The Oppenheimer Report 2/27/17

Years ago, my friend Buck Marshall came over to the house with a bunch of cds. His aim was to convert me into a country music fan. I laughed and told him I was not a lover of country music, but he was resolved to change my mind. I realize now how myopic I must have sounded, because I’d grown up listening to all sorts of country rock – bands like The Outlaws, The Marshall Tucker Band, and The New Riders of The Purple Sage. Buck exposed me to some really great country music, including artists like Chris Stapleton, The Infamous Stringdusters, Doc Watson, Bella Fleck, J.D. Crowe and the New South, Willie P. Bennett, and a few dozen other great artists. I listened to all the albums he gave me, and learned a lot. The collection included bluegrass, traditional country, country rock, Texas swing, rockabilly, and yes, even some country rock. One of the CDs he lent me was  by Blackie And The Rodeo Kings, a band who took their name from the seminal Willie P.Bennett album of the same name. I fell in love with their music.

Last Saturday night, Shauna and I headed down to Toronto to attend the kickoff show for the Blackie And The Rodeo Kings “This Band Kills Hatred” tour. We do not attend many non-local concerts, but both of us agreed this one was well worth the drive down to Toronto. Since I began broadcasting my little show, I have grown to respect the song writing skills of Colin Linden, Stephen Fearing, and Tom Wilson, the three founding members of the band. To see them perform together was a special treat for me. The show opened with Thompson Wilson, Tom Wilson’s son, performing some of his own original songs. Throughout the night Thompson joined his father onstage, and it was inspiring to see father and son united in song. As well, various other guest artists came up and sang original songs, including Charles Esten and Sam Palladio, two of the stars of the hit TV series Nashville. Because of his exceptional skills as a guitarist, Colin Linden has been involved with that show from its inception. Samantha Martin, an amazing vocalist based in Toronto, was also on the bill, and all three of these guests were fantastic. In fact, one for the things I like and respect about Blackie And The Rodeo Kings is their connection to and support of other talented artists. That’s how it should be. By the end of the show there had been at least three standing ovations. One got the sense that these musicians were one big family, and the joy and energy with which they presented their music was palpable.

I know I sound like a broken record when I talk about the power of music; I consider it to be the great unifier. In what many consider to be a dark moment in the history of mankind, music is one universal link. Good music touches everyone, and it reminds me of the things I have in common with my fellow man. It also reminds me of my place in the grand scheme of things. I used to think I was a pretty good song writer, but I have been rightly humbled as the field opens up to me. From the time we first settled up here in 2008 I have met and learned from some great musicians. I have grown to respect people with whom I had little else in common. Buck Marshall was at one time a skilled bluegrass musician, and the one who directed me to my first Burk’s Falls Third Friday Coffee House. He taught me to appreciate the writing in country music and he continues to be a valuable mentor, pointing me in the direction of good music. In the two years or more that I have been involved with the radio station, individuals and bands have come to my attention that are exceptional, albeit in many cases unknown. Life is full of lessons, if only I open my ears and listen.

         -  Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 2/20/17

The summer before last, we had a serious squirrel problem and it took a long time to rectify. Flying squirrels took up residence in the 12” air space between our ceiling and our roof deck, and made an awful commotion in the middle of the night. At one point, Shauna was looking out our turret window and saw two of them fornicating on the porch roof, ten feet away. They were actually staring at her while they were doing it. Just our luck to get a couple of perverted exhibitionist rodents for unwanted house guests. After reading about the relatively short gestation period of these creepy little rodents, I realized they intended to drop anchor chez Taylor-Oppenheimer, and this was unacceptable. We called in an “expert” and, for a not so modest consulting fee, he gave us quite an education into the habits of all different kinds of squirrels. He then walked around the house with a ladder and investigated possible points of entry. The long and the short of his expert advice was that there is no easy solution to this problem. He gave us an outrageously high quote to make them go away, without any guarantee that he could do it. The education was edifying, if disheartening. Because I didn’t want dead squirrels rotting in our roof, poison was not an option. I was also worried about accidentally poisoning our dog. Relocation is problematic. I don’t enjoy killing animals, but re-locating squirrels is a colossal pain in the ass. I live-trapped and relocated one red squirrel, and was advised to release it at least 12 miles away to ensure it would not return. Flying squirrels are hard to live trap. Eventually, I did figure out what worked, and after removing the little bastards, we managed to seal up some of the tiny holes through which they made entry. For two years we were trouble free and I have not seen another flying squirrel since. Recently, there is a new problem.

Now, it’s the red squirrels that seem to have taken up residence in our ceiling. With their distinctive, squeaky chatter, they are decidedly the most annoying and neurotic of all the squirrels. Once again, we are sleep deprived because these little bastards are scampering around above us. I’m not sure where they’re getting in but it doesn’t matter. There is no way anyone is getting on our roof right now, there’s too much snow and ice. Just about the time I decided to break out the heavy artillery I noticed a bard owl, perched on one of our maple trees out front. Patiently, it waited for the right moment, then swooped down and grabbed some little mouse or vole out of the snow. It remained on our property for a few days, and before it left, there were two patches of blood where it had likely killed something larger than a mouse. Shauna’s nickname at Hunters Bay Radio is “Hawkeye” for her ability to spot typos and grammatical errors. She’s also an excellent shot, and today, much to my surprise, she picked off two of the roof invaders. I’m hoping the bard owl will get the rest of them (or at least drive them away). Back when I was a city boy, I was oblivious to the workings of Mother Nature, but since we moved north, I have become more mindful of nature's balance. When possible, we try to prepare for her occasional wrath, and while we realize that our carbon footprint is large, we also try not to interfere too much. All bets are off when the critters invade our homestead.

Today is Family Day in Canada, and I wish all my Canadian friends a Happy Family Day. It was a beautiful, sunny day and the huge piles of snow on our driveway have begun to melt down a bit. Even if it’s only for one day, hopefully we can focus on loving our families and put all the nonsense in the world on hold.

  

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 2/13/17

A snowblown heart

Valentine’s Day is tomorrow, and like all red-blooded male lovers with a heartbeat, I choose to profess my undying love to my lifelong mate on Facebook. A few days ago, Facebook re-posted a photo my wife Shauna had taken years ago, of the two of us posing in front of Mt. Assiniboine in British Columbia. To celebrate our 10^th Anniversary, we stayed at the very exclusive and remote Mt. Assiniboine Lodge for a few days. It was a wonderful memory that we will revisit for the rest of our lives. The mountain hiking was spectacular, and we had a little log cabin, all to ourselves, facing the “Matterhorn of the Rockies”. Looking at that photo, I am reminded of all the road trips and travel adventures Shauna and I have shared together, and so I posted my Valentine’s message to her under that photo. Not only am I romantic, I am thrifty to boot.

I heard someone discussing the origins of Valentine’s Day on the radio the other day, and it apparently dates back to the days of the Roman Empire. The holiday has morphed into a do or die proclamation of love, complete with the obligatory dozen, long-stemmed red roses, and dinner at a swanky restaurant. I feel the same way about Valentine’s Day that I do about Christmas, or Thanksgiving, or Yom Kippur. It is fine to celebrate the occasion, but why do we put ourselves under pressure to declare these feelings for just one day? Are we charitable of heart for one day, do we atone for our sins for one day; do we profess our love for one day? Valentine’s Day is a racket. It’s good for florists, restaurants, and candy vendors, but I think it is amateur hour for those truly in love. Many years ago, I wrote a Valentine’s Day song for Shauna, and I perform it for her every year on February 14th. I’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of that song, and the best part about it is that it is an honest declaration of my love. If anyone is interested in hearing it (no pressure, but there will be a quiz in the next report), the song can be heard by clicking on the following link and scrolling to “Valentine’s Song For Shauna”: https://soundcloud.com/shauna-leigh-taylor/sets/songs-by-jamie-oppenheimer. Another annual Valentine’s Day tradition used to be my purchase of some unique Valentine gift from the dollar store. Nothing says “I Love You” quite like a pair of Happy Valentine’s Day, plastic pink, heart-shaped handcuffs, made in China. Fifty shades of pink, on a budget of two dollars or less.  I’ve never bought a heart-shaped box of chocolates in my life. To me, that’s just phoning it in. As Valentine’s Day candy goes, I prefer cinnamon hearts, and I’m not too keen on those weird, chalky, pastel-colored, candy hearts with silly love messages printed on them. I put those in the same category as candy corn at Halloween. Blecch.

A few weeks ago, my songwriter friend Doug McLean, who hosts a blues show on Hunters Bay Radio, Monday nights after Bingo, mentioned that the third Monday of January is widely considered the most depressing day of the winter. I’ll admit, I’ve been a victim of the winter blues of late, although I experienced a slight delay in the emotion. It descended upon me last week. It could be all the negative press from which I cannot seem to extricate myself, or it might be that I have not slept in a week, due to a recent invasion of squirrels in our roof. I am hoping this scourge will soon be eradicated. Mother Nature has her checks and balances, and I’m hoping that I don’t need to break out the heavy artillery. I hate using that flamethrower. A big owl has recently taken up residence in a nearby tree and will, we hope, solve this problem as nature intended. If only mankind would follow the same rules.

“I’m told there are a thousand ways to say ‘Would you be my Valentine Today?’

For you this year I have no fancy pearls, just this song to say that you’re my world…” 

Tell someone you love how you feel about them, and remember, Valentine candy goes on sale February 15^th.

.

  -  Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 2/6/17

The rant du jour is on the subject of journalistic integrity. I think this term is fast becoming an oxymoron. I kill time in the checkout line at the supermarket, reading whatever tabloid smut is there to greet me. I do this because it is right there in my face, and because there is something entertaining about the complete lack of decency and/or truth in scandal rags. I realize that this makes me as bad as every rubbernecker slowing down to watch the car wreck on the highway, but remember, I’m an American. Apparently we Americans are stupid and obsessed with sensationalistic lies. Well, at least 51% of us are (I suspect more). I can hear you saying to yourself, “but those are tabloids, and that is not responsible journalism!” Frankly, I prefer a news source that makes no bones about their nonsense. Pick a tabloid: The National Enquirer, News Of The World, The Sun, Daily Mirror; they are all equally entertaining. The classic tease cover photos reel me in with close ups of celebrity cellulite, and implore me to guess whose doughy, bikini-clad torso it is with the pudgy, matzo ball thighs. Check out this dirty little secret, or learn about that Hollywood train wreck. Did Bubbles the chimp have Cheetah’s love child? Inquiring minds need to know. One Christmas, I purchased nothing but Weekly World News headline tee shirts to give away as gifts, emblazoned with headlines like “Batboy Lives!” or “Woman Killed by $30,000 Mink Coat” or “Man Loses Testicle Down Hot Tub Drain”.

I, like at least 51% of Americans, love tabloid horseshit, but here’s the thing … I know it’s horseshit. So what does this have to do with journalism? These days, every news source has an agenda, and it doesn’t appear to include telling the truth. Remember the old saying: “lies, damn, lies, and statistics”. We, the lemmings, have elected a Twitterer-in-Chief, who aptly personifies tabloid sensationalism. Many, maybe the majority of us, feel he is ill-suited to lead. So how did he win? He did an end run around conventional media and “the system” and related to enough voters to win the election. Perhaps this happened because some of us were too busy watching the sideshow, or not watching at all. CNN in particular seems hell bent on bringing down the emperor (with no clothes), but is the media blameless? Are we the voters? We are indignant about Rump’s twittered prevarications, but I’ll bet at least half of America does not trust the press. Every five minutes CNN flashes “Breaking News” on the TV screen and it’s always the same tired and indignant attack. “Broken news” might be more fitting, or alternative news. Whatever you call it, it is not unbiased reporting, and Edward R. Murrow and Walter Cronkite are probably turning over in their graves. I have not seen this kind of journalistic feeding frenzy since Nicole Brown Simpson's dog was interviewed (in advance of his tell all book “Blood On My Paws”) during the OJ trial. Speaking of that abomination in American justice, which concurrent story got more coverage from CNN in 1994: the OJ trial, or the horrific genocide in Rwanda? We’ve heard a seemingly un-ending repetition of the phrases “alternative facts” and “fake news” and everyone is up in arms because Rump says things that defy reality. No fan of his assholiness I, and anyone else who has even peripherally followed this guy for the last thirty or forty years know that hyperbole and bullshit are his modus operandi. Somehow or another, all those well-meaning Democrats as well as the press missed the heartland. I humbly suggest that we shoot the messengers, and while we’re at it we might want to take a long hard look at ourselves. That is, guys like me, who love sensationalism. Maybe all that glitters is gold. We should be seeing a lot more of that color over the next four years.

How bout them Patriots?! I’m not a football fan, but as Superbowls go, that was one barn-burner, come-from-behind, first ever overtime win by the indomitable Pats (Patriots 34 - Falcons 28). 

Man Loses Testicle Down Hot Tub Drain. That has got to hurt.  

     -  Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 1/30/17

I wonder how the Jews in pre-WW11 Germany felt as they watched Hitler emerge and pour his acid-filled rhetoric on the fabric of civilized society. Maybe they felt a little like American Muslims do today. I have never been more apprehensive about the future of mankind than I am at present. The newly elected leader of the free world is playing fast and loose with the rules, and I think a lot of other people also fear the chaos and anarchy which could ensue from his ill-considered recklessness. One of my fellow songwriters wrote a long and eloquent message on Facebook venting about Rump, and in it she predicts he will not be around for long, because he is an ignorant, hateful, childish, bigoted egotist who will inevitably self-destruct, be run out of office for incompetence, or be assassinated. I’m not sure any of those things will happen, but more and more I am beginning to believe the sky is falling. As an ex-patriot, living as a landed “ignorant” in Canada for the past twenty-three years, I am astounded by how quickly things can change. Over the past week, I have read more than a few well-written articles on the subject. Whenever I see a bad or undisciplined child, I look at the parents. Who is to blame for this? Ask Pogo. The possum knows.  

Every time I turn on the news, Canadian or American, I hear fear, anger, and indignation. I was a middle-of-the-road Republican who lost faith in my party around the time George W. Bush was elected. For me, that’s when the party really began to fall off the rails, and the religious right began to poison American politics. While I lost my faith in a political system paralysed by partisan politics, I always voted. As a voter in New York State, my vote didn’t really count, because the New York State always went to the donkeys in the electoral college, but I kept thinking that, over time, somehow the ship of state would right itself. It would drift too far to the right then too far to the left, but eventually it would come to center. Denial, it’s not just a river in Egypt. Every time I think this guy is just posturing, he does or says yet another preposterous, hateful thing, and I am baffled that he is anybody’s leader, much less the leader of one of the most powerful countries in the world. He has turned the executive branch of the United States Federal Government into a championship wrestling franchise. Let me just vent ... I’m almost done, and I will try not to bring it up again.

In my anxiousness I was surfing around on Facebook, sailing through the sea of toxic tweets and postings complaining about Emperor Rump, and I came upon an article entitled Dalai Lama: Five Things To Keep In Mind For The Next Four Years. Not surprisingly, the message was common sense and quite simple. Lose the anger, help others (because that in turn creates inner peace), be more childlike (not childish, there’s a difference), and remember that no one person runs a democracy (it's actually 5 really rich white guys). I wonder how many conversations this week in Washington D.C. began: “How can we make it look like a massive heart attack.” It’s a sad fact when so many of my countrymen are discussing a violent solution to this mistake. Just remember, the second-in-command believes that homosexuals can be converted. WTF! I never thought I’d see the day when I hoped that the political paralysis, the affliction of our democracy today, would thwart this sociopath. I leave you with a quote from the Jon Stewart of the early 20^th Century:

“When the field is nationwide, and the fight must be waged chiefly at second and third hand, and the force of personality cannot so readily make itself felt, then all the odds are on the man who is, intrinsically, the most devious and mediocre -- the man who can most easily adeptly disperse the notion that his mind is a virtual vacuum. The Presidency tends, year by year, to go to such men. As democracy is perfected, the office represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people. We move toward a lofty ideal. On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart's desire at last, and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron.”

                                                                                             
   - H.L. Mencken

Wow.

     -  Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 1/23/17

"Puddle Jumping" 

A week ago last Saturday, I crossed another small adventure off my bucket list and visited Arrowhead Provincial Park near Huntsville. There is an ice skating trail there which is the longest around here (+- one kilometre), and I’ve been wanting to try it out for the past five winters. Somehow, I never had the gumption to follow through, especially since I usually skate alone these days. I enjoy ice skating, especially outdoors. I didn’t skate more than two or three times in 2016, and when I put on my skates this year at the park, they felt just a little different to me. I didn’t pay much attention when I was lacing them up, because I was so excited about skating on this outdoor rink. I took a lap of the one+ kilometer course, and then re-adjusted my skates. They still didn’t feel right. It never occurred to me that they were the wrong skates, until I looked at them carefully the following Sunday, at an indoor rink. It simply amazed me that I could skate on the wrong skates and not notice that they were not mine! My immediate reaction was that someone had swapped out my skates for this inferior pair, but that didn’t make sense. When I go skating, my skates are never out of my sight. Then I thought perhaps someone had swapped them out at my house, but that also did not make sense. When I returned to the house I found that in fact, my good skates were still there, but they were hidden in the back of the closet. Somehow, I have acquired another, rather new and somewhat larger pair of skates. It’s a mystery.

Every year, our neighbor two doors down floods a small rink on the frozen lake in front of their house. While I have never skated on their rink, over the past fifty years I have skated on a few frozen lakes and ponds. The irregular surface of a naturally frozen body of water can be somewhat challenging, but there is nothing like skating on a frozen lake or pond on a brisk winter day. This winter, it has become almost impossible to skate on our lake, because the weather has been so changeable. The ice should be at least 4-5 inches thick before it will support a snowmobile ( 8”-12” for a car, and 12” to 15” for a pickup truck), but last Saturday I saw some brave (reckless) souls zapping around on our puddle-covered lake. Some of these guys like to “puddle jump”, which I think is insane. They get up a head of steam and hydroplane across open water on their machines. I heard that somebody had travelled 12 kilometres or more skimming across open water. It would suck if the engine quit. I wonder how many snowmobiles are fished out of deep water up here every winter. When I know the lake is sufficiently frozen, and when I see a lot of activity out on the lake, I will cautiously venture out onto the ice with my ATV. I’ve become a bit of an old lady when it comes to risk assessment. I think my biggest fear is the humiliation, when I have to explain to the guy whose job it is to fish my ATV off the bottom of the lake.

Occasionally, the ice in front of our old beach house in Ft. Erie was flat enough to skate on in the winter, and I remember skating on it as a young boy. We also walked out on the frozen lake a lot. When I was an infant, my older sister Jill fell through that ice. She and my now deceased sister Joanne were playing out on the frozen lake and Jill hit a spot of thin ice. My parents looked out on the lake from shore and saw just her head sticking out of the ice. There is an Oppenheimer home movie somewhere of my sister all wrapped up in blankets, warming up in the car after that little adventure.

Speaking of disasters on ice, I am now listening to “The First Machine Across The Lake” by local songwriter Matt Allen. It’s a song about two kids who fall off a snowmobile on a frozen lake then watch it drive off without them. Perhaps that is an appropriate metaphor for the world today. Heaven help us all. Keep your sticks on the ice!  

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 1/16/17

With all the nonsense about the American President-elect, who shall remain nameless, and who recently fired off a completely un-diplomatic and retaliatory tweet, lashing out at actress Merle Streep for her criticism of his juvenile behavior, then threw a public hissy fit during his first press conference, declaring one of the world’s leading news sources is “fake news”; I thought it might better to recount a humorous fuzzy memory from decades past. Now halfway through January, I meant to reprise this story right after the New Year, but somehow, I got distracted.

Years ago, we had an unusual custom: on New Years Day we shot a TV. It all began back in 1977. Home for the holidays from college, I was at a party in Buffalo one night, and a group of my friends and I were griping about all the Bicentennial nonsense which we had been force fed over the past year. It seemed as if the commemoration of America’s 200^th birthday had become a year-long binge of cheap marketing opportunities and hype. There were bicentennial gas grill giveaway sales at Recreational Warehouse, red, white, and blue milkshakes at McDonalds, bicentennial placemats, cupcakes, hats, scarves, snow globes, toilet paper, pencil cases, sunglasses, you name it – it was everything one might find at a souvenir shop in Niagara Falls, only on a more ridiculous scale. It had all gotten to be a bit much, and perhaps for the first time, I and my friends saw America the way the rest of the world did: spoiled, rich, and stupid. Our fearless leader-elect seems to be the personification of those onerous stereotypes. Anyhow, I and my drunken compatriots decided that we were fed up with all this materialistic jingoism, and we came up with a ceremony to usher in 1977. After much discussion, we decided to decry the excesses of 1976 by raffling off a chance to shoot a television set. The television was, after all, the vehicle through which all this nonsense was broadcast. We would hold the raffle on New Year’s Day, and the winner would get the first shot, with a twelve-gauge shotgun. The rules were simple: the TV had to be working and on when shot, and it had to get at least 3 channels, so the shooter had a choice. There would also be consolation shots.

My friend Bob and I were entrusted with the duty of procuring the victim, which was no mean feat. We were on a very limited budget, and if you think about it; how does one explain to a seller that “it just has to work for about 20 minutes.” We looked at a few potential victims, and we finally settled on a black and white Zenith from Boosing Electric. I felt bad for the owner. He was so proud to have repaired this crappy television set that we were reluctant to explain our intentions. Nevertheless, we needed him to understand our thriftiness. As we walked out the store, I kept singing over and over “I shot the Zenith, but I did not shoot no R-C-A.” Bob slapped me across the head to make me shut up.  

New Years Day 1977 came, and, armed with a movie camera to record the event, a group of very hungover celebrants headed over to a friend’s cottage in Lorraine, Ontario for the first annual New Years Day television shoot. It was an appropriately cold and miserable winter day. The ceremony seemed like a much better idea when it was conceived of, indoors.

Our raffle tickets were homemade, and the winning ticket had a picture of a TV smoking a cigarette with a blindfold on. There were maybe ten or fifteen of us in attendance, and yours truly won the raffle. Over the next ten or more years, we continued the tradition, and by the time we held the last event, the shooting had evolved into a firing squad. The firepower at the final television shoot was ridiculous. I think somebody even brought an elephant gun. Somewhere buried in one of my many junk boxes is an 8MM movie of the very first shoot, There were several other videos made as well. I cannot express in words the catharsis I felt shooting that television with a shotgun. As the world grows crazier by the day, it seems like an ever more meaningful practice. I think back to these happy memories with friends.

I can’t explain the madness of mankind. I think it’s always been this bad, but now we have a 24-7 reminder thanks to “fake news”. I believe we alienate ourselves. With impunity we disrespect each other in the impersonal forum of the internet. Our collective behavior is shameful. It’s them or us, Democrat or Republican, black or white; good or bad. If I’ve learned anything in my 60 years it is that nothing is that simple. I think to love is harder than to hate, and that we are wired to take the easy way out. “Reality” begets reality and as we soak up a sea of toxic misinformation, the only thing that grows is our fear and mistrust of each other. Yes, of course there is evil in the world, and there always has been. “Rump” is not the problem, we are. If we keep expecting others to fix this problem, we will continue to elect leaders like Rump to lead us over the edge of the cliff. I said it in the first report of the New Year, I’m not looking for anyone else to make the world better. Democracy is not a spectator sport. My resolution for 2017 is to do better than I have done so far.

Today is Martin Luther King Day, and I was just reminded of a quote attributed to King: “I’ve decided to stick with love, hate is too big a burden to bear.”

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TheOppenheimer Report 1/9/17

Last Friday night, my song “Dear Dirty Dublin”, produced by local musician Juan Barbosa, was chosen from a long list of 46 local contenders to be the #2 pick on the Hunters Bay Radio Top 20 songs of 2016. For me, this was like winning a Grammy. Flanking me at #1 was “Radio Man” co-written by dear colleagues Gina Horswood, Paul Lagendyk, and the great Andre Wahl, who produced the song as a tribute to our late friend James Carroll. At #3 was Bet Smith and the Currie Brothers with “Bake Sale Angel, Barbecue Queen”. These are both great songs, and in fact I cast my one vote for Bet Smith & The Currie Brothers. The field of talent in this competition was remarkable, and I am humbled and deeply honored to have been placed so highly on the list.

I know we sometimes sound like the mutual congratulation society up here in the Muskoka and Almaguin Highlands region, but I cannot stress enough how important it is to have a community supportive of the arts. This is what keeps art alive, and I would not be so supportive were I not convinced this is true and important. I have been doing this for a very long time. Music is not something one should take up with the expectations of fame or fortune. A long time ago, those were my unrealistic aspirations, but fame is no longer my goal. Music can and does enrich our lives.

When Shauna and I moved up here around 2007, I had all but given up on any kind of recognition for my song writing. After twenty or so years of open mics and rejection letters, I decided I would stop trying to interest others in my work. I could never stop writing; I believe in my ability to write songs. I will always strive to improve my skills, and thanks to the love and encouragement of my extremely talented and beautiful wife Shauna Leigh Taylor, I have never given up. Nevertheless, I have experienced enough rejection that I could have come to believe no one was listening, or worse yet, that I was simply not good enough. My late friend James Carroll, and fellow songwriter Doug Mclean, whose opinions I respect, encouraged me to present my work to the local community. In doing so, I became involved in a musical world I thought I’d never discover. This involvement has been transformative for me. In the three or four years since I became active in the local music community I have grown measurably and met some remarkable songwriters. I have seen artists emerge that are worthy of national and perhaps international recognition. This is my brass ring. To be a part of a vibrant musical community is all I ever really wanted.

Writing is a tricky thing. We writers need enough hubris to believe that we deserve to be heard, but enough humility to recognize our place in the pecking order. I thought I’d written a few strong songs, but when I discovered artists like Jon Brooks, Rob Lutes, Garnett Rogers, Jason Isbell, John Moreland, John Stewart, Chuck Brodsky, Rodney Crowell, Suzie Vinnick, Rick Fines, Scott Nolan, Lucinda Williams, Tom Wilson, Stephen Fearing, Deni Gauthier, Katherine Wheatley, Catherine MacLellan, just to lightly scratch the surface of the talent that is out there, I am rightfully humbled. The reason why I write songs is simply that I have no choice. They are the demons and the angels that need to be released from my soul in order for me to function in a crazy world. They are my meaning, my catharsis; they are my stepping stones over the turbulent waters of life, and they keep me sane. Goodness knows, it isn’t a big leap to the other side! That someone has heard and acknowledged my songs is a great honour for me.

Finally, and I have said this many times before, thank goodness for Hunters Bay Radio, and people like the late James Carroll, Jeff Carter, Grant Nickalls, and all the other great folks that keep the fire burning. Good music exists everywhere. It can be eclipsed by publicists, and Billboard ratings, and arena concerts, but it is on street corners (Joni Mitchell’s “For Free”), in small bars and bistros, on YouTube, SoundCloud, at open mics, kitchen parties, house parties, jamborees, festivals, and especially at community and college radio stations. Thank you to everyone who voted for me, I am truly humbled and delighted to have received this recognition. This is my brass ring. Most important, thank you Hunters Bay Radio, for all you do. You are the loudspeaker broadcasting the message that good music is alive and well. Talent is everywhere, but without a mouthpiece like HBR, it fades into thin air. For all you listeners out there, be vocal about the artists you like. I will be one of the guys holding the HBR banner on the front lines, and I will never take for granted the precious gift of exposure. Thanks again to all of you who voted for my song!

-       Jamie Oppenheimer

The Oppenheimer Report 1/2/17

Happy New Year loyal readers! I usher in the infant 2017 with high hopes. Then again, the new  year is only about two hours old as I start this report. I just watched the ball drop in Times Square, and now it’s time to sweep up the confetti. Honestly, I think that merely surviving 2016 is cause for celebration. Today marks the 25^thanniversary of the day I began to write this weekly report. At the time, in January of 1992, my New Year’s resolution was to write a weekly commentary on current events for one year, with the hopes that this discipline would improve my writing skills. It started out as a printed post card which I sent out to about fifteen friends and family. For that year, the weekly writing exercise was called The Hyman Report. After the first year, it evolved into the one-page Miscellaneous Grumblings, and finally became The Oppenheimer Report. I’m not sure whether or not my writing has improved much over the years, and I’m pretty sure my readership is about the same, but after 25 years, but it has been therapeutic to write one page a week about the world as I see it. In two and one half decades there has been a lot of water under the bridge, and while I don’t presume to suppose my little writing exercise has any mainstream appeal, I'd like to compile 150 of my favorite reports and publish them. In the last year, I managed to cross another item off my bucket list: I recorded an album of my original songs. It’s good to have goals.

I hope you all celebrated the New Year in whatever fashion suited you. There were plenty of musical performances going on in the local area, but we have for the past fifteen years generally elected to stay home on New Year’s Eve. Shauna and I had a pajama party, which is how we celebrated last year as well.  In our pajamas we prepared a hearty home-cooked meal and switched back and forth from radio and television for our entertainment. I don’t actually own a pair of jammies anymore, but I’ve become somewhat attached to Shauna’s pink Big Brother Canada onesey. I know, that’s  weird right? I think perhaps I am channeling with my inner 3 year-old.  No, I don’t love the color pink, but those onesys are sooo comfortable. What I did not expect on New Year’s Ever was that Harvey, our 70+ year-old snow plow guy, would be plowing our driveway. He did, and as I usually do, I paid him immediately.  Was I a little embarrassed to be wearing a hooded, pink onsesy as I handed this man his money? Perhaps a little, but I think it has long ago been established that I have no shame. It likely gave him a laugh, and the older I get, the less I care about the judgement of others. While Shauna and I disagree on this particular subject, to me form is far less important than function, and I have never been particularly concerned about the clothes I wear. I would not be at all surprised to hear oneseys are making a big comeback in the adult market. Regardless of the fact that I looked a bit like a Smurf, the onesy was very comfy.

While the political upheaval in America continues to hijack the headlines of 2016, last year marked what some pundits are calling “The Death Of The 80s”. I was astonished to read the long list of people in the entertainment industry who passed away in 2016. That list includes Glenn Frey from the Eagles, Prince, Leonard Cohn, David Bowie, Merle Haggard, songwriter Guy Clarke, Keith Emerson and Greg Lake of Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, John Berry of The Beastie Boys, Maurice White of Earth Wind and Fire, Lemmy Kilmister from Motorhead, Paul Kantner, one of the founding members of The Jefferson Airplane, and singer George Michaels, on Christmas Day, at 53. In the last week alone, actress/author Carrie Fisher passed on, followed by her mom Debbie Reynolds a day later. In a news story reporting Reynolds’ death, I learned that she did not even know how to dance before starring in her big debut “Singing In The Rain”. She learned to dance in less than two months and somehow managed to keep up with the likes of veteran hoofers Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor. The rest is history, literally. It’s when these celebrities go that we learn how much they’d accomplished in their lives. Canadian actor Alan Thicke, who passed away suddenly a few weeks ago while playing hockey with his son, was multi-talented. I learned that, in addition to his television and movie career, he was a published song writer. His credo, and one that both Shauna and I found notable: “Live life so completely that when death comes to you, like a thief in the night, there will be nothing left to steal.”

While 2017 is just a little over one day old, I end this report without tongue in cheek. In the coming year I resolve to “do more good than harm”, as my self-help guru classmate Bob O’Connor put it. Maybe this will be the year when we all try to do the same. Happy New Year to one and all!

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED      

The Oppenheimer Report - 12/26/16

Jacob Kriger is a young man who works at the Hunters Bay Radio station, and on top of hosting and teching much of the daytime programming at Hunters Bay Radio, he produces some very creative audio and video promotions for the station. Last Monday, I was called last minute to volunteer for radio bingo. As a joke, and because I knew it would make Jake laugh, I wore Shauna’s pink “Big Brother Canada” onesy to the station. I told everybody I had already changed in to my jammies when I answered the call to volunteer. If you’ve never heard of onesies, they are the one piece pajamas with feet that some of us wore as children, and they are very cozy. I think they are making a comeback among adults. I remember laughing when I saw rock star Gene Simmons wearing a onesy on his short-lived reality TV show Family Jewels. Anyhow, when I arrived at the station, in my pink onesy, Jake was in the process of creating a video for tonight’s special $4000 jackpot bingo giveaway. It did not occur to me that Jake might be filming me in my pink getup, but when I saw the finished video on the Hunters Bay Radio Facebook page the other day, there I was, in all my pink splendor. Another man might have been humiliated, but I have no shame. We have a lot of fun at that radio station.

As we approach the New Year, of course I am as worried about the future of mankind as the next man. Everything seems to be regressing; race relations, politics, religion. I can’t believe a woman’s right to have an abortion is again up for debate in America! I’ve got to stop watching the news, because the general message is that the world is coming apart at the seams. Most recently, and leading up to Christmas, there was the assassination of the Russian ambassador to Turkey by a Syrian terrorist. I woke up to that bad news and was astonished to see the murder video broadcast on CNN. Shortly thereafter, on December 19^th, there was the terrorist attack in Berlin that killed 11 people and injured over 50 others. Anis Amri, a 23 year-old Tunisian man and ISIS sympathizer, drove a hijacked truck into a Christmas market full of people in Berlin, escaped after the attack, and was later apprehended and killed. I watched an interesting segment on CNN called “What They Hate Us” about the Muslim extremists. I think hatred is self-propagating, but so is love. How do we combat ignorance and fear? Focus on the heroes I guess. They may not make the headlines but they are the best antidote to hatred. In that Berlin attack, there is evidence to suggest that the hijacked truck driver tried to grab the steering wheel from his hijacker before he was killed. During the 9-11 attacks the courageous passengers on Flight 93 fought back and kept the terrorists from hitting their designated target in Washington, D.C. That heroic action probably saved a lot of lives. There are a lot of good people in the world, we just don't hear much about them.     

I will leave it to the pundits and the newscasters to pass judgment on the notable events of 2016 but let it suffice to say this was not a banner year for good news.  I suppose it has always been this way; the press reports that the sky is falling, and the world keeps spinning on its axis regardless. While I worry about the future, the fact is that I rely too much upon our leaders to fix our problems. I will usher in 2017 as I have the last few years, quietly at home watching TV with my wife Shauna. At midnight we’ll give each other the first kiss of the New Year, hug each other, and hope for peace and prosperity in the world. And I will make the same New Years resolution this year that I made last year, and the year before that:  to be a better person. Happy New Year to my twelve loyal readers!   

“When I look in the mirror, I see a broken plan

I see the aimless wandering, I see a selfish man

And I ask myself, how can I begin to make this better?”   

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2016 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED      

The Oppenheimer Report 12/19/16

Saturday afternoon, I listened to Tony’s Rockin’ Shindig on our local radio station. Tony Clement is our local Member of Parliament here in the Muskoka region, and he hosts his show one Saturday of each month. He’s probably the most high profile radio host we have at the station, as he’s in on television quite a lot, commenting about the latest political issues in Ottawa. Tony takes the time to research his artists, and his show, which focuses on rock ‘n roll, is always interesting and informative. In last week’s show he featured offbeat Christmas songs, and he played a lot of songs I’d never before heard. In this past week, I’ve heard a lot of interesting Christmas songs on “The Bay” (a/k/a Hunters Bay Radio); songs which I’d never heard before. I prefer the darker Christmas songs, and I listened to one the other day that I liked enough to feature in my own Lyrical Workers show. The song is entitled “Christmas Is Upon Us”, by a Massachusetts punk rock band called The Dropkick Murphys. It’s about the dysfunction of Christmas family gatherings, and it made me laugh. In my show last week, I played “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer” performed by Elmo Shropshire and his then wife Patsy, a/k/a Elmo and Patsy. Written by Elmo’s friend Randy Brooks, the song has been a favorite of mine since it was released in 1979.

Last Friday night, I performed five of my original songs at the Burk’s Falls Legion during the monthly 3^rd Friday Coffee House. In that performance, to about 60 or 70 people, I played one of my dark Christmas songs, “Merry Christmas To Me”, and that was the first time I have ever played that song in public. Somewhat autobiographical, the song refers to an experience I had as a teen, wherein my cousin, my best friend, and I hitched to downtown Buffalo to go to a party hosted by a notorious local pot dealer. It was Christmas Eve, and we were picked up by two guys, dressed up as Santa and an elf, driving a very beat up red Ford Van. We were probably somewhat intoxicated, but Santa and the elf decidedly had us beat. Santa was drinking Jack Daniels out of the bottle, and both he and the elf were smoking a joint. Keep in mind, this was the Seventies, and around the holiday season I’ll wager that half of Buffalo was driving around intoxicated. There’s actually an internet meme about the unique ability of Western New Yorkers to drive drunk in snowstorms. At sixteen or seventeen, my ability to make wise decisions had not yet even begun to develop and, happy to be out of the cold, we hopped into the van without a second thought. I don’t remember much about the ride downtown, although we were riding in a dilapidated, rear wheel drive van, with no shocks, in a snowstorm, with a very drunk and stoned driver dressed up like St. Nick.  We made it to the party unscathed, and there I remember drinking a lot of really crappy pink wine. Back in the 70’s, Pink Catawba wine from some Upstate New York State winery was a popular cheap wine in Western New York.  Along the lines of Mad Dog 20/20, or Ripple, or Boone’s Farm, Pink Catawba was sweet, rotgut swill that tasted a bit like ginger ale. In keeping with my severely under-developed ability to make wise decisions, I guzzled about five or six big glasses of Pink Catawba rotgut, and probably drove the porcelain bus at some point in the evening. Another thing I remember about that night - and keep in mind I had only recently been exposed to marijuana - was that someone was walking around with a salad bowl full of joints, passing them out to guests like hors d’ouevres. As a sixteen year-old kid, I had never seen so much weed in one place. In the song, which I probably wrote in my mid-30s, I took poetic license and embellished the story for effect. The subject of the song was a loser adult (not like me!), Santa and the elf were drunk, stoned, and high on hallucinogenic drugs, and the story ends with the loser staggering around in the snow at 3AM “wondering where the hell to call home.” While many of my songs include kernel of personal experience; the trick is to make the message universal. I also played another original song during that Burk’s Falls performance, which I have only just completed. It’s about an old friend of mine who had at one point in his life had ended up in prison due to drug addiction. I recently heard from him, now clean and sober for sixteen years, and he seems to have put his life back on track. “Old friends are the hardest to deny/Because Old friends know the secrets that we hide.”

If you plan to imbibe this holiday season, and many of you will, let a designated driver or a cab be your ride home. May your holidays be blessed with peace, good health and, of course, good music!

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2016 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 12/12/16

Everybody has at least one recipe they can call their own, something no one else knows how to make as well as they do. For some people it’s scrambled eggs, for others it’s a secret barbecue sauce. For my father it was boiled water. My mother had a potato salad recipe handed down from her mother, and it is the best I’ve ever tasted. My wife Shauna makes a chicken dish she claims was sent to her telepathically by her deceased grandmother, and I love that dish. I suppose I could learn how to make some of these special recipes, but that would spoil the mystery. Somehow it never tastes the same when it isn’t made by the original cook/baker. I prefer to have it served to me and to live with the illusion that no one save for the original cook could make it just the same.

My claim to fame is granola. I’ve been making granola for at least 30 years and I think I’ve finally perfected it. The trick is in the oven temperature. You might say granola isn't a big deal! Let me tell you something; the older I get, the more obsessed I become with my lower intestine. I’m a regular guy, and I have become increasingly concerned with insuring I stay that way.  Cereal with lots of oats and fiber-rich grains keeps the plumbing clear. I’ve spent a little more time with geriatric nurses than I care to admit, and one of many the things I learned is that keeping the pipes clean is fundamental to good health. Believe it or not, bowel obstruction is a common cause of death in nursing homes.

Last summer, I went to one of the snootier boutique food stores in Huntsville, the one that caters to all the wealthy “citiot” cottagers who come up from Toronto. After I bought my over-priced apple, I browsed the aisles to peruse the fancy over-priced foods available for sale, and I began to experience sticker shock! A rather small bag of “homemade” (whose home, by the way?) pasta was $7.99, but the thing that really floored me were the granola prices. I half-considered buying a small bag of snooty store granola that looked enticing, until I saw the price. A very small bag was close to ten bucks! On principle (read, I’m way too cheap), I did not buy it. I read the ingredients on the back of the package, figuring maybe there was some remarkably expensive nut or berry that could justify the high price, but in fact, it was simply over-priced granola. If you’re going to charge ten bucks for a bag of granola, give me more than four helpings!  Even with expensive nuts (I put cashews and almonds in my granola) and honey, I can make the equivalent of ten cereal boxes of granola for under twenty bucks.

There was a story on the news the other night about the rising cost of food in Canada, and the growing pressure on Canadian food banks. There is speculation that the imminent leadership change in America may not bode well for the future cost of food produced in the States. If Rump runs all the illegal immigrants out of America, some wonder who will harvest the crops? I don’t think Rump will do what he so adamantly proclaimed he would. He’s backed off a lot of his other campaign vows and there’s no reason to suggest he will abide by this one. Still, if he does, how will that impact the economy? Right now in Huntsville there are numerous holiday drives going on to fill the larders of local food banks. Shauna and I make a generous annual contribution to the local food bank, and in general I have begun to redirect my charitable contributions to local charities. I’m beginning to realize that my contributions made to local charities are far more likely to be efficiently used than my contributions to bigger charities, the ones that send out four direct mail requests per year and spend countless millions sending out pens, calendars, and return address stickers.

Does anyone else find it ironic that we live in a time when we can video conference with people across the globe on a cell phone, but we are destroying our drinking water and our food supply is dwindling. Granola for ten bucks a bag. Jeesh.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2016 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 12/5/16

This morning, I heard on the radio that some experts in the field of aeronautics are warning that unmanned drones may become a potential terrorist threat. I guess it stands to reason that if we are using drones to fire missiles at terrorist targets, that perhaps they might consider fighting fire with fire. Drone technology is readily available to the general public; I’ve seen them advertised at the local electronics store. Years ago, I’d commented in one of these reports that I was concerned someone might use drone technology to launch an assault on North American soil. Imagine an unmanned drone flying over a Superbowl stadium, or perhaps the Macy’s Day Parade, or the ball drop in Times Square, and the havoc that it could wreak. How do we defend against these things if they become a part of our daily routine? The other day there were two stories in the news about drones. One suggested that an unmanned drone may have forced a commercial aircraft to take evasive action, and the other reported that Amazon.com is considering using drones to deliver packages. I don’t look forward to the day when the sky is littered with those things buzzing around.

I watched part of a movie the other day called Eye In The Sky, starring Helen Mirren and the late Alan Rickman, and it dealt with the complicated issues surrounding the rules of military engagement for drone attacks. Collateral damage is of course the major concern, and as accurate as some of these attacks may be, there is usually collateral damage. My first reaction, when I turned the movie on, was that I wasn’t interested in seeing another movie about war, but this one captured my interest. What amazed me most was the depiction of the state of the art surveillance technology currently available. In the movie, there were two spy drones used, one was in the shape of a small bird and the other looked like a beetle. I don’t know if these devices exist in the real world, but the remote controlled beetle employed nanotechnology and was small enough to avoid detection. In one scene, the operator flew the beetle into a house to spy on terrorists. It gives new meaning to the expression “big brother is watching.”

After watching the movie, I was curious to consult the ever-reliable internet for information about drone attacks carried out by the U.S. By most accounts, President Obama has authorized more drone attacks than any other U.S president, and while the general understanding is that the use of drones saves lives, in fact what is not clear is the collateral damage. Depending on which spin doctor I consult the estimates range between 2% and 25%. The older I get the more out of touch I feel I am with what is going on in the world. I suppose I never really knew, but I used to believe what I heard on the news, and thus convinced myself I was informed. These days, with our President elect tweeting like a spoiled child, and the seeming fragmentation of the European Union, I am more apprehensive. War these days looks a little different than it did a few decades ago. Now, I’m going to be looking everywhere for hidden cameras.

For the past several months, I have been imploring people who listen to my radio show Lyrical Workers and to send me their song requests. Up until last week, the response has been weak. I’ve had the odd suggestions from friends and family, but not a lot of interest. This past week, I decided to post a photograph of Chuck Berry from my late brother-in-law’s photo collection, and with that photo I made another request for song suggestions. So far I’ve had eight requests and there are still four days until show time. I’ll be looking for bizarre Christmas songs as the day draws near. Final music notes:  Just received the mastered copies of two songs I recorded with producer/ singer/songwriter James Gray, and I am very pleased with the results. I think I will release them to Hunters Bay Radio soon, and hopefully they will broadcast them. As with all of my music, I haven’t really pushed it in the general marketplace. My feeling is that my music will simply get lost in the ever increasing pile of music no one has time to hear. For the time being, my CD is available at the HBR station, or through me. I am fortunate to have a songwriter-friendly radio station in my community, and I choose to give all the proceeds from the sale of the CD to Hunters Bay Radio. If there is any wider interest in my songs great, but for now, I am content if my music helps to shine a light on this great little radio station. This Thursday night, before my show, Christina Hutt, local singer/songwriter, has asked me to accompany her when she performs live on the radio from 6-7pm. Then a week Friday, I’ll be playing the Burk’s Falls 3^rd Friday Coffee House. Woohoo, Nashville, here I come!

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2016 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 11/28/16

I recently found myself craving some retro TV, and I PVR’d (I’ve created a new verb) an old show I remember from my early youth: The Rifleman, starring Chuck Connors. Some of you are old enough to remember him playing the tough-but-fair-single-father and vigilante, Lucas McCain, whose wife probably died in a gun-related accident, and whose family later went on to found a French fried potato empire in Canada. My friends and I used to call him “Mucous” McCain, and my favorite part of the show was, hands down, the opening credits. You knew right away that Mucous was one “bad ass mo-fo” because he glared at the camera while he indiscriminately fired off his rifle walking down the main street of town. The townsfolk in Mucous’s town must have run for cover whenever he was around, because he seemed a little reckless with that rifle. I can sum up the plot of every episode of The Rifleman as follows: the bad guys rode into town, Lucas wrestled with his inner demons and the seemingly irreconcilable conflict of his gunslinger and law-abiding personalities. Inevitably, he ended up vastly outnumbered in a gunfight, slaughtering all the villains with his Wild West version of an AK47. The whole show was a send up to Mucous pureeing a bunch of bad guys with his lightning fast, repeat action Winchester. The filler in the middle was absolutely ludicrous. I began to think about some of the other TV shows I watched when I was younger. Actress Florence Henderson just passed away last week, and she played the mom in the hit sitcom The Brady Bunch. I remember how clean cut everyone was in that show. It seemed as if TV reality was more overtly manipulated back in the 60s and 70s. I found it somewhat ironic that actress Maureen McCormick, who played eldest daughter Marcia on the show, wrestled with substance abuse through much of her adult life. Another show which highlighted the difference between television and reality was Dragnet. I liked Dragnet then and I LOVE it now. The monotone dialogue and the deadpan acting is hilarious, and I can’t help thinking the producers knew the show was silly. There was one episode in particular that stands out in my memory. I think it was called “Blueboy” and it dealt with young people using LSD. Of course the young man who took LSD suffered some tragic end. You could argue that these shows were unrealistic depictions of life at the time, but I wonder what they tell us about the era in which they were produced. Why deify vigilantism? Why was divorce sanitized?

These days, nothing is as clear. Yes, there are wholesome sitcoms, but I’m also noticing a lot more fantasy and superheroes. And then there is the explosion of reality television. Reality television is a game changer; it is the car wreck from which I cannot turn away. Reality television is anything but, and the irony is glaring. Not too long ago, I watched part of a show about the struggles of some guy in a remote Arctic location. Here’s a guy in the middle of nowhere, and you know there’s a camera crew following him around. At some point in the show, the guy’s snowmobile breaks down many miles from his dwelling, and he has to walk home. Did the camera crew follow him home in a heated snow cat, or did they just go for hot cocoa? A lot of this reality crap focuses on the lowest common denominator of human behavior. We viewers love the villains, and the more atrocious the behavior the better. Fifteen years ago, I shrugged it off as an amusing dip in the quality of television entertainment, but now that it has woven itself into the fabric of our culture, it has I think become a troubling portent for the future.

If you doubt this, look at who just became President of the United States. Last weekend, Saturday Night Live was a repeat, and the original air date was shortly before the recent presidential election. Clearly no one on the SNL writing staff thought Trump had a cold chance in hell of winning the election, because the story about Trump’s misogynist rant with Access Hollywood host Billy Bush had just broken. To make the show even weirder, the guest host was Lin-Manuel Miranda, creator of the hit musical Hamilton. Most recently he is newsworthy for having admonished Vice President-elect Mike Pence, who had been in the Hamilton audience for one of the sold out shows, shortly after the election. In a world where social media and cell phones are the primary means of communication, a buffoon like Trump can prevail over an entire political and media empire. Makes you think, doesn’t it? OK, back to fantasy. Time to watch Andy Of Mayberry. That Barney cracks me up.    - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2016 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 11/21/16

What a difference a week makes! Last week, I took one last putt around the lake in the Porta-Bote, before putting the little outboard away for the season. As I drifted on the far end of the mirror-calm lake, the sun in the latter half of its day, I had a moment of sublime peace. That peace is ever elusive these days, and while we live in paradise, and my life is in most ways charmed, there is a lot of noise in my head right now. An omnipresent sadness and dread lurk just below the surface of every human encounter I’ve made this past week, and it just seems as if a lot of people have resigned themselves to the notion that “evil” has triumphed. Trump is President, Russia and the Syrian Government are bombing the life out of Aleppo, the Kardashians are still bafflingly newsworthy. As if all the troubles around the world are not enough, an unusual number of my musical heroes have checked out of the Shit Storm Hotel in 2016. Leonard Cohen in particular, the poet-songwriter and ambassador of love, who so eloquently taught us the complicated lessons of love, has betrayed us by proving to be mortal. Maybe it’s the Chicken Little press, or the preponderance of “how-can-you-not-see-this-is-the-end-of-the-world?!” conversations floating around, or the indignation of so many, I don’t know. It just seems to me as if it is up to us “the people” to extricate ourselves from this doom and gloom. If righteous indignation was a currency, North America would have an embarrassment of riches. Sure I’m worried, but here is my deeply meaningful, self-righteous, rationalization of the week.

“We have met the enemy and he is us!” How many times have I repeated this quote from the famous cartoon possum Pogo? For the almost twenty-five years since I began writing this report, I have, sometimes sarcastically, vented my righteous indignation about politicians, hate groups, spoiled celebrities, biased media, etc. etc. Still, what have I done to make the human condition better? Bupkiss. I’m part of the problem because, just like the whining masses in the streets bitching about Trump, I am indignant but ineffective. The real heroes of our society are invisible. Who cares about my friend Michelle, who works for Community Living and daily assists, respects, cares about her mentally challenged clients? Who notices the inspirational music teacher who mentored a dozen famous singers, or the fireman who contracted cancer when he dug through the ruins of 9-11 looking for survivors, or the policeman who was killed protecting an ungrateful community, or the volunteer who selflessly delivers meals to the homebound elderly, or ten million other good people? We live in a world full of unspeakable atrocities, and now that the information is more accessible than it ever used to be, indifference becomes our self-defense. We demand ever more sensational catastrophes of the human condition and, like we watch reality television, we stare numbed at the bad news like deer in the headlights. Is it really such a surprise that a “populist” like Donald Trump was elected? He had the ratings. We the people have met the enemy … and he is us (not them).

My songwriter friend Doug McLean posted a quote the other day that drives the point home. It had to do with the Holocaust, and how that atrocity was allowed to occur. Essentially, the message was that, in the environment of divisiveness, ignorance, indifference, complacency, and cowardice, horrible things like genocide can happen. I know a lot of people are fearful that history is again repeating itself; I’m afraid of this as well, but I haven’t given up on humanity. What I aspire to do is my part, in my community. This Thursday marks the American Thanksgiving, hands down my favorite holiday of the year. I miss my mom and dad a lot, and I miss the beautiful family gatherings they hosted every year. They were the glue that bound our family together, along with at least a few strays, and no matter how dysfunctional it is, there is no better microcosm for humanity than our immediate family. Turn the other cheek. Maybe I didn’t adore Uncle Fred, and his seemingly ignorant, backward comments, but I learned to accept him. I am thankful for my good fortune, and most of all for the wonderful people whom I have been fortunate enough to know and love. All I can do is pay it forward, and hope that love triumphs over hate. Of late, I have begun to view the friends in my community as my family. Don’t leave it for someone else to fix this. Tolerate, listen, heal, understand; love. You can’t fix everything, but you can help. To all my American family and friends, Happy Thanksgiving!!         

                                             - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2016 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 11/14/16

Over the past 25 years since I began writing this weekly report, I have had more than one cynical, opinionated, off-color thing to say about politicians. It would be easy to spew today, less than a week after the election that surprised so many. Goodness knows, I’ve read and heard plenty of spewing about Donald Trump over the past weeks, but I have nothing to say that I have not already said about the man. Over the past few months, I’ve been offering my unsolicited opinion about the Trump phenomenon, just as the rest of you have. After he ran away with the Republican primaries, I was deeply concerned that his unlikely ascendance to the highest office in the country was becoming more and more likely. To me, that spoke to the nation’s largely unrecognized discontent. Now, as the world lets out a collective gasp of fear and indignation, I reprise a letter I wrote to an old friend, who expressed her despondency the day after last Tuesday’s election results…

11/9/16 Dear C,  I am a diehard Republican, but I crossed party lines to vote for Hillary this time. While I am terribly worried about what a Trump presidency may foretell, I am somewhat philosophical at this point.

We all know Washington is broken. The Wall Street debacle in 2008 was an outrageous abomination, as was the Savings and Loans scandal in the 1980s. Buy now, pay later. Business as usual led us to a $30 Trillion deficit and there is no indication that a Clinton presidency was going to do anything but exacerbate that problem. The stock market was supposed to tank today, and it did not. Today, black is white, and white is black. I do not know what the future will be, but I’m not jumping ship yet. I am still an American citizen and I still love my country, in its entirety.

This election was a shot across the bow of democracy; Americans have been living in a house of cards for decades, and sooner or later the shit was going to hit the fan. I have despised Trump for 40 years, since my days at Saperston Real Estate. His arrogance and lack of class or grace goes against everything I believe in. But he is a shrewd business man and hopefully he knows how to put a team together. My slim hope is that he will achieve what no other leader has recently done: put the country back on track. Hatred and bigotry are alive and well in America – Trump did not invent them - he simply used them to get where he needed to be. The man is a shameless opportunist, and always has been. He effectively tapped into the lowest common denominator of human behavior to get where he needed to go, and I do not believe the entire block of the electorate that voted him in is stupid or hateful. You may find that, for all his toxic rhetoric, the growing constituency of disgruntled Americans who feel betrayed by their government will come together, and all this nonsense about walls and Islamophobia will simply evaporate. That is my hope anyway. He will have to dial his crap back now if he wants to achieve anything in Washington, and perhaps he will do some of the constructive things he claims he will – untangle the tax code, disassemble the deplorable campaign financing system, re-negotiate our trade deals and bring jobs back to America. Regardless of what his perceived “beliefs” are – and we don’t really know -  if he restores ANY prosperity to this foundering country, the results will be good. If he doesn’t make good, is he any different from the career politicians? 

This seemingly horrible development may in fact be exactly what democracy is. You can argue about the unfairness of the electoral college or that only the haters were heard, but he won, fair and square, and against all odds. If I can forget the asshole Trump is and look at what happened, democracy worked. He didn’t buy the vote; look at the machine against which he prevailed. It’s nothing short of remarkable. Bernie couldn’t fight Hillary’s machine, even though we all know he was the people’s choice. The DNC was not going to let a socialist run against the elephants (and presumably lose). Trump is not beholding to PACS and he is as much a threat to the Republicans as he is to the Democrats. He shrewdly tapped into the disgust over the status quo, and found his majority. Americans decisively voted for change, and whether or not it was the right decision, it may mean there is hope. His success or failure as a president is a question for the history books. My hope, however tenuous, is that this lightening rod for controversy will now settle down and Trump the blowhard will turn into a conduit for much-needed reform. Maybe, just maybe, he can put together a plan to unify this completely divided nation. I see the same hatred you see – but you might be surprised to hear some of the things JFK said and did, and he was much loved during his presidency. Sadly, hypocrisy is an almost constant by-product of the political system.

Pollster, predictors, media, politicos, spin doctors … America rejected all of them, and all the money on both sides could not bring this guy down. To me, that is hopeful. Trump is not a puppet of the Koch brothers. Maybe, if he can accomplish this unimaginable feat, he can make the positive changes that will help right the ship of state. In fact he is no worse than the partisan bastards that make up our Congress right now. The team he picks will be telling. That is my concern right now. Despise the man, by all means, but focus on the possible good that can come from all this. I’m as lost and fearful as the rest of the world, but Donald Trump did not create the mess we’re in. We, our complacency, and the officials we elected did. Imagine what would happen if half the money we lost on campaign financing and un-collected taxes was diverted to low income housing or to feeding the poor. When America is most down and out, that is when she shines. This may be the wake-up call that brings the pendulum back to center. I do not think this is the end of the world, only time will tell. One thing is for sure: we Americans need to wake up and see our part in the big picture. Sometimes democracy is not pretty.

Be well my friends!  Jamie

RIP  singer/songwriters  Leonard Cohen (82) and Leon Russel (76).

   - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2016 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED