The Oppenheimer Report 4/24/17

A few days ago, I got a letter from my lawyer in Buffalo regarding some family matters, and at the end of the letter she complained a bit about the Buffalo Sabres. The team hasn’t made the playoffs in a long time, they’ve been such a disappointment, etc. When I lived in Buffalo, my family held seasons tickets to Sabres games, from the very beginning of the franchise. My dad was friends with one of the owners of the team, and one of my uncles sat on the Board of Directors. As a kid, I went to a lot of the home games, back when guys like Tim Horton and Eddie Shack were on the team. I remember the glory days when “The French Connection” was one of the hottest lines in the NHL. I remember Jim Lorenz swatting a bat out of the air with his stick during a Stanley Cup finals game with the Flyers. That Flyers series was (I believe) one of two times the Sabres ever made it to the Stanley Cup finals. They’ve never won the cup, and it doesn’t look like they’re going to anytime soon. Over the 40+ years that I have been following the team, there have been a lot of hopeful moments, and a boat load of heartache.  

I used to joke with other hockey fans that I was a glutton for punishment, because for over three decades I was a Sabres fan, and then I moved to Toronto and evolved into a Leafs fan. I finally turned into a fan back in the mid to late nineties, after realizing how crazy, supportive, and enthusiastic the Leafs fans were. After a long drought, the Leafs made the first round of the playoffs one year, and there was a huge party on Yonge Street. People were hanging out of cars hand-painted with the Leafs’ logo and colors, there was dancing in the streets, there were zany fans dressed in crazy Leafs costumes; there was elation. It was exhilarating to see. Here was one of the oldest NHL teams, in one of Canada’s biggest cities, it had been struggling near the bottom of the league for a long time, and still the home games always sold out. There will always be Toronto Maple Leafs fans.   

I spoke to a good friend from Buffalo (a Sabres supporter) last night, after the Leafs lost Game 6 in overtime to the league-leading Washington Capitals. He was impressed with the team. Nobody expected this young Leafs team to give the Caps a run for their money, but they sure did. Every single game of the series went into overtime, and it really could have gone either way each game. More important, the Leafs seemed to be on fire, and they never gave up. Of course, I wanted the team to win, but I was also happy to see them giving it all they’ve got. It might have been the best, most exciting playoff series I have ever watched, involving a team I support. For the first time since I began following this team, I’m very excited about their future. I think they’re the youngest team in the league and they will do nothing but grow.

To be a fan of any professional sports team, one must learn to accept defeat. No matter how good a team is, they will eventually lose games. I love watching the underdog prevail, t gives me hope. Sometimes fans must wait a long time, decades, for their moment of glory. Ask a Cubs fan. It’s tough to stick by a team that has been bad for so long, but I really think maybe the Leafs are finally going in the right direction. It couldn’t happen in a more supportive city than Toronto. I spoke to my best friend in Buffalo and I told him that my lawyer had sold her last home game Sabres tickets to a couple of Leafs fans. He felt that was betrayal, and that a real fan would not support the opposing team by selling tickets to their fans. I’m still a closet Sabres fan, and probably always will be. Buffalo is my hometown. I think Toronto should be proud of their Leafs, maybe for the first time in a long time. No matter who we root for, there will always be pain. That said, I’m always  looking forward to the next season.

 -Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 4/17/17

A belated Happy Easter to all my gentile friends, and a Happy Passover to all my fellow Jews. Yom Kippur and Passover are my two favorite Jewish holidays because they involve suffering. On Yom Kippur, a day of atonement, we Jews fast from sundown to sundown, and on Passover, we eat disgusting foods like gefilte fish and matzo for a little over a week. As far as suffering goes, I think the gefilte fish wins the prize, and I don’t think it is even one of the foods meant to symbolize hardship. Gefilte fish has the consistency of Jell-o; fish Jell-o is not something I want to put in my mouth. As a child, I used to loathe Seder suppers, because some well-meaning aunt would always insist I try “just one bite.” To boot, gefilte fish is as revolting to look at as it is to eat. It looks like doughy, beige, cellulite-riddled, thigh fat.

Sadly,  Dr. Joe Greenberg, a good friend of ours, passed away last Tuesday at the ripe old age of 95. Though I have not seen Joe in years, I used to write him from time to time, and Shauna and I spoke to him semi-regularly on the phone. The last time we spoke to “Dr.Joe,” as he was affectionately known by his patients and friends, was on the phone last summer. He sounded weak, but that did not stop him from telling a silly joke, or expressing genuine interest in our lives. Regrettably, we could not attend his funeral in Toronto, but I am not surprised that it was very well-attended. To follow are a few thoughts about this remarkable and popular man for whom I grew to care so deeply.

I first met Joe Greenberg and his wife Pepi in Toronto, at our wedding in 1994. His brother Dave’s wife is a first cousin to Shauna’s mom E.T., and the Greenberg and the Taylor families were very close. I grew to know Joe over the next several years, when I saw him at family events, or when, on occasion, he provided medical care for Shauna. While he was not our primary physician, his office was near our apartment in Toronto, and when one of Shauna’s many chronic illnesses would flair up, Joe was kind enough to see us on a moment’s notice. He was one of a handful of general practitioners left in Toronto who really sacrificed everything for his patients. He had what so many doctors today lack: great bedside manner, and he was one of an even smaller number of doctors who still made house calls. He was a great doctor, well-respected within the medical community, and yet he was also a humble man. His obituary describes in detail some of Joe’s finer achievements (http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/thestar/obituary.aspx?n=h-joseph-greenberg&pid=185066972), but for me, Joe was most notable for his unfailing love of most human beings. He was one of the kindest and most generous men I have ever met.

To sit in the waiting room of Dr. Joe’s office on Bathurst St. near College St. was an adventure in people watching. Patients from all walks of life packed his little office every day, many without appointments. When you were one of Joe’s patients, you became a part of his family. He’d come out of his office to call in the next patient, and engage all of us in his conversations. He was the brightest light in the room. Inevitably, patients would end up talking to each other in that waiting room, and there was always something new to learn about Joe’s many acts of kindness. When we were finally alone with him in his office, he always made us feel like we were his best friends, grilling us about personal details of our lives; always making us feel special. He told us stories about his past, he told jokes, he was warm and ingratiating; but he was an effective doctor as well. Clearly, Joe believed that compassion was part of the healing process, and I can’t think of any doctors who knew as much about or cared as much for his patients.

I watched a video on Facebook the other day, because tributes to this wonderful man are popping up all over the internet. Taped about five years ago, the interview deals with Joe’s experiences during WWII. In it he discussed six neighborhood boys who went off to fight in Europe, including himself. Only he and one other young man survived to return home. He cries during the video, and his grief is a palpable expression of the grief of all his fellow veterans. One of the many things I loved about Joe was that he wasn’t afraid to express his emotions. Stoicism may be widely considered to be a masculine trait, but I think Joe embodied the best qualities in any great man. In a world where our Commander-In-Tweet churns out ill-considered insults like a spoiled ten-year-old, Joe was the silent, cheerful hero. He was the real deal. Modest, intelligent, eloquent, funny, compassionate, kind; loving; Joe was a blessing to all who knew him.

They say it is meaningful and a great honour when a Jew’s death falls on a high holy day. My beloved father-in-law Syd passed on the eve of Yom Kippur. Dr. Joe died during Passover. I think he’d just had enough of the gefilte fish. Goodbye, my dear friend.  
 
Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 4/10/17

As I sit here Sunday night to begin this week’s report, I am listening to Ella Fitzgerald sing a Cole Porter tune on the Hunters Bay Radio Sunday night Martini Music show. Always trying to expand my musical horizons, I am learning to appreciate great songwriting in all genres of music. Besides, I feel somewhat compelled to listen to Martini Music, considering that the host, my 92 year-old mother-in-law Ethel “E.T.” Taylor, is presently visiting us for a few weeks. Today was one of those idyllic, early spring days, during which the mercury climbed above 60F degrees, and the sun burned away the blues (and grays). E.T. sat out in front of the house, in full view of the slowly melting frozen lake, armed with a cup full of seeds to feed the birds. I zapped into town on the ATV to give it an “Italian tune-up” (high-revving run to blow out the carburetor) and to buy some groceries. I then took Jasper for a long walk to sniff the newly uncovered winter debris. Nothing says “spring” like soggy, rotting vegetation. Our next door neighbors were up from Toronto to begin opening up their cottage. Spring Fever is in the air.

Last Saturday night, Shauna and I attended a concert in Huntsville, marking the release of local singer/songwriter Christina Hutt’s first EP. I first met Christina a few summers ago, at an outdoor concert in Huntsville. She was about to play an open mic at one of the local pubs, and, buoyed by the encouragement and mentoring from some established Canadian artists like Rita Chiarelli and Katherine Wheatley, she was eager to perform in public. At the time, I remember thinking to myself that her enthusiasm would soon be tempered. From my experiences, I’ve grown cynical whenever I see an emerging, hopeful musician.  When I finally did hear her sing, weeks later, I realized Christina has something special. Her tone, her vibrato, and her delivery are spellbinding.

The concert began with an improvisational set by Jack Nickalls on acoustic guitar, using a looping pedal to double track his music. Jack is the very talented fifteen year-old son of Grant Nickalls, Hunters Bay Radio weekday morning show host (and local actor/celebrity), and he is rapidly becoming a great guitarist. Particularly noteworthy to me was his jam on the bass riff to Ray Charles’ Hit The Road Jack. It was inspired, and it really set the tone for the rest of the evening. Next up was James Gray, producer of Christina’s new EP. Having toured all across Canada and parts of Western Europe, and recently back from a musical tour of Australia, James has over the past several years developed a stage presence that elevates his performances to the level of a seasoned professional. He forges a real connection with his audiences, and it is only through the experience of touring and interacting with audiences that one creates this connection. I didn’t feel it two years ago, when I first saw him play, but last Saturday night, I knew I was watching a pro.

Next up was Christina, accompanied by James on guitar, and the very talented Marion Linton on violin. Marion is featured on the new EP (as well as many other local and probably national recordings) and she adds so much to the production of every song to which she contributes. Christina’s set was lovely, hypnotizing in fact. It included a few covers, as well as all the original songs from her new EP. I knew she was prepared, but she exceeded my wildest expectations. For Shauna and me, it is always rewarding to watch local artists develop over time. Christina is probably the most improved local artist I’ve had the pleasure to follow, and I’ve been fortunate enough to work with her on more than one occasion.  The very first time I saw her perform, she was shy and a little awkward on stage, but once she began to sing, she was riveting.  Still, an artist needs more than raw talent to attract a following, and the woman I saw perform at Trinity United Church last Saturday night, accompanied by two seasoned musicians, had reached a new benchmark. She was developing what James has: a connection with the audience. Although I really have nothing to do with her improvement, I felt the same pride welling up that I feel when I see any artist who so obviously develops their performing skills. Christina’s new EP is available through Hunters Bay Radio, and probably online as well. I look forward to the day when one or a few of these emerging local talents attracts some national and international attention. Christina Hutt could be one of those artists.                      -  Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED      

The Oppenheimer Report 4/3/17

I had an email from one of my readers (and sometime listener to the radio show) who’d read last week’s rant about design flaws. He suggested that I scrap the Honda touch screen radio and go buy an after-market unit that was more user-friendly. Were that it was so simple! My old car came equipped with a stackable CD player, which meant that one could load as many as six discs into the unit at one time. While it worked fine for many years, it was problematic as well and eventually froze up, with a CD stuck in the unit.  I was told that in some newer cars, it can be a problem to install after-market players. I took it to a guy up here and he installed a very simple but effective Kenwood unit, which served me very well for the next two and one half years. The sound was noticeably better than the original factory-installed unit, and it included a blue tooth connection that allowed me to run my cell phone through it, as well as a stereo jack to accept auxiliary players. I could then play my field recorder in my car and hear live concerts I’d recorded over the car stereo. These features are standard with a lot of cars today, but back in 2006, they were not. I really miss that after-market Kenwood. If and when I keep this new Honda longer than the stereo lasts, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to replace it easily, because the unit is tied in with the onboard navigation system.

Let me for a moment talk about GPS technology. Troglodyte that I am, I got along just fine with a road map for the majority of my driving career. As a real estate broker in Western New York, I also had some fairly detailed city maps which I could consult when I was in an unfamiliar part of town. I purchased my first GPS, a Garmin, after I moved up to Toronto. It was fairly easy to use (i.e luddite-friendly) and I did find the technology helpful. That said, it was not entirely reliable, and directed me to more than one dead end. It helps to have a general  idea where your destination lies before you rely on the GPS. As well, sometimes territories re-develop, and the unit then needs to be updated. My second GPS unit was a TomTom and it was entirely UNsatisfactory. Equipped with voice activated technology, that TomTom was a piece of computerized crap. It required constant time-consuming updates on the computer, and was hard to program. One day, I was driving along Hwy 401, one of Toronto’s busiest and most congested highways, and the unit went completely berserk. It froze, and began to make a distracting noise, rather like a damaged CD. There I was, on a busy highway, and I couldn’t even get the thing to turn off! I came very close to throwing it out the window.  I have never had much luck with voice-activated controls. Shauna’s car has that feature for making phone calls, but it hardly ever works properly.

Further to my discussion last week about design flaws, and labor-saving technology which is anything but, I watched a segment on The Daily Show With Trevor Noah, which made me chuckle. They did a bit on the oxymoron of “smart technology”, ranting about silly unneccessary applications that are designed to improve our lives. There is apparently a hair brush now, equipped with some kind of sensor to alert the user when he or she is brushing too vigorously. An alarm sounds,  warning the user to brush more gently. Perhaps we have reached the tipping point here. Who needs this? That comedy bit summed up the way I feel about much of this high tech nonsense. There has been a lot of talk in the media over the past month about surveillance technology and computer hacking. I have known for a long time that hackers can get into my computer and steal my deepest darkest secrets. Now I have learned that hackers can spy on me using my computer camera or a myriad of other computer operated devices. I still don’t understand how it possible to spy on someone using a microwave oven, but admittedly, I am not the brightest person when it comes to technology. There are applications on smart phones that will allow the user to interface with the alarm systems on their homes, turn on their lights, program their PVR s, etc. While all of these things may sound remarkable, as one computer expert suggested, anything that employs computer technology to control something else remotely can be hacked. How would you feel if you tried to disable your security alarm system and someone had changed the password, or better yet, locked you out of your house?
Almost everything is run by computers now, and this should be of concern to everyone.

It is becoming increasingly clear that hackers from some country - and sorry Donald, it probably was Russia – interfered or tried to interfere with the American elections. A teenager in Markham, Ontario somehow managed to hack into the Canada Revenue Agency a few years ago. Look at all the havoc WikiLeaks has wreaked by releasing sensitive information on a number of governments around the world. Maybe I’ve been watching too much Mr. Robot, but I am concerned. When it comes down to who has the smartest hackers, I’m not entirely confident that a country that willingly elected Donald Trump will be the ones to protect us from cyber-attacks. When I look at all the things going wrong with computer technology today, it makes me want to tear my hair out. Then again, I won’t even be able to do that, because my computerized hair brush will sound an alarm if I try.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED    

The Oppenheimer Report 3/27/17

Today’s rant concerns little but annoying design failures. Most but not all of these little problems are directly related to winter conditions. First up is my Ariens 27” Deluxe snow blower. We bought the machine about six or seven years ago, and it has in most ways been a satisfactory snow blower. We do have a snowplow guy, but in an emergency I need to be able to clear our driveway. As well, after heavy snowfalls, I use our snow blower to cut back the sides of the ever-narrowing driveway path, when we run out of places to put the snow. In fact, that snow blower has come in very handy since we purchased it. That said, I’ve probably used it 25 times since we bought it. The other day, I went out to start it, and the manual pull starter cord broke. It seems that a starter cord should last longer than forty or fifty pulls, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles. I did not intend to replace the cord myself, because I’m wary of messing with recoil springs, but I did look up the replacement procedure on YouTube. After watching a video, I figured I could at least remove the recoil mechanism and take that relatively small part to a mechanic for repair. For almost all snow blowers this is an easy procedure: remove four bolts and the recoil mechanism comes off. I must have one of the only models wherein the recoil housing is riveted to the engine block. To remove the recoil assembly one must drill out the rivets. Why would anyone design a part, one that will inevitably need replacement, to be so difficult to disassemble? Now, I must take the whole machine to the repair shop, which means transporting it in my landscape trailer, which means waiting until the snow melts! 

Next up in the “what-were-they-thinking” department is Shauna’s 2011 Nissan Juke. Not only have there been a laundry list of recalls on the car, but there have been a myriad of electrical failures and design flaws. One winter day, Shauna could not open the gas cap lid because it was frozen shut. Great design! The other day, I tried to start the car in sub-zero conditions, and there wasn’t enough juice in the battery. I pulled the hood release to pop the hood and give the battery a jump, but nothing happened. I could not open the hood. I called the Nissan dealership, and their solution is to tow the car to a dealer, on a flatbed trailer. When the weather warmed up a bit, I managed to get the car running, and took it to a local car mechanic to have this relatively simple problem fixed. Had I been out on the open road I would have been S.O.L. Why must there be a hood release inside the car anyway? Inevitably, the interior release involves a wire cable, and this is just one more part to fail. I've read that Nisson is notorious for electronical problems, and in my opinion this is becoming a bigger and bigger problem with a lot of new cars. The Juke has tire pressure sensors, which I think are completely unnecessary. I can see when my tires are low on air. Every season, when we put on the snow tires, the tire “low pressure” light comes on, even though the tires are properly inflated, and it can only be reset at a Nissan dealer, or someone with the expensive diagnostic tools used by Nisson.

My new Honda is not without its design flaws. There is a back-up camera installed on the rear hatch of the car which, in theory, helps me to see what is behind me when I’m backing out of or into a parking space. Unfortunately, the camera is so placed that, if there is any precipitation whatsoever, it immediately becomes covered in grime and useless. In other words, half the time it is un-usable. The radio on this Honda is supposed to be state of the art, but in fact it is horribly counter-intuitive. It involves a touch screen (I dislike touch screens intensely), and every time the car is turned off, it is a two-step process to get back to the radio screen. While some radio controls are available on the steering wheel, many are not. On every other car stereo I’ve owned, the CD player is simple and easy to use. It typically includes fast forward and rewind controls that allow the listener to scroll through a song. I often want to hear a lyric repeated, but with this system, I can only jump ahead to the next song, or back to the beginning of the song being played. If the car is turned off with a CD in the player, unless the CD was being played when the car was turned off, it will not recognize that CD until it is ejected and re-inserted. Disregarding the minor annoyance of these design flaws, there is the obvious issue of distraction. It is against the law to operate a cell phone while driving a car, but operating this Honda radio requires more attention than texting on a phone. It’s absolutely ridiculous, especially when the weather is frigid and the control screen becomes unresponsive to my touch. Don’t even get me started on voice activated controls.This is not progress folks.

My philosophy is “don’t fix it if it ain’t broke.” While many of the electronic devices used into new car technology improve fuel efficiency and perhaps safety, some of them are just annoying, unnecessary, and complicated to fix. I look forward to the imminent release of the mass-produced self-driving car. I hope they aren’t designed by the guy who dreamed up my car stereo. Computer-operated autos: what could possibly go wrong there?

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED      

The Oppenheimer Report - 3/20/17

Saturday night, we drove down to Toronto for one of our whirlwind concert adventures. We picked up Shauna’s 92 year-old mom E.T., and headed over to Roy Thompson Hall to see Chris Botti perform with his band. For those unfamiliar with Chris Botti, he is a world class, Grammy Award-winning trumpet player whom Shauna and I have seen four or five times. As a teenager, Botti was good enough to play with Frank Sinatra and his band. Now into his fifties, he is the headliner, touring with only the best musicians. The first time we saw him, many years ago, he opened for Sting at Massey Hall. We had no idea who he was at the time, but we were astounded by his talent. Since then, we try to see him any chance we get. The summer before last, we took E.T. to see him perform at Roy Thompson Hall, while she was recovering from a bad fall. She’d broken her neck that spring and for a while there, we didn’t know whether she’d ever be able to resume a normal life. That concert was her first outing after the accident, and it was a game changer for her spirits. She was wearing a rather imposing neck brace, and when Botti came down from the stage to play in the aisles, he noticed her, and played an entire solo standing right in front of her. Jump ahead eighteen months, to last Saturday night, when we were in roughly the same seats, in the same venue, but on the other side of the aisle. He must have recognized E.T., even without her neck brace, and didn’t he play to her again! After serenading her with a beautiful solo, he took her hand and asked her how she was doing. We’re not sure why we were so fortunate. That kind gesture surely made E.T.’s night. A lady in the audience, Caroline Farquhar, videotaped the event, and it is now posted on YouTube as well as on Shauna's Facebook page.

As I said, Botti always travels with exceptional musicians, and he had a virtuoso violinist with him Saturday night who was remarkably entertaining. Her name is Sandy Cameron and, not only is she an excellent violinist, but her emotion was palpable. She leapt around the stage like a cheetah, visibly acting out every note she played with passion and fire. Chris Botti seems to be extremely supportive of young musicians coming up the ranks, and often at his concerts, he will call up some young musician from the audience to join him onstage. This is always a thrill for the kids and audience alike. At a time when funding for the arts is drying up, musicians like Chris Botti are the inspirations for the next generation.

Last Friday night, I got a taste of that sentiment at our local open stage at the Burk’s Falls Legion. The “3rd Friday Coffee House” typically includes five or six acts, and the performances range from fair to inspired. For me, the best part about these local concerts is that they encourage the community to come together and support its own. Most famous musicians will probably tell you they got their start with the support of parents, or someone in their local community. YouTube is filled with videos of young stars in the making, performing at local venues. Last Friday night, local resident and professional musician, Sean Cotton, took the stage with his son Jesse and the rest of Jesse’s band. I really enjoyed the set, wherein Jesse played four or five of his original songs, and I recorded the performance. Today, I dropped off a copy to Sean. I often record local performances because I know it is helpful to hear one’s live performances. After thirty five years of playing open mics in various places, I know that every so often, there will be a live performance which is exceptional. For me, nothing compares to the experience of seeing and hearing good music performed live. Perhaps due to the increasing popularity of YouTube, and the availability of on-demand video of almost any performance one might want to see, there seems to be waning interest in attending live performances. I read that some music festivals are struggling to survive because they can’t sell enough seats. As well, some of the clubs and small venues are facing similar challenges. I will always prefer a good live performance to a studio recording.

Driving home from the Botti concert in the moonless, rainy, wee hours of Sunday morning, I heard on the radio that the legendary Chuck Berry had passed away. He was ninety years old. In my head, I could hear Johnny Winter’s live version of Berry’s hit Johnny B. Goode. I hope that when I pass on, I will leave behind at least one memorable song. Maybe one of those young musicians coming up through the ranks will have a hit with a Jamie Oppenheimer original.  

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED      

The Oppenheimer Report - 3/13/17

Today I took a walk along the perimeter of our frozen lake wearing snowshoes. After a recent thaw, the lake re-froze, and in so doing caused ice to expand and pile up against the shore. I took some photographs of the phenomenon, hiked down the bay for about a quarter mile, then headed home. It's been brutally cold this past week and while spring is officially just around the corner, after a strange and unseasonably warm February, we are once again hearing the expression "polar vortex" in the forcast. Apparently there is at least one more whopper of a winter storm blowing this way, and I'm ready to bid this winter adieu. To follow is an old Opp Report I wrote on January 24, 1999 ...

1/24/99 - Coming from Buffalo, I am always amused to watch inexperienced drivers try to negotiate snow. Some people just can’t figure it out, and, as a result, the rest of  us suffer. This is why I am offering the following helpful tips about driving in winter weather:

1. If you park outside in the winter, as many people do, clear the snow off your windows before you begin driving ... that is, assuming you have enough common sense  to carry a snow brush and/or scraper. Otherwise, you’re flying blind until your defroster kicks in, and this is no way to face the onslaught of other commuter cretins, bent on endangering the general public with their imbecilic lack of common sense. Why not just blindfold yourself, hit the accelerator  and hope for the best?

2. A good rule of thumb is that, if the snowbank into which your car has been plowed is higher than your wheels, you aren’t going anywhere until you DIG YOURSELF OUT. That is, with a shovel. The laws of physics being what they are, one cannot remove a car from a snowbank by throwing the car into DRIVE and furiously gunning the engine.  If, in your pursuit of the ultimate urban assault vehicle, you are ridiculous  enough to own a Hummer, you might actually be able to extricate yourself from a snowbank with brute 4-wheel drive force. Then again,  Hummers are so wide they don’t fit down most unplowed side streets. Which brings me  to tip #3...

3. Just because you bought a four-wheel drive vehicle - and this does not even include those puny little “all wheel drive” rice burners with their piddling little toothpick drive trains - doesn’t mean your vehicle  will get you through anything. Snow tires and ABS will help, but all vehicles will slide on ice.  Also, four-wheel drive is substantially more expensive to repair when you overestimate its abilities and burn out your transmission. I read an article in the Wall Street Journal (and quit snickering ... I read real newspapers sometimes) about all the meatheads with expensive four wheel drive vehicles, who  became stranded during the latest big snow storm in Chicago. Many of them blew up their engines and transmissions trying unsuccessfully to free themselves from snowbanks. This, of course, has been a windfall for transmission shops and dealer service departments, but represents a four thousand dollar transmission repair bill  for the clueless owners. Learn to rock your car out of a snowbank, and know when to give up. If you car isn’t moving at all while you continuously spin your wheels for twenty minutes, maybe you’re not  oing anywhere without a good push, CAA, AAA,  or a tow truck. Get over it.

                                  

One of the best cars I ever owned for its  winter traction was my 1970 VW Beetle.  Front wheel drive is good too, but one must understand the concept of under steer. My friend Bob and I once got “busted” by a Niagara Falls Park policeman in the Goat Island parking lot, which in Western New York is widely respected as the winter proving grounds for all vehicles you don’t care too much about. We were “running some tests” on under steer, and got a little carried away. We found out that, with front wheel drive, it’s  much easier to  do a “360" in reverse, during which epiphany we almost hit several light standards. We also learned a valuable lesson that saved me from many a snowbank encounter.  With front wheel drive, if you go into a turn too fast, and experience under steer, hit the parking brake for a moment, and the back end will kick around. Bob told the policeman we were from Road and Track, but I don’t think the guy bought it.

                                                                     

Seriously folks, if you don’t know how to drive in snow, figure it out, or don’t drive. Practice in an icy parking lot ... buy Buffalo Jim’s Ninja Winter Driving Video. Trust me, I’m from Buffalo ... I have a black belt in winter driving. 

                      -Jamie Oppenheimer

The Oppenheimer Report - 3/6/17

Last weekend was a memorable one for me. Friday, I headed down south to attend a recording session with the very talented producer Andre Wahl. My somewhat undefined goal for my next album is to include other local artists to cover a few of my songs. Andre graciously agreed to produce three of my songs, piggybacking my recording session with another he was scheduled to do at a studio in Washago. Last weekend marked my first experience in a proper recording studio, and it was something I've dreamed of doing for the past forty years.

I was nervous, because I did not know what would be expected of me, but I arrived in the Orillia studio, and was immediately greeted by four friendly musicians. Within ten minutes, my butterflies were gone and then it was down to business. We began with a love song I wrote for Shauna many years ago entitled “Time We Found”, which Andre and the band unanimously agreed should be the song I sing. I had given the crew a rough demo I’d made, and from that demo they charted and arranged the song. Performing with these obviously seasoned studio musicians was such a pleasure for me, because they are so intuitive and creative. As we ran through the song, I heard the arranging process unfold before me. Each successive take was a little more refined than the last, and it was fascinating to hear musicians and their producer interacting and discussing what worked and what did not. By the third or fourth take the song began to come together, and I could feel the energy in the room as we built an interesting arrangement from a rough demo. We ran through the song eight or nine times before it was the way they wanted it.  Fully rehearsed, the song was then recorded. There may be some minor overdubs, but the song will be essentially as it was recorded off the floor. I then went into a separate booth and recorded several takes of the vocals. Thankfully, I will have a chance to re-record those, because after an hour of singing the same song, my untrained voice was not at its best. Although he has his work cut out for him, I am confident Andre will extract an acceptable vocal from me.

My friend and country singer-songwriter Paul Lagandyk was up next to record a country ballad “Deeper I Go Into Blue” which I’d written over two decades ago. He has a little more experience in the studio, has recorded his own album with Andre Wahl, and is a far better singer than I. The song came together well, and the relaxed atmosphere in this private studio made the creative process all that much easier. Including two meals, which the owner of the studio graciously provided, we were in the session for almost ten hours. For me, the time flew by. My friend Jamie Clarke, band leader for a local band called Myrle, was in the studio Saturday to record my song “White Car”. While I was not in attendance for the Saturday sessions, I ran through the song with Jamie a week or so ago, and I am confident that he will knock that song out of the park. Jamie is a seasoned musician/songwriter as well, who most recently recorded an album with the uber-talented Ron Hawkins. I don’t know what will come of these sessions, but it was my dream come true to record with such a well-known producer and these skilled studio musicians (Tom Juhas on guitar, Rich Levesque on bass, Craig Harley on keyboards, and Ken Post on drums).  After recording in a vacuum for decades, I am finally giving life to some of my songs. Given the direction of the music business lately, I no longer aspire to any widespread recognition, but I have created good recordings of some of the songs which I am proud to have written. It has taken me almost thirty years to ignore the rejection I have experienced as a songwriter, and to prevail. No matter what anyone says now, I have established some credibility with the people I respect in the music business: songwriters, musicians, and producers.

Saturday morning, I met my friend Bob in Toronto, and he and I attended the RV show in Mississauga. We try to meet for one show per year, and it used to be the boat show. Then it was the auto show, and one year we attended a motorcycle show. As an amusing side note, when we arrived at the RV show, we noticed that there was another concurrent convention: “Sexapalooza”. Perhaps it is indicative of our advancing age, because, while we used to go out for a few drinks after the show, we neither of us drink anymore. Now, we simply go out for a nice dinner somewhere and complain about our degenerating health, followed by a marathon session of “IPod DJ”. It works for us. Old friends are the best.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED      

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