The Oppenheimer Report 1/29/18

For all of you who read and reacted to last week’s report, thank you for your responses. I appreciate your concern. I have been a caregiver now for almost 2 decades, but this latest affliction pulled the rug out from under both of us. The most common advice I gleaned from well-wishers, and it is good advice, is that the caregiver must take care of him or herself first. For the most part I do. I’ve had many years to practice, because Shauna has been unwell for much of our 24 years together. This latest setback was a sucker punch. We were down in Toronto last Thursday for another consult with our neurological ophthalmologist, and were relieved to learn that the inflammation finally seems to be under control. Thankfully, this means that Shauna can continue to wean slowly from prednisone. If everything goes well, it will still be several months before she can go off that despicable medication for good. Last August, when this specialist first saw Shauna and so quickly admitted her to the hospital (where she remained for almost two weeks), we were understandably frightened and confused. We had no idea how serious this problem was. During this last appointment, we learned that the attack had migrated from one eye to the other, and there were signs of inflammation developing in Shauna’s “good” eye. She could very well have been blinded by this neurological attack had this doctor not acted as quickly and responsibly as she did.

At present, I am in the middle of three books dealing with the immune system, and two of them are related to diet. Much of Shauna’s ill health can be traced back to a food poisoning incident at a Swiss Chalet over thirty years ago. She contracted campylobacter from under-cooked chicken, and almost died before the problem was properly diagnosed, weeks after the bacteria was ingested. By the time she was treated, the bacteria had caused indelible damage to her digestive tract, and she was soon thereafter diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease. We talk a lot about autoimmune illnesses, including diseases like Arthritis, Crohn’s Disease, Epstein Barr Syndrome, Lupus, Psoriasis, Thyroid Disease, Vitiligo, Fibromyalgia, etc., and there is an equally long laundry list of medications prescribed to remedy them. What I never before understood is that the gut is command central for our immune system. Aside from one obvious lesson, which is, don’t eat chicken if it looks or tastes under-cooked, it has become increasingly important to learn how to bolster and protect one’s immune system. As the world continues to produce more and more food for our ever-growing population, we have unwittingly compromised the nutritional value of that food supply. I cannot say for sure what are the deleterious effects of genetically modified foods, but I can say there is an epidemic of auto-immune illnesses, and that it has become more and more difficult to achieve good nutrition from pre-processed and mass-produced foods. If there is any message here, it is to learn more about what you eat. I maintain that most of us are our worst enemies when it comes to our health. Garbage in, garbage out. I am not slamming doctors, but doctors overwhelmingly treat symptoms, not root causes. Two killers, stress and bad nutrition, are on the rise, and when an autoimmune illness attacks, we look for our doctors to fix it with a magic bullet. Our bodies have amazing recuperative abilities, but we’re compromising our immune systems. Only we can fix that.

This reminds me of the old joke about the guy who for years prays to God that he might win the lottery. Finally, the clouds part, and God answers, in an exasperated voice: “Meet me halfway; buy a ticket!” You might need help, but in the end, only you can fix you.  

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 1/22/18

I apologize in advance for the tone of this week’s report …

A week ago marked “Blue Monday”, deemed by some experts to be the most depressing day of the year. I certainly hit the wall this past week, and it was little consolation to note that I am not alone. Shauna’s health is not getting much better, and I cannot avoid the constant negative chatter on the news, chipping away at my ever-waning reserve of hope. I just heard a song by Loudon Wainwright III called Older Than My Old Man Now, and boy, does that song resonate today.

While I haven’t talked much about Shauna’s health in the past months, she is still struggling with the same problems which surfaced six months ago. The vision in her left eye might be marginally better, but there is still an almost hallucinogenic distortion, and we are told there has been permanent damage to the optic nerve, and to her eyesight. Most worrisome has been her extremely negative reaction to the prednisone, prescribed by her specialist to reduce the inflammation. A word of caution: If you ever need to go on this drug, read up on the side effects, because you won’t likely get a straight answer from the doctor who prescribes it. For Shauna, who suffered from chronic pain and inflammation for decades before she was put on this drug, this past five months have been discouraging. Her reaction to prednisone has been devastating, with symptoms ranging from extreme weight gain, increased pain, agitation, insomnia, skin problems, back problems, potential bone density problems, cognitive issues, etc. We still do not know what the long-term damage might be, or if the drug is even helping, and in the back of our minds is the ever-present apprehension that the neurological attack may not be over. Later this week, we will head down to Toronto for yet another appointment with an ophthalmologist / neurologist who has been treating her for the last five months. We hope to learn that the inflammation which attacked her eyesight has continued to subside, and that she can wean from this awful drug. Among other things prednisone shuts down the body’s adrenal gland, and a slow wean is necessary to avoid the dangerous side effects of withdrawal.

Last Saturday, to mark (like a fire hydrant) the first anniversary of Rump’s inauguration, there were marches across North America to protest the Bloated Orange Emperor. Millions of mostly angry, indignant women, marched in protest of sexual harassment, and some were marching just because they despise the Commander-In-Tweet in general. As I write this, Congress is about to reconvene following the shutdown of the government. While I see this this shutdown as all about political posturing and trying to make Trump look bad, it simply shines a light on exactly what it was that got Rump elected in the first place: government dysfunction and partisan politics. It seems to boil down to an unacceptable quid pro quo – money for the Great Wall of Mexico and/or other concessions, in return for not scrapping DACA (Deferred Action On Childhood Arrivals). Without that concession, about 700,000 illegal immigrants, many of them young and raised in America, stand to be deported. So much for “Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses…” I feel as if the U.S. Constitution is being re-written by a fool.

There is a philosophy in the business world, especially true in certain circles of the real estate business, which professes that he who is the biggest bull-shitter wins. In my heart I think I know right from wrong, but for the life of me, amidst this hurricane of bad press, I can’t see the white hats anymore. Just a bad day I guess. “Blue Monday” hit me a week late.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 1/15/18

My late father used to read this report almost every week, and in fact, he remains a large part of the reason why I write it. Dad had an excellent command of the English language, he was a great letter writer, he wrote for The Cornell Sun while he was in university, and he was the Cornell class agent for his graduating class for well over forty years. In another world he would have made a good journalist. Dad used to get offended whenever I said anything off color in this report, something I did a lot in the early days. He told me that it was beneath me to go for the cheap laugh, and I suppose he felt that my feeble attempts at lowbrow humor were demeaning. These days I am a little less inclined to make nasty, character-assassinating comments about public figures, and I rarely swear in print. My dad's quiet voice is always in the back of my mind these days. I wonder what he would make of the current state of the union.   

Perhaps you can recall that famous routine by George Carlin about the seven words you can’t say on television. I’m pretty sure “shit” was one of those words. A lot has changed in 45 years, and just the other day, a new precedent was been established. In the past 48 hours, I must have read or heard the word “shithole” on television at least one hundred times. This is of course because our Commander-In-Tweet allegedly said it while making derogatory, racist remarks, a day before Martin Luther King Day, about immigrants entering the U.S. from “shithole countries” like Haiti and parts of Africa. Trump denies the remark, and claims he was misquoted. Either he made the remark or he didn’t. If he did not, then shame on the people who said he did. If he did, pandering to his ever-shrinking base of boneheads, then it was a disgusting and decidedly un-presidential thing to say. Regardless, anybody with more gray matter than a Black Lab must see that this guy is not playing with a full deck, and unfit to lead a kindergarten class, much less a powerful country. I never thought Mussolini would end up leader of America, but here we are. Welcome to crazy town.

Why don’t we import more Norwegians, you know, intelligent white people? I don’t know, why don’t you ask a Norwegian? Perhaps he or she will say they don’t want to live in the country wherein Donald Trump is President. Now that most of the world despises Donald Trump, and by association, the country that voted him into office, my question is how far down will we go? While indignant (hypocritical) Congressmen call for censure, and the world grows more and more impatient with Rump’s impetuous, childlike behavior, I ask myself what is his endgame? My biggest fear, growing stronger every day, is that Rump’s only way out of this public relations nightmare is to incite a distracting major military conflict. I’ve become so desensitized by the outrageous nonsense going on in the White House, that I have all but given up reacting to anything but the most outrageous things out of Rump's pie hole. Given the climate of chaos and disinformation, I wonder how terrified those residents of Hawaii must have been the other day when the nuclear attack warning sirens went off accidentally? Certainly, it is now a believable scenario that North Korea might launch a nuclear attack on America. Thanks are due to the boy who cried “Un!”

Bad behavior is nothing new for leaders, and past presidents are well-documented for their faux pas remarks (Google Harry Truman and political correctness), but these days there is no filter. I prefer the delusion that my leader has a little class. All this is making me very anxious, and I wish I could talk to my dad about the state of the world today, but alas, he is not here. Sorry Dad, I used the word “shithole” in my report this week. By the way, I was just quoting the President of The United States.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 1/8/18

We watched the Golden Globes last night, because every year I like to know which movies I want to see, in three years, when they air on HBO. Host Seth Meyers was quick to seize on the “Me Too” movement, and there were a lot of jokes about Harvey Weinstein, Kevin Spacey, and sexual misconduct in general. Certainly, this was a forum for females in the Hollywood fishbowl to speak out against the abuse of power in a male-dominated industry. I’m happy about the seemingly seismic shift in Hollywood, and I hope it spreads like wildfire to the rest of the world. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if every job was filled by the person who was simply qualified to do it? In some karmic cosmic parallel universe, Oprah would be President of The United States and the current Commander-In-Tweets would be working the window at McDonalds. Speaking of Rump …

My button’s bigger and it works! Wow, looks like it’s official; about half of America elected a grown man to lead the free world, who has the emotional maturity of a 5-year-old. When I hear Rump spokespersons defending his overtly childish behavior, it astounds me. I am deeply concerned, as I’m sure many of my readers are, that this egotistical putz will soon spark a nuclear war. The big news this week is that “reporter” Michael Wolff's  hatchet job book entitled “Fire and Fury” has been released, proclaiming Donald Trump to be a colossal moron. White House aids have apparently gone on record to state that The Donald is a few spices short of a goulash; an impetuous, childish idiot. Regardless of the veracity of the allegations – and Wolff must have known he was going to be a lightning rod to libel charges - the saddest part about this book is Rump’s reaction. He publicly denied that he is a moron, which is bad enough, but then he made a quantum leap and declared himself a genius. To me this makes him look even more like a moron. I take everything out of Rump’s mouth (or fingertips) with a pound of salt, but he’d have been much wiser to discredit the book’s facts. Forget Obama’s birth certificate, I think it’s time we had a little conversation with Donald’s teachers. Start with the third grade. I realize that the press is in an all-out war with the White House, and I’m no champion of biased media. The truth lies somewhere deep in the miasma of spin and innuendo. The fact is, Rump says stupid, untrue things every day, and he has finally succeeded in eradicating whatever dangling particle of hope I had that the man really does in fact have both oars in the water. I gave him a year before throwing in the towel, presuming that the swamp creatures would be gunning for the underdog, and that all his shenanigans were just a clever ruse. Rump may be draining the swamp, but he’s filled it with raw sewage. I feel genuinely unsafe, and evermore astounded by the damage this bozo has done to America. Dust off the 25^th Amendment! Meanwhile the stock market is climbing to record highs. What is wrong with this picture?!

The other day I heard someone say that 2017 was the year everyone became offended by everything. We may have pegged the meter on the politically correct side of the scale, but let’s face it, there was plenty about which to be offended in 2017. I shook my head in disgust the other day as I watched the 11 O’clock News. There was a story about some internet blogger who got into trouble with his fans over an insensitive video post. I shrugged off another story about a wannabe celebrity, until I heard that this guy makes millions of dollars from sponsors who are drawn in by his legion of followers. He performs stupid stunts, like faking his suicide through an apartment building window, stunts you’d expect to see on one of those Jackass movies; and he has a lot of followers. So, the kid with the stupid grin, who wears his baseball cap backwards, is making millions video recording himself skateboarding into a brick wall, and posting it on YouTube. He now lives in a house worth $6.5 Million and is making more money than the average heart surgeon. What a wonderful message we are sending to the next generation. Hard work and public service are to be eschewed in favor of stupid, sometimes desperate attempts to attain celebrity, and to exhibit over-the-top bad behavior. And we wonder how we ended up with squirrel head!

As we welcome the new year, hoping that Baby 2018 grows up to be a better person than than Baby 2017 (who never grew up) I repeat a quote from my favorite cartoon possum (no, not Jeff Sessions), Pogo: “We have met the enemy and he is us!" 

I’ll be back next week, if the world has not been reduced to ash.

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 1/1/18

I’m beginning this report on New Year’s Eve, and if the car will start, I’ll head over to the Katrine Community Centre later for some live music. The folks at our local Katrine General Store were planning to hold this their first New Year’s Eve event outdoors, with live music and fireworks at Midnight. With the crisp clear night and the “super” moon, this party sounded like a slam dunk. Alas, at -25F, it was a no go. I heard on the news that cold weather nixed many of the outdoor First Night celebrations scheduled here in Canada. Ottawa had fairly well scrapped their big 150^th Anniversary sendoff, and Toronto scaled back the live music considerably. You can have your ball drop in Times Square, or your guitar drop in Nashville, or your slipper drop in Key West (complete with a transvestite named “Sushi”) – give me the Katrine General Store gig any day. Katrine is party central. Along with a monthly music jamboree at the local community center, and a winter festival held in February, Katrine is where it’s at. The running joke here is that there are rarely any spectators for the annual winter festival parade, because the residents are all participating. One year, I took a photograph that fairly well sums up the excitement that parade generates: a single marcher, bundled up in skidoo attire, trudging down the street in a blinding snowstorm, and carrying a giant stuffed fish under her arm. I call it pluck.

Last week, a Buffalo legend passed on, and almost anyone from Toronto to Buffalo knows who Irv Weinstein was. The popular news anchor for WKBW, Buffalo’s local Channel 7, died of Lou Gehrig’s Disease at the age of 87. I grew up watching Irv and Channel 7 news in Buffalo, and while some on my Canadian friends from Toronto joke about Irv’s emphasis on murder and arson, two regrettably common events in my hometown city, I loved Irv’s sardonic delivery. From the 60s to the 80s, and largely because of Irv Weinstein, WKBW was the channel to watch in Buffalo. I grew up on Rocket Ship 7 and Commander Tom and I also remember as a little boy visiting the WKBW station with my dad. He was participating in a community welfare broadcast, and he thought I might enjoy seeing a live TV broadcast. I was ecstatic, until I saw the set for Rocket Ship 7, and realized how cheap all the props were. “Promo”, my beloved Rocket Ship 7 robot, was little more than a refrigerator box, spray painted silver. My favorite robot was made out of a Frigidaire box; it was a horrible epiphany! It was like learning the truth about Santa Claus (you know, that he drinks), and it was the first of many broadsides to my eroding innocence. Heavy sigh. “Commander” Tom Jolls (which must have been some truncated Polish name) was the Channel 7 weatherman, and he doubled as a children’s show host in the afternoons. I think Rick Azar was the sports guy. Simpler times, where did they go?

I say good riddance to 2017! 2017 was that boorish oaf at a cocktail party; the guy you can’t get away from, and who just keeps talking about himself, even when you begin to become vocally antagonistic. 2017 was that slimy little penis-like alien who bursts out of the guy’s chest in the movie “Alien”, terrifying everyone, then scampering off, only to reappear and wreak havoc at will. I’m ready to eject that little bugger into outer space and start fresh. How about you? America, you made a mistake. It happens. Take off your red baseball caps, put on your big boy pants and move forward. Everybody stumbles. Democracy is not perfect. Exposing the foul underbelly of hatred and ignorance in one’s society can be a good thing. May love and understanding emerge miraculously from the ruin of 2017. I believe it will. Focus on the heroes and the bums will hang themselves.

As Irv would say: “It’s Eleven O’Clock … do you know where YOUR children are?”

      - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED   

The Oppenheimer Report 12/25/17

Merry Christmas everyone!

Every week I try to learn something new about some aspect of songwriting, something to mention on air when I present the songs I play. Last Thursday night on Lyrical Workers, I played primarily Christmas songs, and learned an interesting fact about the much-covered song Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer. The character of Rudolph was originally created in 1939, as a promotional piece for the publishing company, Montgomery Ward, by a copywriter named Robert May. Later, May’s brother-in-law, Johnny Marks, created a song around the character, and ten years after it’s original creation, Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer became a big hit when Gene Autry recorded the song. I find it interesting that Jews wrote three of the most iconic Christmas songs of all times: Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer (Marks), White Christmas (Berlin), and The Christmas Song (Torme)

This is the last report I will write in 2017. As always, it seems like only yesterday that I was changing the date on the below copyright to 2017. In fact, this particular holiday season has flown by particularly fast. Last night, as has been my tradition for almost every Christmas Eve in my recall-able past, I watched Frank Capra’s It’s A Wonderful Life. I’m such a huge fan of the movie that my sister bought me a book about the making of it. Every year, I notice something new, some little continuity error or prop that I didn’t see the year before. There are so many scenes that evoke emotion in me, and I cry like a baby every time I see that movie. I recall reading that H.B. Warner, the actor who played Mr. Gower in the movie, actually drew blood when he slapped the young George Bailey (12-year-old Bob Anderson) in the famous drugstore scene. I also read that Warner, an accomplished method actor, was somewhat inebriated during the famous scene, perhaps so he could better get into character. Whatever his motivation, his performance in that scene was shockingly  believable, and in fact so were the performances of everyone in the cast. I can’t believe the movie was a flop when it was released in 1946. It wasn’t until 25 or 30 years later that it became the cult classic it has remained since.

A lot has been made about the subtext It’s A Wonderful Life, and many theories have emerged. Was it socialist propaganda or merely a movie about the love conquering all? Idealist that I am, I prefer to believe the latter. This morning, Shauna read me a letter Albert Einstein apparently wrote to his daughter, the contents of which were only revealed long after Einstein’s death. In it, Einstein declares that the most powerful force in the world is love.  This is a strange thing to read, coming from the person responsible for opening the door to atomic energy. At a time when universal love seems to be on the wane, when science seems to be at odds with humanity, when narcissistic sociopaths spout ignorance and hatred, and the world seems to have been upended; it is a somewhat comforting notion that one of the world’s greatest geniuses felt that love can conquer all. I want to embrace this idealistic notion as well. In the face of all evidence that the world is swirling down the toilet drain like yesterday’s half-digested Big Mac, I still see the good side of mankind. I’m as cynical as the next man, but I am a dreamer as well. We don’t see it on the news, but I believe love begets love (and the opposite is also true). In my little community, we have the plumber, who regularly does pro bono repairs in elders’ homes, or the Managing Director of the community radio station who selflessly organizes a food drive with other local businesses, to provide 1000 turkey dinners to local food banks, or the emergency first responders who save lives on Christmas while the rest of us make merry. I don’t think you can legislate hatred or ignorance out of existence, but I do believe goodwill is contagious. I try to remember every good thing that has been done for me, and I try to focus on true leadership. Here’s hoping 2018 is the year we begin to focus on the love we know is out there. 

Ho Friggin Ho, and don’t be one! 

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 12/18/17

Happy Hanukkah!

Shauna and I have decided the time has finally come to invest in an alternative (supplemental) source of energy. Ontario Hydro has become ridiculously expensive and, regardless of the exact payback period for this solar upgrade, or our substantial upfront costs, we are confident that this expense will be justified. To that end, we have employed a local solar company to install several solar panels on our property, along with two Tesla storage batteries. As hydro rates continue to climb, this solar upgrade will likely become an increasingly wise decision. Solar panels have come down substantially in price since we built our house, and battery technology continues to improve. I foresee the day in the not-too-distant future, when rural communities such as ours will heavily rely on alternative sources of energy. Right now, solar seems to make the most sense. Our Hydro goes out at least once every few months, leaving us to rely on our propane generator. It will be a reassuring to have a renewable (and reliable) source of energy to supplement our electrical needs. The less we must rely on utility monopolies and poorly managed Provincial governments the better.

Ding dong the witch is dead! That evil, child-molesting Roy Moore did not win the nod for Alabama senator. Instead, Alabama voters chose to elect Democratic candidate Doug Jones in a thrilling come-from-behind victory. This marks the first major win for Alabama Democrats in decades. You’ve got to be pretty darned bad to lose the Republican nod in Alabama! I think Moore’s endorsement by bigoted, Breitbart blowhard Steve Bannon, along with the backing of Bannon’s petulant puppet, Baby Rump, were the two final nails in the coffin for Alabama voters. Well, that, and the growing list of female accusers Moore allegedly molested, including a fourteen-year-old girl, when he was in his thirties. Sexual misconduct in politics? I’m shocked. The Belt Line Republicans who wanted to distance themselves from the publicly vilified Moore, are no doubt breathing a sigh of relief that this Trump-like nut ball did not make the cut. Now they have breathing room to find a more suitable (homophobic, bible-thumping, gun-slinging, not-so-glaringly-racist) candidate for the next six-year term. This political upset may, as some pundits eagerly suggest, signal the beginning of the end for the “Orange Emperor”, but not so fast America. Jones is just filling in for the balance of U.S. Attorney General Jeff “Possum Man” Sessions’ term, and is up for re-election again in November of 2018. Still, there's a glimmer of hope. This defeat, coupled with Rump’s plummeting approval ratings, are a shot across the bow for the elephants. Weeks ago, Jones was trailing Moore by double digits, but never underestimate the power of an effective “I’m-not-the-other-guy” campaign. So, Squirrel Head, it’s time to rein in your lunacy; otherwise, the fickle and disgruntled American electorate, who were fooled by your bullshit once, will can your ass like yesterday’s Apprentice. While I am astounded by the incompetence of this man to lead a country, his election just proves to me how out of touch Washington has been with mainstream America. People don’t vote for candidates anymore, they vote against the candidate they hate the most. Lots of anger and hatred out there.

There was a post on Facebook the other day that made me chuckle. It was a post by G-d, lampooning the present administration’s propensity to foment hatred and division around the world. It depicted a nativity scene with all the “Jews, Arabs, Africans, and immigrants” removed. What remains are “a bunch of sheep, led by a jackass.” I didn't even know G-d had a Facebook page!

Finally, and to end this report on a happy note: by the end of this week, Hunters Bay Radio, in cooperation with four other local area businesses, will have delivered 1000 turkey dinners to area food banks during their “Food Crew” drive. That is just one reason we love our community radio! 

Season’s Beatings!

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 12/11/17

First it was Halloween, then Remembrance Day, and now I have put out my third Facebook request. This time it is for Christmas songs people want to hear. On December 21^st my Lyrical Workers show will air many of those requests, and I really like doing these all request shows. They tend to be a little more work, because I have to locate the songs, many with which I am unfamiliar, but it’s great fun to see some of the bizarre tunes people choose. So far, I have received about ten requests, and I’m sure the list will grow. For my Halloween show, there were sixty songs requested, many which I’d never heard before. I never cease to be amazed at the number of people who have an encyclopedic knowledge of music. I do not have that, about anything, and I have forgotten much of what I once knew. Especially some of my fellow songwriters and musicians seem to have a photographic memory of album and song writer details, as well as concerts they have attended. I never used to pay attention to the lyrics, and I am finding is that many of the songs I loved from the past were chorus-based, not particularly strong lyrically. I have come to respect good songwriting as I write more songs myself. I still like bad songs as well. This year, my addition to the Hunters Bay Radio database will be an album entitled Redneck Christmas Party, and there will be gems sprinkled into upcoming shows, like “Let’s Fry Up Alvin And The Chipmunks”.

Never a fan of Christmas myself, I know Christmas is a big deal for lots of people. I get that, and I liken it to the way I used to feel when the American Thanksgiving rolled around. This was a time when my family convened in Buffalo, and it was always an adventure in familial dysfunction. No matter how screwed up some of my family members are, it is important to exercise the increasingly atrophied muscle of tolerance and acceptance. I used to bite my lip every time Uncle Fred would ask me to “feel my butt, I've been doing exercises.” To this day, I’m not sure why a ninety-year-old man needs a firm butt, yet he was very proud of his. Aunt Ida would always bring up what big ears I had. Alcohol was of course the great lubricator, and it was not uncommon, in a fit of “thankfulness”, for someone at the Oppenheimer Thanksgiving feast to inappropriately French kiss a nonagenarian aunt, or to let everyone know about his or her bizarre sexual anomaly. I suspect I committed a few alcohol-related indiscretions myself. Al Franken would have fit right in. Roy Moore – not so much. We make amazing allowances for our family, don't we?

As a somewhat nihilistic Jew, to me the idealistic notion of Christmas as a time of generosity and goodwill seems a little far-fetched. Cynic that I am, I always gravitate to the scenarios that lampoon Christmas. I am reminded of the scene in that movie Trading Places, wherein a drunken Dan Akroyd, sitting on a crowded city bus, dressed like a disheveled Santa Claus, ravenously chows down on a giant whole salmon with only his hands. Another Christmas classic: Bad Santa with Billy Bob Thornton. I have my own personal reminiscences of the yin and the yang of Christmas  -  a guy dressed in a Santa suit, obviously pickled to the gills, peeing on a Toyota in the Galleria Mall parking lot in Cheektowaga, NY. I once saw a fistfight in Miami, Florida around the holidays, over a parking space in a crowded mall. Really, they should have Christmas cams in all the mall parking lots –  all the nonsense that takes place would make a funny movie. The simple fact is, it’s easy to see the hypocrisy in a holiday that focuses on goodwill, and I don’t like any holiday wherein the ever-widening disparity between the Haves and the Have-Nots is so glaringly apparent. I know lots of people who, rich and poor, celebrate Christmas for the right reasons. As I said, I’m Jewish; I have a black belt in guilt. As it becomes increasingly difficult to find the good side of human behavior, the trick is to become better at recognizing it, and of course, to become a more generous and tolerant person myself.

If you've got a bizarre Christmas song you'd like me to air in the December 21st show, let me know on Facebook or fire me off an email to jamieoppenheimersongwriter@gmail.com. Seasons Beatings!

 - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 12/3/17

Today’s report begins with a mini rant about, yes, you guessed it, technology. Recently, I complained about the ridiculously counter-intuitive touch screen car stereo in my new Honda, and how I think the company that designed such a poorly engineered system should be publicly admonished for their stupidity. I never thought I’d be the grumpy codger complaining that he can’t “work the remote,” but here I am grumbling about every day technology that almost everyone else seems to have figured out. I still say, "Don't fix it if it ain't broke!"

Lately, I’ve been having all sorts of problems with Bluetooth devices and wireless technology in general, but my rant today concerns my new cell phone. I tend to renew my cell phone contract with whatever phone is available free with the new contract. I’m not too picky, so long as the phone is reliable. I have owned one Blackberry phone, because it was one of the last phones anyone made with a keyboard. That said, it was hands down the worst phone I have ever owned. I think I got that Blackberry about two months before they got out of the cell phone business altogether, and that was a horrible phone in all respects. Since then, I have been using a Samsung, and generally I’ve been happy with the Android platform. I do not and never will like touch screens (especially in cars!). When I renewed my phone contract recently, I opted for a new Samsung A5. It seemed about the same as my old S4, with a better camera, and it has been, in most respects, a satisfactory phone. There are two problems. First, this phone uses a different USB connector from the ubiquitous micro USB plug. Along with the new phone, and its USB “C” charging cable, came a little adapter to attach to a standard micro USB cable. I probably have three or four of the old cables, but I need this little adapter to use them with the new phone. The other day, the adapter fell off the cable and disappeared. It is about the size of a garbanzo bean, so I think it’s gone for good. To my surprise, it is not so easy to find this little adapter, and the cables with the proper end are expensive. Apple is notorious for changing their hardware, and the adapter to make old the old IPods cables work with the new “lightning” connectors is thirty bucks. Don’t get me started about Apple. The other problem with the Samsung A5 is that there are varied sizes for different model years. I did not know this. When I tried to buy a shock proof case for my new phone, there were none available locally, so I purchased one online which was advertised to fit the Samsung A5. When it arrived, a month later from China (hey, it was a deal), it did not fit. Nothing in the ad suggested that there were different A5s for different years. I live in a rural community, and where possible, I try to shop locally, because I think it makes sense to support the local economy. Sometimes, online shopping is the only solution. While convenient, it can be annoying when products are not properly advertised.   

Last Saturday night, I attended the Burk’s Falls Santa Claus Parade, and because Hunters Bay Radio had a float in the parade, I took a high definition video of the entire event on my phone. The upside of technology is that I was able to immediately post it to the HBR Facebook page, as well as on my own page. A lot of people thanked me for posting the video. So far, in only a few days, that video has been viewed over 3000 times. Nothing says Christmas like giant semis, fire trucks, and tractors, honking their horns and blaring their sirens, rolling down the main street, adorned with Christmas lights. I particularly liked the float with an inflatable Santa peeking out the door of an outhouse. Final note: I heard on the news the other night that Death Doulas are the new big thing - people who will help you and your family through the end-of-life transition. For years, I’ve been saying that we westerners need to become better at dealing with death. I have inadvertently been thrown into a "Death Doula" role three or four times, and the experience was transformative. If this rock star thing doesn’t happen soon, I might become a certified Death Doula. I could advertise myself as "The Grim Doula"  ...  Catchy title eh?

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 11/27/17

As winter slowly descends upon us here in the Almaguin Highlands, there is the usual scramble to finish all the outdoor chores that cannot be done in subzero weather. One of the Murphys Law things that happened this season, probably as a result of rising water tables from the copious amounts of rain we’ve had, is that our outside drainage has become blocked. While I clean out our receivers on a semi-regular basis, of late I’ve noticed our sump pump has been running more than usual. My jack-of-all-trades friend Buck was over for some unrelated issue and, when I told him that the sump pump he’d installed was going full tilt, he immediately inspected our outside perimeter drainage outlets. Clearly there is some kind of blockage, either above us or below us, because the water from two different culverts is coming out at a slow trickle. As the temperature plummets and the snow begins to fly, this is hardly propitious timing for a drainage problem. Last weekend, when the weather was somewhat milder, I ran a pump from the lake and reamed out the lower section of the drain, and while quite a lot of mud and debris came out of the line, the blockage is still not cleared. I’m hoping the sump will get us through the winter, because I’m not sure we can unblock the perimeter drains before next spring arrives. Ya gotta love Country livin’.

On the music front, I am proud to say that a week ago last Friday, a song I penned, The Deeper I Go Into Blue, reached the #1 spot in the Hunters Bay Radio Top 20 chart. Sung by my friend, singer/songwriter Paul Lagendyk, and produced by the well-known and much-respected Andre Wahl, this song is one of the oldest in my repertoire, and one that I am proud to have written. I have written quite a lot of songs over the past 4 decades, and up until a few years ago, it was only I who performed them. Not until we moved up here to the Almaguin Highlands did my songwriting receive any attention (thanks in large part to Hunters Bay Radio), and it has been my extreme pleasure to now hear some of the talented artists in this community cover them. Local artists like Juan Barbosa, Paul Lagendyke, Jamie Clarke, and hopefully many others over the next year have translated my songs beautifully, and better than I’d ever imagined they’d be covered. As I said during my HBR Live Drive performance last Thursday night with excellent host “Silver Lake” Joe Thompson, it’s heady stuff to hear one’s songs performed so competently.  

While I am diligently working to properly record some of my older songs, I have also been writing some new songs, and am presently recording with two local producers. First, I have just laid down bed tracks with Juan Barbosa for a song entitled New Constitution. Thematically it is, like many of my new songs, a cautionary statement about the ship of state. News of the ever-increasing list of sexual harassment scandals among public figures, along with the ongoing war between Donald Trump and the rest of the world (with the possible exception of Alabama), the propensity for history to repeat itself (Myanmar, Egypt, Las Vegas, Iraq, Sutherland Springs, Texas, etc., etc.), has made it harder and harder to ignore the troubled state of mankind. Of course, the trick is to write about politics and morality, while not sounding too preachy, and I often cross the line there. I think New Constitution is less preachy and perhaps a little more about the way many of us are feeling lately. Another new song, entitled Grampy’s House, which I will be recording with singer/songwriter Sean Cotton, is about looking back at my innocent youth through the eyes of a jaded adult. From the preliminary test recordings of the song, I am very excited about this one. As the American Thanksgiving was celebrated last Thursday, I am thankful for many things, and one of them is the serendipity that placed me in such a rich musical community.

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 11/20/17

The subject of today’s discussion is garbage. The other day, my mom-in-law E.T. called me, somewhat amused, and she told me that she had seen an article she felt was newsworthy for the Oppenheimer report. It involved a story reported in The National Post about 2500 tons of garbage, in 103 shipping containers, which had been mistakenly shipped from Vancouver, B.C. to the Philippines. Ontario’s Chronic Inc., a Canadian plastics recycling firm, is being blamed for the “mistake”, but is denying the charges. Clearly someone screwed up, and it has become a diplomatic nightmare. For some reason that waste has been sitting in a port in Manila since it was delivered, four years ago. Asked about the situation while he was in Manila recently.PM Justin Trudeau reassured Philippines President Duterte that the matter is under consideration and that Canada will “hopefully” find a solution. Justin is batting 0 with Duterte after publicly dissing him over alleged human rights violations. This is apparently not the first time garbage from another country has been “dumped” on the Philippines; Japan has apparently been guilty of a similar crime. It is illegal for a developed country to ship its waste to a developing nation.

Years ago, I heard an interview with CBC anchor Peter Mansbridge, wherein he told the interviewer that he regularly takes his own garbage to the dump. If I recall correctly, he said it kept him grounded, and he wanted to acknowledge how much garbage he was generating. I take our garbage to the Burk’s Falls Dump, partly for the same reason, and partly because garbage collection is not a viable option for us. While there are private services which will remove garbage from private residences near us, they will only do so from the curbside. If I am going to assemble all my garbage and recycling, and drive it to the top of our 500-meter-long drive, I might as well take it the extra three miles to the dump. Besides, I’ve become friendly with the staff there. Some of my more interesting conversations happen at the Burk’s Falls dump.

When I first started going to the Burk’s Falls Landfill Site, back in 1994, the profile of the landscape was quite different. In the past 25 years or so it is remarkable how much things have changed. Recycling restrictions have changed considerably in that time, and we have, for the past ten years or so, been composting our organic waste at home. I try to keep most of that stuff out of the landfill. I often joke that Shauna and I have the carbon footprint of Sasquatch, and in fact we have been very wasteful. One thing I can say about taking one’s own garbage to the dump is that it makes one more mindful of just how much waste we generate. I see how fast the landfill mound is building, and as the local population continues to grow, that mound is likely to be a mountain soon. I used to stop in the supermarket before my radio show and pick up a pre-packaged sandwich to eat while I was broadcasting, but I rarely do that anymore. Everything comes packaged in a plastic container. We have a Tassimo coffee machine, which uses plastic coffee pods (which are almost impossible to recycle). I have always wondered why, like Keurig, Tassimo does not offer a compostable pod. I just heard on the news that those plastic pods will soon be outlawed here, in favor of compostable pods. 

Cynic that I am, I doubt my little attempt to reduce our waste is going to make much difference, and certainly will not reverse the trend of developing (and growing) Third World nations to disregard our stressed planet. I believe that the horse is out of the barn and barking up the wrong tree with both oars out of the water. I suspect Mother Nature will have the last laugh, but at least I can say I was on deck when the ship went down.   

 - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 11/13/17

Uncle Morry with (I believe) my late
sister Joanne

Because it was Remembrance Day last Saturday, I’d put out another Facebook request for war songs to feature in last Thursday night’s Lyrical Workers show. The response was, once again, overwhelming. As with the Halloween show, I learned about some great songs that I’d never before heard. Some of these war songs were quite dark, dealing with post-traumatic stress and the general hell which is war. Last year about this time – and I can’t believe a year has passed since I wrote the report – I spoke of a friend of mine named Richard, who was a Viet Nam vet. A musician friend suggested I write a song about this vet, and that will be one of my projects for the new year.

Years ago, when Shauna’s dad was at Sunnybrook Hospital, I began writing a song about his roommate on the stroke ward. Her name was Juanita, and she was obviously a very sick woman. I remember her screaming a lot, and she was clearly in emotional and physical distress. From time to time she would settle down, and we sometimes spoke during her calmer moments. She’d come from the Caribbean islands, she was herself a nurse (cruel irony), and she seemed to be quite religious. That whole Sunnybrook stroke ward experience was enlightening, to say the least, and I met a lot of interesting people that I might not have otherwise met. In fact, the experience was in large part the impetus for my decision to quit drinking. If you’ve ever been on a ward full of stroke victims, you will know it is a special kind of hell on earth, both for the patients and for their families. Exhausted one night, I remember taking a break in one of the sitting areas on the ward, not far from Dad Taylor’s room, and Juanita was having one of her waking nightmares. I could hear her angry voice from 50 yards away. It was late summer I believe, and the weather was ripe for a powerful thunderstorm. It had been oppressively hot and humid all day, and now the sun was finally going down. The sky was a weird shade of pink, bordering on orange/yellow, and there was an eerie stillness to the dusk. As I looked out the window, I had the strong feeling that something bad was about to happen. While nothing did, the seeds of a song were planted in my head at that moment, and I wrote down the following lyric: “Juanita, this wasn’t what you had planned/ Broken promises from your promised land/ Jaunita you’re doing the best that you can/ But you’re already blowing in the coming wind.” The other day I finished a ninth draft of that song, four years after its inception, and I think it’s finally nearing completion. I suppose I needed some distance from the experience to dilute the overbearingly personal nature of the song.

Back to Richard, the Viet Nam vet; he was another scarred individual. By getting to know him, I came about as close as I ever had to comprehending the bad things war could do to a person. I read a book years ago, written by news anchor Tom Brokaw, about the “Greatest Generation” of WW II vets, and it seemed as if those veterans were generally stoics about their experiences. At my real estate office in Buffalo, there was a partner who had been a paratrooper during WW II, and I think he was emotionally affected by his wartime experience. Richard was a different kind of screwed up though, and I suspect that it matters whether the cause for the war is clearly just. In World War II, the allies were fighting Hitler and the Nazis. I don’t know that the endgame in Viet Nam was as clear, and I suspect that many of the vets who fought in that war were as confused as I was. I worry about history repeating itself, as it often does.  

As a songwriter, I sometimes have no real understanding of the subject matter about which I am writing. I am an observer, and sometimes all I can do is tell the story of my experience, as clearly and succinctly as I can. Many of my songs are not written to be played to an audience. They may be the stepping stones to more universal songs, songs that might resonate with a larger audience. I write in hopes that one day I might pen that song.

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 11/6/17

Bad news out of  Southerland Springs, Texas, where another mass shooting has dominated the headlines stateside. Same old song and dance in a video tape loop: how did we not see this coming, how could this man have procured an automatic weapon when he had a history of violence; how did authorities not see the red flags? I'm not worried about Islamic terrorism; religious fanaticism is nothing new, and it spans all denominations by the way (anybody remember the Crusades?). I'm much more worried about the mentally ill ticking time bombs living among us who were born and raised here. Guns are certainly a disturbing symptom, but when you take away the guns, you still have the disease. How do we treat the disease? That's it for today's rant.

To follow is an early attempt at humour.  It's one of several soap opera spoofs I wrote back in the nineties as a writing exercise. Kinda silly, but maybe that is what is needed on this grey Monday full of bad news...

THE BALD AND THE BULIMIC ...

When Tricia finds Marissa’s monogrammed lighter in the pocket of Egbert’s bathrobe, she feels her worst fears are verified. In a jealous rage, she attacks him with an electric nail gun, pinning his genitalia to the frame of their bed, before he is able to explain that he had only borrowed the lighter from Sergei, who picked it up when he was seduced by Marissa at a “Save The Whales For Last” fundraising event several days earlier. Tricia’s unwarranted jealousy will cost her the child she always dreamed of having with Egbert. Egbert is left with one testicle and a falsetto voice.

Suzanne plots to murder Franca, whom she mistakenly believes caused her sister’s miscarriage when she served her sister bad tuna, by persuading Tony, the stuttering garage mechanic (who has a crush on her), to tamper with the brakes on Franca’s car. But, when Tony accidentally tampers with the wrong brakes, it is Judge Wilson whose car spins out of control, killing him instantly. Since it was Judge Wilson who was expected to rule favorably in Suzanne’s bitter custody battle for her little girl Trixie, fate deals Suzanne a cruel blow. The Judge who replaces Wilson is Jose Carlotta, the brother of Juanita, the abused and underpaid domestic of Suzanne’s evil mother Zelda. Judge Carlotta hates Suzanne’s family and might rule unfavorably because of this.

Meanwhile, little Tommy, the homeless urchin, who was taken in by the benevolent, rich, and powerful Thompson McCRea, after he was caught trying to hotwire McCrea’s Rolls Royce, accidentally electrocutes McCrea’s price race horse by dropping an electric mane trimmer into the horse’s watering trough while the horse is drinking. Fearing McCrea will finally disown him if he finds out, Tommy and his friend Lester, the cretin stable groom, attempt to dismember and incinerate the horse. This proves more difficult than he’d anticipated, and the boys leave behind several incriminating clues. Will McCrea discover the horseshoe encrusted with the remains of a charred hoof?

Finally, when Pansy is killed suddenly in a furnace explosion at her beauty parlor, she is revealed to be a designated organ donor, and her heart, still intact, proves to be a perfect match for the needs of Wanda, the church organist, who is on her deathbed suffering from congestive heart disease. But Wanda, too weak until now to prove that it was Desmond, not Phillip, who bilked the church out of a fortune in Bingo profits, could be in a position to ruin Desmond’s life, if she is healthy enough to testify. Desmond happens to be the paramedic charged with delivering the donor heart to Our Lady Of Perpetual Motion  Hospital, where the transplant is to take place. Does he know what she knows? Will he heed the warnings given to him by that gypsy woman who read his palms at the state fair? Tune in tomorrow.

The Oppenheimer Report 10-30-17

Tomorrow is Halloween, and I’ll wager there were more than a few costume parties going on last Saturday night. I stopped in at the local Landmark Pub to see my friends The Jukebox Scoundrels play, but I did not realize it was a Halloween party. Luckily I’d brought along my dollar store fangs, so I did not stand out TOO much. I felt honor bound to put them in as soon as I saw all the costumed attendees lining up to get into the bar. My talented friend Juan Barbosa, now sober a week, was playing the gig, and I wanted to show him some support, knowing how challenging it can be to spend time in a bar sober when everyone around you is drinking. There were some great costumes, and as I watched two guys, one in a full bear costume (a la Ted) and the other in an 8’ inflatable Tyrannosaurus Rex costume, boogying wildly on the dance floor, it brought a smile to my face. I was reminded of some of the great Halloween celebrations I had attended or hosted over the years. You’re never too old for Halloween.  

I heard on the radio today that tonight is referred to as “Beggars Night” in some parts of the U.S., and it’s called “Devil’s Night” in Michigan. In Buffalo we called it Beggars Night, and we did not give out candy on Beggars Night. My father had strict rules: no candy on Beggar’s Night, and no costume, no candy on Halloween. We used to get some strange adults coming to our door in Buffalo on Halloween, looking for candy. Regardless, if there was even a feeble attempt at a costume, we offered treats to one and all. Do you remember the orange UNICEF boxes? I don’t know if kids still collect for UNICEF when they trick or treat. Mom always bought too much candy for Halloween, so I usually had a stash for the next several months. I always groaned when people gave out healthy treats. I noticed that bible thumper Pat Robertson was on television the other day, decrying Halloween as a pagan celebration that worships Satan. Really Pat? Wasn’t Christmas once a pagan celebration as well? Maybe next year I'll dress up like Pat Roberson.

I had fun last Thursday night airing the all requests show for my Hunters Bay Radio Lyrical Workers Halloween Spooktacular. I’d put out a call for unusual Halloween songs, and received over 60 requests, many of them new to me. Of course, many people requested Michael Jackson’s Thriller, which was no surprise. Dinner With Drac by John Zacherly was a pleasant surprise, as was Marie Lavaux by Bobby Bare and Baxtor Taylor. It’s remarkable how enthusiastic some people are about their Halloween novelty songs. John Tracey, my friend who lives in Upstate New York, sent me a number of eclectic Halloween tunes, and said my request happened to come at a time when he was putting together a mix tape for his Halloween Party. I now have plenty of new songs for next year’s show. Of course Dead Babies by Alice Cooper was in the set list (in my humble the Alice Cooper album “Killer” is a classic), as well as Bobby “Boris” Pickett’s Monster Mash. I always encourage listeners to send in their song requests for my show, either by Facebook, email, or by texting the Festing Toyota Text Line at Hunters Bay Radio (705-224-2527), but every few months or so, I also post for an all request show. That seems to elicit the most responses, and it’s always interesting to me as a songwriter to hear what other people like.

Today,  I reluctantly took off all the dock hardware and gloomily acknowledged that we might be coming to the end of boating season. I am still reminded of 2015 wherein the lake remained unfrozen unseasonably late, and I was able to use the dinghy on Christmas day. I’m guessing this is not going to be one of those years. As the temperature dropped to a chilly 4C, and I reached underneath the dock to unbolt the cleats, I was thinking perhaps I’m in denial. Yesterday, I putted across the lake to pay our landscaper his last bill of the season, but today I’m not sure I’d like to be out on the lake. Nevertheless, now that the hardware is off the dock, and it’s just a matter of removing the planks and cranking it up (thank goodness for retractable docks), I’ll leave the dinghy moored at the dock indefinitely. Hopefully, I’ll get in a few more trips around the lake before the snow flies. While cold weather boating is not one of my favorite pass times, any boating is good boating. Happy Halloween everyone!   

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

The Oppenheimer Report 10/23/17

Another one of my favorite musical artists died last week. Gord Downie, front man for The Tragically Hip was the most recent casualty, succumbing to a brain tumor last week. Canadian music lovers are in mourning, and somewhere in Canada there is I’m sure a Hip song playing at this very moment. I started listening to the Hip in the late 80’s while still living in Buffalo, and they were extremely popular in that border city. Strangely, the band never really took off elsewhere in the U.S., which I never understood. I think they are hands down the best rock band to come out of Canada, period. I was always envious of my stateside friends lucky enough to see them in some small club. Like them or not, The Hip left their indelible mark on Canadian music and Gord Downie will forever be deemed one of Canada’s best and most unique ambassadors of rock and roll.

The other night I turned on CNN, and all I heard was people yelling over each other. This now seems to be the norm in my divided country; nobody is listening, and EVERYBODY is talking. I fear Trump’s insensitivity, rudeness, and disrespect are contagious. The subject of this latest scream-fest involved the un-presidential faux pas involving the widower of a soldier killed in that recent ambush in Niger. The general spin is that his administration is trying to dodge the real story, which is that the army somehow failed these soldiers. Nobody looks good in this latest nonsensical scandal. Politicizing the grief of a fallen soldier’s family is about as low as you can get. Once again Trump looks like an impulsive child. Can you imagine being Trump’s Press Secretary, or Communications Director, or Secretary of State? Or Melania for heaven’s sake! Hey, she knew what she signed up for when she married him, right?

I’m tired of hearing about what a fool and an asshole Trump is. I think that case has been made quite convincingly by the media and the pundits. Astonished and indignant at his decidedly un-leaderly behavior, we gasp, horrified by his latest outrageous tweet. Trevor Noah, The Daily Show host did a very funny monologue on Donald wherein he likened him to a petulant 5-year-old. It would have been funnier if it wasn’t so true.

So how did we get here? Talk about putting your big boy pants on. If you don’t like where your democratic society is headed, why blame the leaders we elect? Does not the electorate bear some of the blame? This was not a hijacking, or a military coup. This bozo won the electoral college in the United States presidential election. An arguable majority of Americans felt that it was time to drain the swamp and they would have elected Idi Amin if they thought he’d do that. I often say defensively that I didn’t vote for Trump, which albeit true, does not exonerate me. Either by apathy or inaction, I indirectly contributed to this. There is no question that Trump is a boorish, and maybe a hateful, ignorant fool, but he also represents a change from the status quo. All the people who are screaming and yelling about the fury that he has unleashed must not have been paying attention to the seething cauldron of rage bubbling underneath the calm complacent parallel universe some of us live in. Racism is alive and thriving in America, women are paid less than men for commensurate jobs, guns and violence are everywhere, and in this age of hyper spin, the average American can’t tell what is really happening by watching the news. Donald may be an asshole, but don’t shoot the messenger.

 - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 10/16/17

To my twelve loyal readers ... This week got away from me, and I apologize for not posting my typical rant du jour. The world gets crazier by the minute, but I've been writing this report weekly since 1992, and sometimes is interesting to read what was topical ten or twenty years ago. It reminds me that nothing is new under the sun. To follow is an old Opp Report from July 8, 1997. Enjoy! 

Last weekend, during a heavyweight championship fight in Vegas, Mike Tyson bit off a large piece of Evander Holyfield’s right ear. He claimed this was retaliation for a previous and (ruled) unintentional head butt by Holyfield, which cut him above the eye, but regardless of his reasons, this was a bizarre thing to watch. Thanks to a generous friend, I was treated to this spectacle on “pay per chew,” a privilege for which he most likely paid dearly. Had we waited an hour, we could have seen the highlights for free as many times as we wished. I don’t think JFK’s assassination has been aired as many times.

Let us forget, for a moment, that this incident was one of  the most atrocious  examples of bad sportsmanship I have ever seen, that Tyson was outfought consistently until he was disqualified in the third round (for biting Holyfield the SECOND time ... after they had ruled that he could continue beyond the first oral assault), or that, immediately after the fight was called, Tyson took a swing at a cop (and countless other innocent bystanders) and was generally an out of control nutcase, or that this was far from the first time that “sparkle tooth” had gone ballistic ... the thing that really frosts my mug, pushes my buttons, sends stinging little critters up into my unmentionables ... is that Mike Tyson will probably be fined a paltry ten per cent of his  thirty million dollar purse for this reprehensible behavior. Have we all gone mad? The man should be publicly humiliated, not paid  twenty-seven million dollars!

I thought the salaries of professional athletes were getting out of hand, but this takes the tuna; it’s a new low for professional sports. At least Michael Jordan has to work for his pay.  Several jabs, a couple hits, and two serious  ear bites, and Tyson is floating in cash, handsomely rewarded for being the world’s most infamous street thug. Can you think of any other sport in which someone can lose with such dishonor and still get paid twenty-seven million dollars?

Letterman wasted no time seizing the day, first interviewing the guy who found and returned the one inch chunk of Holyfield’s ear, then interviewing the victim himself. Holyfield was pretty funny about the whole thing. He said that Tyson just lost his composure. Asked what his thoughts were immediately after Tyson bit him the first time, Holyfield replied that he was tempted to bite him back.

Two Hollywood greats died this past week: Robert Mitchum and then Jimmy Stewart.  I still cry when I see “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Newsman Charles Kuralt also died. I’m still reeling in the aftermath of Jacques Cousteau’s demise, and let’s not forget Shirley Booth ... or Mr. Ed ( in a tragic case of mistaken identity, Mr. Ed was sent to the glue factory. It was all over the tabloids).

As Americans celebrated Independence Day, space history was being made. The unmanned Pathfinder landed on Mars and, with the aid of a camera-equipped space buggy, we’re getting some amazing footage of  the surface of the Red Planet. No babes yet.

Switching gears, does anybody else watch Bill Maher’s “Politically Incorrect?” It’s a great show, and I watch it when I can. He always has four guests debating some recent controversial issue, and he always picks four of the most unlikely people to be in the same room together. It’s on rather late, so tape it if you can.... I think it’s a funny show. Save the whales ... for last.

The Oppenheimer Report 10/9/17

Grampy's House

Thank you to all the friends and family who wished me a Happy Birthday this past week. I especially enjoyed the several greetings wherein people sang to me. Shauna and I have worked out a harmonized version of the Happy Birthday song, and some of you have probably heard that performance, either on your voicemail or in person.

We feed Jasper, our beloved miniature schnauzer, a special frozen dog food which is available only in the States. Every six months or so, I make a dog food run down to Buffalo. Lately, my best friend Bob  picks it up in Buffalo and brings it across the border . This is very convenient for me because 1. I needn't drive across the often-congested Peace Bridge to pick it up, and deal with Canada Customs on the way back, and 2. I  then have the opportunity to spend some quality time with my best friend and his wife at their beautiful old beach house on the Lake Erie shoreline. I was planning to go down just before Shauna’s birthday in August, but she ended up in the hospital for an extended stay, and I never made it down. This weekend marked the end of Jasper’s food supply, and I could not postpone the trip any longer. Although it was a whirlwind 24 hours visit, I had a lovely time. The trip coincided with my birthday, and what a wonderful thing it was to spend some of it in what used to be my favorite place to be on Earth. Up until Shauna and I married in ’94, I'd spent every summer of my life at our beach house on Thunder Bay (Ft. Erie). Many of my happiest memories involved my residence at that beach house with my family. After forty years of family gatherings, boating, and celebrations, at a house which had been in our family since my grandfather bought it as a young man, there are many friendly ghosts surrounding me there. Twice on Saturday, Bob and I walked the length of Thunder Bay (3 bays east of Crystal Beach) to the old Oppenheimer beach house, and those walks conjured up fond memories. I vaguely remember a picnic under a towering old willow tree with the kids who lived next door, I remember searching for crayfish under rocks on the point near our house, I remember the sound of cicadas in the night, the distinctive smell of our old house, and the giant rock on which my little nephews loved to perch when they were kids. These are familiar surroundings, and no matter how much time passes, or what changes in my life, they always will be.

On Sunday morning, my birthday, I was greeted with French toast and coffee, and a familiar view of the wind-driven waters of Lake Erie. I was reminded of my charmed past. I am thankful to have had wonderful parents, I am thankful for my sister and her family, I am thankful to have (or in some cases to have had) Shauna’s wonderful family in my life, I am thankful to Shauna and her mom E.T. for all their love, I am thankful for all the good friends I have made so far. As I end this report, in the last few hours of the Canadian Thanksgiving, I am reminded how fortunate I have been to be living this charmed life. It is easy to become distracted by the omnipresence of all that is so glaringly wrong in this world. I am acutely aware of all those who have not had the benefits of my good fortune, but I also know a lot of people who are thankful, and who only have a small fraction of what I have. As well, I know a few people who will never be thankful no matter how much they have. I think I'd give up just about everything I have if I could bring that feeling of thankfulness to everyone else in the world. Regardless of our fate, we only have a short time on this earth, so let's do the best we can!

"....Summer days on Thunder Bay, cicadas in the night
Grampy's house through thunderstorms, safe and in the light
But in the ruin of this moonless night, wolves roam the dark blue sky
Forbidden, unformed, youthful dreams have turned this fool into a liar.
Haunted by my memories, the wind whispers the cost
No matter how things seem the same, time records the loss."    - from Grampy's House c 2016

  

 - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED