The Oppenheimer Report 10/27/14

A therapeutic burger at Webers on the way home

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

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

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

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

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

 

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/20/14

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

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

 

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

 

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

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/13/14

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

  

 

 

 

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

 

 

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

 

The Oppenheimer Report 10/6/14

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/2/14

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

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

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

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

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

  - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

9/29/14

To my twelve loyal readers ...

This week's report will be delayed a few days, but I will be back. Thanks for reading!

Jamie

The Oppenheimer Report 9/22/14

Camani's Screaming Heads

Last Saturday, my best friend Bob and his wife Laura drove all the way up from Buffalo to visit us here in the near north. I was recently corrected when I mistakenly referred to our locale as “the great white north.” This term apparently refers to that vast area of the untamed wilderness hundreds of miles to our north. And there is a LOT of Canada further to our north.  Bob and Laura have not seen our house since they visited well before its completion, around in 2009. Their first visit was when the logs were stacked about halfway up the second floor, and the house had not yet been stained. Their second visit occurred when the house was nearly complete. Quite a lot of water has rushed under the old bridge since that last visit, and the house feels decidedly more lived in now. That includes the flying squirrels, bats, groundhogs, voles, and various other rodent and non-rodent creatures which call Jasper Bark Lodge their home. Of course, and in keeping with the kind of summer it has been up here, the weather was desperate, as the Irish might say, and it poured cats and dogs for their entire visit. Not to be discouraged, Saturday we seized one break in the deluge to take a quick boat ride to the far end of the big lake. Sometimes one must simply ignore the horrible weather. That is what foul weather gear is all about.

Sunday we had great plans to do some more foul weather boating before our guests had to leave, but the rain came down too hard. So much rain fell that it almost sank my little dinghy.  Instead, Shauna and I gave our friends a guided tour of Burk’s Falls and the surrounding area. Everyone who travels to our community should see our new (and only) stoplight, and of course, the recently constructed Tim Horton’s donut emporium. That Timmy’s really put us on the map, and people should be made aware of the fact that Burk’s Falls has now “arrived.” Next, we drove out Midloathian road to the site of Peter Camani’s sprawling property and sculpture park, Screaming Heads. Carmani is or was an art teacher at one of the local high schools, and is well known in the area for his giant, sometimes spooky, concrete sculptures, spread out across his vast property. What has been a work in progress for well over fifteen years now is a formidable art installation. One can learn more about this unique phenomenon simply by googling “screaming heads”. Frequently there are special events held on the property – I understand he’s thrown a mean fall equinox party or two – and when we visited last Sunday, there were a Frisbee golf tournament in progress. There were thirty or more cars in the parking lot, and I felt awful for the attendees, mostly campers in tents, because the weather was bordering on abominable. I suppose we must all suck it up and quit complaining about the weather ... as if that will ever happen! I wish there was at least some way of diverting a little of this precipitation to my cousins in the Northwest, who are complaining of draught.

I’ve been working to improve my performing skills, and have been practicing my songs at home in front of a mic and with an amplifier. Recordings of my recent live performances have made it obvious to me that there is ample room for improvement. As I seem to have more and more opportunities to play my songs in public – I have been offered two more shows in the next week – I need to work on presenting my songs better. About a month away from shoulder surgery, I am eager to get as many live performances under my belt as I can before a possibly long hiatus. Last week, I was fortunate to perform again at the third Friday Burk’s Falls coffee house, the first in its new venue. These shows are now being held at the Burk’s Falls Royal Canadian Legion, which provides a room much better suited for live performances than the old venue. All of the artists put on a great show last Friday night, and I think we were well received. I had the pleasure of calling up my friend Barry Hayward to accompany me on the conga drums for two of my songs. He really improved my performance, so thank you Barry! I am delighted to be playing my music in front of an attentive audience, and I hope I can continue to do this for a long time. Carpe Diem, weather be damned.     

 

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/15/14

Friend and fellow songwriter Douglas McLean performing at Muskoka Sound

Last weekend marked the first  Muskoka Sound music festival in Huntsville, and there were about thirty acts that played from Friday through Sunday, including the local musicians who played on the second “home grown” stage. Shauna was not able to join me, much as she wanted to, because she could not have enjoyed this outdoor event in such inclement weather. It was very cold and rainy, and there was even a frost warning Saturday night. The festival grounds were a muddy mess and people were trudging through the muck with great difficulty, many of them wearing the wrong footwear. At one point our family doctor walked by, and as she waved to me, one of her boots got stuck in the mud and came off her foot. The suction of the mud was not allowing her to hop and she planted her stocking foot deep into the bog. Regardless of Mother Nature’s lack of cooperation, attendance was good, and I very much enjoyed hearing most of the artists.  

I do not usually consult the internet for my inspiration, but I watched a short video on Facebook the other day, which Shauna brought to my attention, and the title captured my interest: “Why I Think the World Should End”. I liked it enough to share it on my Facebook timeline. It is not, as the title would suggest, a negative message at all, and the poetic language in it really moved me. It covers a lot of ground and it struck a nerve. Perhaps because it feels as if winter has arrived early, and I am a little gloomy while writing this week’s installment, that video really expressed what I have been feeling. With all the bad news stories spewing out of my TV set, sometimes it seems as if the sky is falling, and I lose my perspective. Last week, amidst the usual headliners (Syrian conflict, Isis, threat, Ukrainian struggle; who knew what, when, and who covered it up … the usual), there was yet another story of celebrity misbehavior which saddened me. NFL football player, Ray Rice was fired from the Baltimore Ravens after a video surfaced of him punching and knocking out his then girlfriend (now his wife), in the elevator of an Atlantic City casino. The incident was caught on security videos which somehow found its way into the hands of scandal-obsessed TMZ. This is the “news” organization also responsible for outing former Clippers owner Donald Sterling, when he uttered racist remarks to a young girlfriend. As disturbing as is Rice’s deplorable act of domestic violence, the bigger question is, why didn’t the NFL do anything about it until it was revealed by TMZ? Apparently this incident was made known to the NFL long before the video became public. I suspect the answer is pretty clear: what (we think) they don’t know won’t hurt them. Ugh. What amazed me were the commentators who condemned the media for jumping all over this story. The guy punches his woman unconscious, in a public place, then drags her limp body out of an elevator in front of more security cameras. Domestic violence is not defensible in any way shape or form, regardless of circumstances. One can debate the subject of how this information became public but hello, it happened in public,  and it is contemptible behavior in any modern society.

Last Thursday night, I was working with some lyrics on the computer, and it was not until I went to save the file, which I usually date, that I noticed it was the anniversary of 9-11. I paused for just a moment to remind myself that this horrible event happened thirteen years ago, and I still clearly remember the day. My generation’s Day of Infamy. Shauna and I were in our high rise apartment in Toronto when the news came out, and I remember the palpable feeling that the Free World was under attack. Now, not a day goes by when I do not feel that intangible threat looming.  I cannot seem to escape the omnipresent news stories that remind me.

 

Lies on the telly, lies in the paper, dirty little lies we believe

Everyone’s selling scandal and fame like they’re red hot commodities

Talking heads, to the walking dead, beamed off the Uranus feed

Preaching to the choir, stoking the fire, giving us all what we need  

 

excerpt from  “A Dishonest Man”

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/8/14

Shauna and I met a man named Sam Fattore a year or so ago at one of the Burk’s Falls "Coffee House"open mics. I was scheduled to perform, and we arrived a little after the show had begun. There were only a few seats left and Sam and his wife Betty offered to let us sit with them. Sam was also performing that night, and he played some of his favorite “old country” covers. He had a good voice for country music - he sounded a little like Hank Snow - and I bought his CD at the end of the night. Over the next year, I bumped into Sam and Betty several times at various musical gatherings, usually at places where Sam was performing, and we would discuss our musical pursuits. While our styles were entirely different, we shared a passion for good songwriting.

Jump ahead to this past June, and I was leaving my doctor’s office after a checkup. I bumped into Sam and Betty in the lobby of the medical building. He was sitting in a chair, and Betty was at his side with  her arm around his shoulder. He said he’d experienced heat stroke while chopping wood and he looked exhausted and beat up. We spoke for a few minutes, and I said I’d see them again soon, but I walked away a little rattled. He looked much different from the vital man I‘d seen several months before. Then, last week I took Shauna to the Huntsville hospital for an X-Ray and, as we were walking out, I spotted Betty in the waiting area. Next to her was Sam, now in a wheelchair, looking as if he’d aged thirty years. One look in Betty’s eyes spoke volumes about what had happened. Since I’d last seen them, Sam had been diagnosed with lung cancer, had had one lung removed, but the cancer had spread. The prognosis was clearly grim. Shauna and I sat with them for ten or fifteen minutes while they waited for the doctor, feeling the same awkward helplessness anyone feels in that situation. We made small talk about music. In a quiet voice Sam looked sadly at his boney hands and sighed with resignation “I can’t even hold a guitar in my hands anymore.”

I spent most of last summer in Sunnybrook Hospital watching my beloved father-in-law slowly drift away. We were at that hospital every day, and in a hospital, death is your constant companion. It is an odor in the air, it is the sad look in the eyes of a passing wheelchair-bound patient, it is the helpless look of false hope in a family member’s face as they screen out the bad news a doctor is giving them. Everything in a hospital is too slow or too fast, but always out of step with the outside world. You meet and bond with complete strangers who are going through a similar experience, and you are confronted with lessons none of us can avoid. Now, just short of a year from the date of Dad Taylor’s passing, approaching Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, I find myself faced with another living ghost. I can try to blot him out of my mind, or I can dwell on him obsessively, or, as I have chosen to do of late, I can remind myself to live and to appreciate my life, our lives. I feel sometimes that as I age it is getting harder for me to connect to other people. I have to try harder. We live in an age where information is coming at us fast and hard. I can know exactly what a friend in Los Angeles is doing and exactly when he is doing it, just by consulting his Facebook page. I can even access this “information” on my phone. But as intoxicating as is the delusion that I am connecting with this friend, I am not. As much as I try to keep in touch with my friends, some are slipping away from me, fallen soldiers on the battlefield. Sam is just an acquaintance, one of the locals whom I have come to know superficially, but he is a reminder to me that we are all connected, somehow. I don’t often admit that I pray, but the older I get the more I do it. I don’t consider myself a religious man, and my problems with conventional religion are too many to list. And yet I pray. For my buddy Edmond in Buffalo, down for the count with MS, for the mother and father on the news who lost a little girl to some fiend; I pray for the all the families I see going by, like a slow motion movie shot, drifting by at the ever-accelerating speed of time.

Finally, I mention the passing of edgy comedienne Joan Rivers, who passed away last week unexpectedly after a surgical complication. Her humor was often cruel, but she always made me laugh. Not long ago I watched a movie about her recent career and it was insightful.

I think maybe I’ll try to make Sam laugh. 

 Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 

The Oppenheimer Report 9/1/14

Answer me this: why, when a product is satisfactory, must manufacturers change it? This happens so often. Cereal boxes get smaller, formulas for hair products change, a favorite toothpaste is discontinued. Feminine hygiene products and cosmetics are the worst. Don’t ask me how I know this. The thing that really puzzles me is why some products are packaged in such a way as to be indistinguishable from each other. Tropicana orange juice has several different varieties from which to choose, and the “no pulp” version has the exact same markings as the “extra pulp” version. The packaging is virtually identical, except for some hard to find print on the front of the carton. I think I speak for the majority of male shoppers when I say I do not enjoy lingering in a supermarket. I have a list of items I need, and I just want to get in and get out as soon as possible. Metro has a special brand of coffee we buy, and it has the exact same packaging as another Metro brand we do not like. The other day, I bought two of the wrong packages along with one of the right ones. I must assume that the stock boy didn’t notice the difference either. Now I have to wait until I am making another trip to Huntsville to return said items.

Last Tuesday night, Shauna and I headed into "Dee’s Bistro" in Burk’s Falls to attend the last of the Tree Ring Tuesday songwriter showcases for this summer. Sean Cotton, the organizer of these events, accompanied fellow songwriters Pam Millar and my friend Douglas McLean. Lewis Hodgson and I were called up from the audience to play a few of our songs, which was good fun. There was a good turnout, the audience seemed to enjoy the music, there was humorous banter, and there was a high energy about the night that I think everybody felt. I spoke last week of music’s healing qualities, both for the listeners and the performers, and currently, our little town needs to heal. Last week, a little boy drowned while playing on the banks of the swollen Magnetawan River near the Burk’s Falls dam. This kind of tragedy affects almost everyone in a small community. Some members of the town came out to Dee’s to distract themselves from the inexplicable sadness of this death, and I think Sean and Pam, both residents of Burk’s Falls, did a great job lifting their spirits.
Speaking of Sean Cotton, as I began writing this report last Wednesday, I was listening to him on the radio talking about his recent appointment as the new host of the Hunter’s Bay Radio’s Talent on the Bay show. Congratulations Sean, you’ll be great in that role. This coming Wednesday, some of the local songwriters, including me, will join Sean on the show from 11AM –12PM to talk about our experiences performing this summer, and to play a few tunes. I’m looking forward to that show. Tune in to 88.7 FM Radio or, if you are not local, hear it on the internet if you get the chance: http://www.muskokaonline.com/Start/tabid/55/Default.aspx

When I complain and rant about something as mundane as similar packaging of food products, I am not completely oblivious to the irony of such complaints, especially given the current events unfolding in the global arena. An outbreak of the Ebola virus in five African countries (so far) is anything but contained. This raises the complicated ethical issue of equality and treatment. While thousands have died from this outbreak so far, if a vaccine is produced (several are showing promise in fast track studies), it will likely be available to the privileged few before the Third World poor are saved. ISIS, the latest high profile Islamic fundamentalist threat in Iraq and elsewhere, is now targeting Western journalists. It is a strange world we live in where one can type a few words in a Google search and view a YouTube video of a journalist being beheaded. The other disturbing newsmaker is Russia’s continuing and unchecked mission to annex the Ukraine. Putin shrugs off the bad press and maintains that the aggression comes from patriotic pro-Russian rebels who are not under his command, but NATO is not buying it; neither is the world. Certainly border countries like Romania, Bulgaria, and Moldavia must be a bit nervous. I do not delude myself into thinking that Russia is alone in her lust for natural resources and real estate, any more than I believe the U.S. was simply on a humanitarian mission to “free” Iraq from the dictator we had supported. Finally, there seems to be no end to the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, and now the Syrians are once again getting into the fight. Millions of Syrians have been displaced by the civil war raging in that country and the U.S. is showing little inclination to intervene. I know, I know, it’s complicated.

I can’t even figure out packaging labels in the supermarket.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

The Oppenheimer Report 8/25/14

One of the hazards of growing older is the general obliviousness to one’s growing lack of dexterity. As arthritis begins to set in, something I never thought would happen to me, I am beginning to have some unanticipated problems. The other day, running to the car to avoid a sudden downpour, my hip simply gave out and I stumbled to the ground. Short of a skinned knee and a bruised ego, I was fine, but it was one of life’s little reminders that I am not as spry as I once thought I was. I have lived my life so far relatively careless of my potential to injure myself, and thankfully, I have remained injury free for most of it. This past winter was a wake-up call.

The ice was particularly treacherous up here last winter, and it seemed as if the freeze/thaw cycle continued for months. Our driveway was a skating rink for a good deal of the winter, and while I often wore grips over my winter boots when I took Jasper out for her walks, one fateful morning in January, I neglected to put them on. I have to put them on outside the house as they can mar the floor. Sure enough, that was the day I slipped on the ice and fell. You wouldn’t think a 16-pound miniature Schnauzer could cause an accident like that, but walking down the steep portion of our driveway – the only place TO walk last winter – she pulled me just hard enough to yank my feet out from under me, and down I went, hard onto my right shoulder. That is the same shoulder on which I’d had surgery performed over thirty years ago. I knew I had sustained some trauma, but it didn’t hurt all that much, and I didn’t pay a lot of attention to it at the time. Within a week, when the injury had not healed and the strength in my right arm was severely compromised, I saw my doctor and began to go for physiotherapy. With no improvement after six weeks, and after an X-Ray and an MRI, it became apparent that the injury requires surgery.

Originally, my surgery was scheduled for August 29^th, less than a month after I had my appointment with the surgeon. The problem with this, apart from the fact that I didn’t want to cut the boating season short, is that it likely means I will not play the guitar for several months. I’m done with the Tree Ring Tuesday performances, which were a lot of fun by the way, but I’m furiously recording songs while I still have Juan Barbosa at my disposal. He did a wonderful job with my first album of songs and now we’ve begun to record songs for a second album. After I have two albums under my belt, I hope to persuade some of the local musicians to cover my songs in a third album. I have lined up some musicians and want to strike while the iron is at least luke warm. Last week, Shauna arranged to bump my surgery back to October 24th, so I will have a little more lead time to get some of these songs “in the can.” While I do not delude myself into thinking this is in any way important to anyone but me, I have come this far and I want to finish what I started. Then I can move on to my next hobby: upholstering couches with squirrel fur.

My last Tree Ring Tuesday performance of this summer was held last week at "Seven Main Café" in Huntsville, where I was joined by a fellow singer/songwriter, Michael “Lopez” Phillips. One of our G-d-daughters, Lindsay Watson, drove all the way up from Toronto to surprise me with her attendance, and that made me extremely happy. I think she genuinely enjoyed hearing me perform. Ever my promoter and biggest fan, Shauna was out in the street before we began, handing out fliers and urging people to attend the free concert. As I said before, Tuesdays are a hard sell, but we’ve managed to attract some audiences. I could not “hear the crickets” at the end of each song. It is my aspiration to somehow promote and sponsor our local community of musicians, young and old. We’ve got great talent up here in the GWN, and Hunter’s Bay Radio, our community radio station, is committed to giving these artists a voice. I will pay local musicians to produce and cover my songs. As well, I intend to contribute to the local organizations that promote young musicians in the area, and help them to learn their craft. Music heals! Sadly, it does not repair torn rotator cuffs.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/18/14

Here is my indignant rant of the week. Shauna and I are fans of Jann Arden’s music and songwriting and of late, we have been following her on Facebook. We saw her in concert last year and she’s really funny. Her comments on Facebook are witty and she is a good storyteller. She’s been writing a lot lately about caregiving issues with regard to her elderly parents (who sound like a hoot) and this is of particular interest to me.

The other day, Shauna alerted me to a controversial opinion Jann had posted on her page about a new radio phenomenon. Radio editing has always been an unsavory reality of music broadcasting, and it is not uncommon for a 4-minute-long pop song to be whittled down by 30 or 40 seconds in order to fit the radio “format.” This was usually done with the reluctant approval of the artist, or of his or her record company, but of late, the process has been taken to the extreme. Apparently, there is a top 40 radio station in Calgary called AMP, part of a chain of stations across Canada. They have implemented a new format called QuickHitz, which essentially takes pop songs and cuts them in half for their attention-challenged listeners.  I assume that the thinking here is that listeners do not have sufficient attention to sit through an entire 3:30 minute song, and this allows the station to pack in twice as many hits in an hour. If the artist does not consent, they are not aired, and most artists probably want the exposure, however truncated.

I’m not a big fan of top 40 radio, but this seems to be a new low. To me, this is symptomatic of two things. One, it’s another canary in the coal mine for conventional radio. It indicates to me that the music industry is changing and big radio broadcasters of pop music will do just about anything to survive. They are struggling to compete with the growing popularity of satellite radio and the omnipresent availability of just about any on-demand music one wants to hear on the internet. The other red flag is the dumbing down of the listening audience. Perhaps this is what the listeners want, who knows, but in scrambling to satisfy this “demand” by cutting pop songs in half, are not the broadcasters contributing to the death of this art form? Let’s feed the perceived ADD shall we? OK, one could argue that omitting a couple of the forty “baby’s” in Justin Beiber’s hit single Baby might not make much difference to the song, but is this not a slippery slope? Just as reality television is, in my opinion, eroding the intelligence of its viewers, so will the abbreviated song undermine the integrity of song writing. As much as I have begun to embrace the great Satan of social media, I feel the immediacy of Twitter, and Instagram, and Facebook feeds the impatience of a short attention span society. It is most certainly diluting people’s communication skills. I believe the shorter our attention spans become, the less we absorb. What part of Beethovan’s 9^th would you suggest we cut out; after all it is kind of long? And maybe we don’t need the entire statue of David, just cut him off above the balls. Pop songs do not require a lot of grey matter; if a pop song has merit, it has merit in its entirety. Jeesh. There, rant presented and vented.

Cole Porter must be rolling in his grave.   

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/12/14

I could not believe the news today that Robin Williams has died, and that his death was a suspected suicide. I’d heard about his problems with alcoholism and substance abuse, but did not realize he was also struggling with depression. My dad was the first person to apprise me of Williams’ comic genius after he happened to catch the comedian in an episode of the ground-breaking sitcom Mork and Mindy. Dad had a wonderful sense of humor, and I’d never seen him so enthusiastic about a sitcom. Of course, I had to see what he thought was so funny, and boy was he right. I thought the guy was hilarious too. There was a rumor that the show’s formula for success was to surround Williams with straight men and women with a basic script, and then to let him ad lib as the cameras rolled. This guy was like no one I’d ever seen before. Maybe Sid Caesar was as funny. Clearly, he was in a league of his own as a stand-up comic, but what I did not expect was that Williams would be a great actor as well. His range was enormous and he could play the creepy photo store guy in One Hour Photo, or the gay parent in The Birdcage, or the tall tale teller in Jacob the Liar, which I think was an adaptation of Isaac Singer’s short story Gimpel the Fool. His portrayal of the psychiatrist in Good Will Hunting was one of my all-time favorite Williams performances, and I think I liked him in everything he was in. I just pulled out my Leonard Malton’s 2012 Movie Guide and I am reminded of the many great movies in which he starred; movies like Dead Poets Society, The World According to Garp, Good Morning Viet Nam, The Fisher King, Patch Adams, One Hour Photo, and the list goes on. There were over fifty movies in all, and I think he made every one of them better. I feel the same way about him as I did upon hearing of Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s death. I feel as if the world has lost a great entertainer and a good, albeit complicated man. My sincerest condolences to his wife and family.

Last weekend, I travelled to Buffalo for the 2014 Western N.Y Powerboat Association Poker Run, and this one might have been the best so far. The weather was perfect and the turnout was incredible. I started going to these poker runs (which are essentially a lap around Grand Island and, weather permitting, a 20-30 mile run down the south shore of Lake Erie) about four or five years ago because my pal Bob is in the club that hosts them. When I attended my first run, there were quite a few boats, but in the last two years, it has grown to capacity (110 or so this year). It’s funny, because when Bob joined WYNPA many years ago, the club was about to fold. Somehow the members built it up again and now it hosts one of the more popular offshore runs in the country. The owner of Outer Limit boats attended this year, bringing with him four of his more expensive models to display and run. We joked about this year’s run, because it was as if there were two runs on Saturday. There was the Buffalo contingent, some who have big fast boats, but most who are like Bob with older, smaller 60-70MPH boats (Bob owns a 42 year-old, beautifully restored 27’ Magnum sedan cruiser, with a top speed of about 65MPH). Then, there were the extremely wealthy out-of town participants, who travel all around the country with crews and expensive towing vehicles, trailing their very expensive monsters to all the big runs. Boats were separated into classes according to top speed, and there were four classes this year. We were in the very slowest class, and saw little of the fastest boats as they ran (the run is usually over 50 miles). Once we got out into the open lake, I did see a rooster tail or two go by at over 100MPH, but saw nothing up close. To give you an idea of what I am talking about, the most powerful boat in the run was a catamaran, well over 40’ in length, with four 1300+hp big block V8s, capable of achieving a top speed in the vicinity of 170MPH. There is no boat show that I know of in North America that could be as much fun for the powerboat enthusiast as these offshore powerboat runs.

Final notes ...  did you know that there is a musical coming out, I believe in Toronto, called Rob Ford the Musical? I’d love to see it! Rumor has it Ford is trailing in the polls for the upcoming mayoral election and John Tory, the guy I like, is in the lead. We’ll see what the Ford Bros. tag team wrestlers have up their sleeves, but I think they may be on the ropes for this match. Tonight, I play my second to last Tree Ring Tuesday performance, in Burk's Falls, with Hunter's Bay Radio host and fellow singer songwriter Christine Heron. My last performance will be next Tuesday in Huntsville, and I can safely say I have enjoyed this experience. While I will never count myself as much of a performer, I can cross this off my bucket list now of things I did that scared me, and I've met some great fellow songwriters.

 

Robin, I'll miss you and I mourn the uncreated art you had yet to give us all. 

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/4/14

An old friend from Buffalo and his wife came to visit us last week and it was wonderful to see them both. Billy and I grew up down the street from each other in Buffalo, and he and his brother and sister were in our carpool to school. He has a very interesting family, and I enjoyed the chaos that ensued whenever I waited in their kitchen for that ride to school. His family was a sitcom waiting to be made and I was always jealous. While his family was animated and funny, my family was, by comparison, a little like that painting American Gothic – you know, the one depicting the farmer and his wife standing stone-faced and holding a pitchfork.

Billy and I attended the same boarding school, and we have remained friends for over 50 years. He, along with several other neighborhood pals and I came up with the unique Buffalo tradition of raffling off tickets to shoot a television set on New Year’s Day. That long standing Buffalo tradition endured for over a decade and became a rather large gathering. By the end, the event involved enough firepower to take over a small country.

Many years ago, I attended Billy's wedding to his wife Avra in Boston, and that celebration is etched in my memory. I and my best friend Bob rented a yellow Lincoln Town car, decorated it with pink pompoms (classy huh?), and ferried wedding guests around Boston. We used that car during the bachelor party and I distinctly remember driving down into Boston’s notorious combat zone and double parking the car while we sampled some of the local “dancing” establishments. The car looked as if it belonged to a pimp, and nobody touched it. Throughout that weekend, much of it a foggy blur, I also remember one of the other neighborhood friends, sitting in the back seat yelling over and over, “NO GUTS NO GLORY” as I nervously attempted to weave through congested Boston traffic.

One thing Billy and I have shared throughout the years is our love of good music. An excellent guitarist and pretty good keyboard player, Billy has made a good living producing music and video on a professional level. Over the years, when we have had the opportunity see each other, we inevitably break out the guitars and jam, tag team playing whatever songs we’ve penned. He came up with the musical arrangement for my hit single (sarcasm intended) How Come it Hurts When I Pee? and, to this day we get a laugh – we certainly make each other laugh - whenever we dust off that old chestnut. When their first son Max was born, Billy and Avra nicknamed him Noopy, and I wrote a parody of the McCoy’s hit Hang On Sloopy entitled Hang Ten Noopy. I wonder where that recording went, it might have been the worst song I ever recorded.

Now that I and my peers are rapidly approaching 60 years of age, it is comforting to note that some of us still go way back. I lost Frank last week, and of late my mortality has been haunting me. What is my legacy, if I die tomorrow will anyone remember me, have I done any good in my life … that sort of thing. One of the songs I played in last week’s jam session with Billy was Scrapbook, a song about summoning the peaceful, good moments in one’s life, in order to cope with the ever shifting sands. My most recent song, which I just completed, is a dark song called The Edge, about the regrets of an addict. While it is largely written from imagination, everything I write has a piece of me in it.

Certainly Billy and I have lived through our share of life’s drama. We may have achieved some success, inevitably we have stumbled, but throughout it all, we have remained friends. Though he is now known as Roy to most of his non-Buffalonian friends, he will always be Billy to me, and I will always be “Hyman” or “Grinder” to him. Don’t ask.

Sometimes old friends are the best friends, and today I remind myself to be thankful for all of them.

 

How come it hurts when I pee?

Darlin’ please tell me did you do this to me.

I appreciate the love you spread unselfishly,

I just hope what you’re spreadin’ don’t begin with a ‘G’ …

 

 Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/28/14

One of Frank Riccio's many illustrations

The other day, I learned that my dear friend Frank Riccio had passed on.  I met him when I joined the Delta Kappa Epsilon (DKE) fraternity at Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut, back in the late 70’s. No, I was not a beer-swilling Animal House frat boy; the Trinity chapter of DKE (Alpha Chi) was anything but that type of fraternity. Yes, we drank some beer, we knew how to throw a great party, and we certainly had the best live music; but the Trinity chapter of DKE also had the highest grade point average of any of the Trinity frats (present company excluded). The members of DKE were largely made up of intellectuals and artists. At the time I joined, the fraternity was struggling, and I first got involved quite by chance,  as a non-member of its eating club. I became very fond of some the eccentric personalities at DKE, and on a college campus where all the food was catered by SAGA, and the eating hall was a giant, informal, fluorescent-lit cafeteria, DKE was a house where I could go to eat good, home cooked dinners and hang out with thirty other like-minded people. It became my community, my quirky little family in a college for which I did not otherwise much care. Ultimately, I became the steward of this eating club, running the day to day operations, and eventually, I joined the fraternity.

DKE was full of interesting members, and because it was the only fraternity at the time to accept women as full members, violating the DKE national charter I might add, we stood out among the other fraternities at Trinity. Frank joined shortly after I did and I think we became friends almost immediately. He lived at the house, and he was a quiet, gentle guy, It was quite a while before I even learned what a wonderful artist he was, because Frank was never one to brag or show off.  He was soft spoken, thoughtful, kind, generous, down-to-earth, interesting, very intelligent, and he possessed a wonderfully wry, disarming sense of humor. He ultimately became a successful painter and illustrator, but Frank was a thousand other things to me. I really liked him. It was because of him and so many of my other brothers and sisters at DKE, that I remained at Trinity, which although it was a pretty good school academically, was in many ways a country club for rich, entitled kids. I eschewed that image, though I was no stranger to wealth and entitlement.

After we had graduated, Frank and I kept in touch semi-regularly by mail. We rarely spoke on the phone. I shared my songwriting with him - he was one of my few friends who thought I was any good, and  encouraged me to continue writing songs - and he shared his progress in the art world with me in the beautiful letters he wrote. Every letter contained some example of his recent work, and sometimes, if I was lucky, he would draw some intricate sketch in pencil somewhere on the letter. I cannot put into words how much those personal bits of art meant to me, and I have them all, somewhere in my letter files. I have a feeling I am not the only recipient of his spontaneous art.

My last correspondence with Frank was in January of this year; it was an email wherein he responded to a recent report I’d written about caregiving. He was particularly moved by my experiences in the Sunnybrook Hospital stroke ward. His mom’s health was failing, and he told me I’d shined a light on some of the dark issues he too was facing. Throughout our friendship, we shared some of our darker hours, and in so doing, maybe we helped each other make some sense of it all. I didn’t know Frank well, but sometimes those are the people with whom we choose to share. He may have known at that time of his last correspondence that he was terminally ill, but no mention was made of it. Now, I am left with those letters, and the memories I have of our communications. It is my hubris that makes me feel I could have been some comfort to him in his last days. I am so sad that  I could not, and I will miss him terribly.

There are some souls that shine brighter than all the rest, and as the ever growing specter of my mortality hovers over me, I am bluntly reminded of the simple fact that this journey goes in one direction. The ugly beast of anti-Semitism again rises in the Middle East and elsewhere, the superpowers are once again rattling their sabers, and we as a species continue to make the same mistakes over and over again. And then there are people like Frank, with his gentle, wry smile, and his disarming honesty. Guys like Frank give me hope that perhaps we won’t screw the whole thing up. He is the hopeful man child, sailing out into unknown waters, absorbing all that life has to give. I love you Frank, and I always will. May you rest in peace.  

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/21/14

Johnny Winter with Jimi Hendrix

I suppose I have buried my head in the sand this summer, anesthetized by my own good fortune, and have for the most part tried to ignore the troubling reminders throughout the world that history does indeed repeat itself. No matter how you slice it, the last week was a bad one for world peace. The two biggest stories, sandwiched in between the latest exploits of Toronto Mayor Rob “Bluto” Ford and whatever grizzly murder or celebrity mishap occurred in North America, were two stories that dominated the headlines. First there was the news that Malaysian Airlines Flight 17 had been shot down over Eastern Ukraine, killing all passengers aboard. The graphic coverage of this tragedy left little to the imagination. If I can believe the news reports, and the “intelligence” therein, this was likely the act of pro-Russian separatists. Whether or not Putin is behind this latest act of aggression, the spin is not good, and lines have been drawn. Goodbye Gorbachev, hello Stalin. I thought to myself, how could there be another horrible, and irreconcilable air disaster involving Malaysian Airlines, within months of that mystery flight that disappeared in the Indian Ocean? I am reminded of the events that spark world wars, and what concerns me is the potential finality of the next one. The second story involves the ongoing conflict between Israel and Palestine. No matter which side you take in this conflict, all you haters of Israel should remember that Hamas refuses to accept the State of Israel, and in trying desperately to spin this conflict their way, Hamas has hijacked its countrymen, using innocent women and children as their pawns to sway public opinion. In my opinion, that is disgusting. If there was ever anything noble or clear about armed conflict, it has long since dissolved. “Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong.”  There are no white hats and black hats these days; all the hats are grey.

In the They’re-dropping-like-flies department, veteran actor James Garner passed away last week at the age of 86. I remember first watching him on the T.V. Western Maverick when I was a little boy. I don’t think I was the right demographic for The Rockford Files. I think my mom liked that show. Same demographic as Murder That Bitch. Garner had a lot of great roles and I thought he was a good actor. The second notable death: Texas blues rock legend Johnny Winter passed away in Switzerland last week, at the age of 70. I’m surprised he made it as far as he did. I could kick myself because I passed on an opportunity to see him play up here in the Muskokas last year. I saw Johnny play about forty years ago at a venue in Springfield, Mass. and he rocked the house. The James Gang, without Joe Walsh, was the backup band, and they were booed off the stage before their set was over. Johnny had some miles on him before he died, but boy could he play the slide guitar. One of my all-time favorite “go-to” songs when I want to rock out is Johnny’s live version of Jumpin’ Jack Flash (Johnny Winter And album?)

Final notes. Shauna and I were fortunate enough to get front row seats to see Colin James perform an acoustic set at the Algonquin Theatre in Huntsville last Thursday night. Accompanying him was Chris Caddell, an excellent Toronto based singer songwriter, whose music reminded me of some of my favorite country rock acts of the 70s and 80s. Last week, my first Tree Ring Tuesday came and went and I performed to the best of my ability at Dee’s Bistro in Burk’s Falls. No spoiled fruit or debris of any sort was thrown, so I suppose this on its own was a success of sorts. Huntsville singer songwriter James Jones, of the duo Big East, was my partner in this particular showcase. I enjoyed meeting him and listening to his excellent voice and his original songs. Tomorrow it’s Bracebridge at the Fine Thymes Bistro with fellow songwriter Scott Gilson. Wish us luck, and come out to see us (8-10PM) if you find yourself in the area!

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/14/14

Last week I was in Huntsville to pick up Shauna’s long-belated 20^th anniversary gift; my small token of jewelry for her to congratulate her for lasting nine rounds with me (so far). While I was in town, I figured I would stop by Hunter’s Bay Radio and drop off a CD of the six songs Juan and I have completed thus far. HBR has encouraged me to give them some of my music, suggesting they might play it on the radio. While I have never been much good at promoting myself, I have come to realize that no one else is going to do it. Finally, I have some halfway listenable versions of my songs to present, so why not get it out there? I wasn’t too shy to stand in front of a microphone and broadcast my decidedly flawed performances on the radio, so I should not be shy about promoting a studio recording as well. I am reminded of a joke my dad used to tell about the guy who prays to God for a winning lottery ticket. Years go by, the guy prays every day, and still no winning ticket. Finally, the guy asks “Why do you forsake me Lord, why no winner after so many years?”  The clouds part and a thunderous voice from above yells angrily, “Meet me halfway …. Buy a ticket!”

When I arrived at HBR, just about to walk in, I noticed through the window that there was a live performance airing, and figured I’d come back later. James Caroll, the interviewer, who knows me and saw me peeking through the window, waved me in. Feeling a little awkward, I sat in on the tail end of the interview, and I just figured I was watching one of the many local songwriters I have yet to meet. But the performer looked vaguely familiar. Turns out it was Alan Doyle of the very successful Maritimes band Great Big Sea, and he blew me away with his talent. What a voice! He was in town to perform at The Algonquin Theatre that night. Before his interview was over, several more people ambled in, and Doyle joked with Caroll about how HBR truly was one the few remaining community radio stations in Canada. True to the reputation that Maritimers have as a friendly bunch, Doyle seemed like a great guy. It did not faze him a bit that people walked in while he was singing, and he reacted as if he were welcoming people into his kitchen. He was affable and from what I could tell, humble. Shauna and I tried last minute to get tickets to his show that night, but of course, it was sold out. I did download a Great Big Sea album and Doyle’s solo album Boy on Bridge (good album by the way). It’s funny, because I’d been meaning to buy some of the music of Great Big Sea for a while now, ever since I watched and enjoyed them performing on television a few years ago. I just never got around to it. What a great reminder!

Tomorrow night is my first Tree Ring Tuesday performance, and I am a little nervous. I have now heard almost all of the other artists who are performing in this series and they are better musicians than I. I suffer from the mild apprehension that I may be out of my league. My first “gig” is just up the road in Burk’s Falls, at a restaurant called Dee’s, and my fellow songwriter for this performance is Huntsville songwriter James Jones. While I doubt this will be well attended, I am nervous about playing to a fellow songwriter. All of these folks have a CD to promote and some (many) of them do this for a living. Really, what was I thinking? No guts no glory.

Final note. For many summers passed there was a guy down the bay from us who used to come out of his cottage and wave to me with both arms every time I passed in a boat. It was just something he did for everyone he knew. That small, friendly gesture always made me smile, and though I did not know Barry Fry well, I’d seem him at Doe Lake Association meetings, and I thought he was a good guy. I heard he was gravely ill, and this summer the house has been empty. It makes me sad, and I know it’s such a little thing, but I miss his small gestures of kindness. Yesterday, I found out that he’d recently passed on, and though we were not close friends, I’ll be waving at that house for a long time to come. I think maybe a lot of people will. Rest in Peace Barry.     

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED