of popular acts (including U2, a band I like) invited to perform at this awards ceremony. Another group I can do without is a British band called Prodigy. Their video won some awards, and I can only say I’d prefer to hear fingernails dragged across a blackboard over this white noise.

When the whole Seattle grunge movement caught fire, and everyone was hanging on Kurt Cobain’s every tortured word, I thought the whole thing was pretty silly. I liked some Nirvanna songs, but when they became the pied pipers of adolecent angst I lost interest. I know I’m just ranting, and I know some of you could care less about my opinions on popular music, but the last thing I want to hear is flash-in-the-pan teenaged chowder heads spewing flavour-of-the-month “music”. I like Rock and R&B with intelligent lyrics, and I can’t seem to find much of it on my radio these days ... at least not in the “new release” category.

I’m feeling especially mean tonight ... maybe I’ll write a book about somebody. Watch out Camilla....

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c1997 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 3/26/07

I’ve never really had a handle on how many people read this report. Perhaps more people read it when I was force-feeding their email boxes with it. I joke a lot in this column about our experiences, and it might appear, to the reader who does not really know us, that we lead a relatively active and normal life. Nothing could be further from the truth. In this report, I rarely make more than a passing reference to Shauna’s illnesses, but perhaps through this week’s entry, I can explain once and for all why Shauna and I lead a relatively cloistered life. A few weeks ago, someone we consider to be a close friend admonished Shauna because, in her opinion, we had elected to attend some event when we had so often declined her invitations. How could Shauna summon the energy to attend this or that event, but so often seemingly push her friends away? This week’s report is for anyone who knows a caregiver or a sufferer of chronic illness. It is from this caregiver’s perspective, and it may perhaps shed some light on the bizarre life we lead. Bear with me, and I promise to be characteristically inane next week.

Shauna suffers from several debilitating illnesses. She has Crohn’s Disease, Fibromyalgia, and a chronic pain condition known today as CMP (Chronic Myofacial Pain), which is sometimes associated with Fibromyalgia. Many people know someone with FMS (Fibromyalgia Syndrome), and some of those sufferers are doing better than others. That is because FMS comes in many forms, and each case is unique. Most sufferers complain of muscle pain, lack of sleep, a lack of energy, etc., but in its more severe form, FMS can be crippling. Some sufferers complain of chronic severe pain, and sometimes that pain is so acute that it makes physical activity extremely difficult.

FMS and CMP are better understood now than they were a decade ago. When Shauna was first diagnosed, almost thirteen years ago, little was known about those illnesses, and many in the medical community flatly denied that they existed. Imagine being told that the pain you feel is all in your head, and that all you need to do is “get on with your life and to quit complaining so much”. Diagnosis and treatment, including pain management, are far more effective today than they used to be, but these diseases, and they are diseases, are still enigmatic, and there is still no “magic bullet” to cure them. The only way I can explain it -- and this is a vast oversimplification -- is that it appears as if something within the sufferer’s brain chemistry goes out of whack, often the result of some physical or emotional trauma, and the “computer chip” in the brain, which regulates everything from sleep, to light and temperature sensitivity, to how much pain a person feels, goes haywire. Where the brain is concerned, there are many mysteries still to be solved. Some patients who suffer from these chronic pain conditions complain of full body migraines. For any of you who have suffered a genuine migraine headache, you will understand that this is debilitating pain. Shauna is, unfortunately, at the severe end of the FMS/CMP spectrum. She is never without pain, and when she experiences a “flare”, when her pain level spikes, it fairly well shuts down any plans we have made.

Living with chronic, sometimes debilitating pain is complicated and challenging. From the standpoint of the caregiver, it is hard because I never know from day to day what we will and won’t be able to do. As well, much of the legwork of the relationship (the errands, the shopping, the “heavy lifting”) falls upon me. As a caregiver, I constantly seek the balance between Shauna’s needs, and my needs. Am I being selfish, or am I merely protecting myself? Sometimes, it can all be quite overwhelming. From the sufferer’s point of view, the challenges are much more complicated. The illness is psychological warfare. On top of constantly feeling like she has the flu, including the attendant aches and pains which sometimes escalate to full blown excruciating pain, Shauna is often disappointed in herself, and she lives with the constant, nagging guilt that she is a burden on the ones she loves the most. Sufferers miss more important events than they attend, and they live with the constant knowledge that almost everything about the active life they once led has been stripped away from them. One psychiatrist talking about chronic illness said that one of the stages of the illness is the mourning process: the sufferer mourns the loss of his or her health. I could go on and on about the challenges we face, but I realize everyone has problems. Ours are worse than some, not as bad as others. I honestly can’t complain, because I genuinely feel that I have found my soul mate in life. Whatever adversity is attached to this relationship is, in my opinion, worth it. I also firmly believe that we were all put on this earth to learn, and there can be no more profound learning experience than chronic illness. If you haven’t already, many of you will face this lesson someday. Thankfully, for most of you, it won’t be until you are old.

In the past thirteen years, we have missed a lot of weddings, funerals, concerts, parties, flights, holidays, and sports events, etc. Often, we will be on our way out the door when we must cancel our plans. We don’t fly anymore, partly because we have missed so many flights. We rarely go to the movies, because Shauna has difficulty concentrating on a film for two hours straight, so distracting is her pain. Instead, we watch videos at home, where we can stop and rewind. Illness is by its nature isolating. We don’t like that; we both used to be very social people. These days, social events are frequently overwhelming, and we often decline parties we would like to attend. The reason we are building our new home away from the city is that Shauna does much better in a clean air environment, away from the frenetic pace of the big city. We hope that one day, we will once again be able to entertain. Shauna puts on a pretty good act, and if you spoke to her on the phone, you’d think she was fine, but almost any social activity is exhausting for her. She has a limited bank of energy, and one night out can set us back a week. Add a doctor’s appointment or two to the equation and you have the makings of a meltdown.

We are managing our life as well as we can, and our sense of humor and love of music keep us sane, most of the time. Everybody faces adversity, and we have become acutely aware of this fact, perhaps because of our circumstances. If you know a friend or family member who suffers from chronic pain or is otherwise seriously ill, try not to judge them too harshly, and do not burden them with your disapproval or disappointment. Instead, try to show that you understand. The attempt alone will be appreciated. However strange our behavior may seem, there is often a pretty good reason. We are painfully aware of everything we miss, and every one we disappoint. Believe me. Thanks for reading.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2007 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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