The Oppenheimer Report 5/28/18

The other night, I watched a news story about some thirty something who sued his parents because they wanted to kick him out of the house. They presented him with an eviction notice, even offered him some money to move out, and said they want him out ASAP. His reaction was to take them to court. It astounds me that someone can be so out of touch with reality that he or she thinks this is ok. We hear a lot about bad parents, and there are certainly a few of those out there, but what about the bad kids? Sometimes parents do the best they can, but the kids don’t do their part. The judge in this case laughed this failure-to-launch deadbeat out of the court room, but I wonder if this might be a sign of the times. This is one of the disturbing trends I see today, especially true in N. America. Along with the omnipresence of gratuitous violence in video games and film, and the resultant general disrespect for life, the tendency to poison our food and water supply, and our growing, technology-induced alienation from our fellow man, I see the omnipresence of this failure-to-launch syndrome. If you are over thirty years old, living at home, and your parents want you out, it might be time to do a reality check. A close friend of ours recently began dating a widower with two adult children. Both kids are still living at home, and one of them has a young child. Neither of these kids contributes to the household income, or do they do anything to contribute to the household chores. The widower is still doing all the cooking for everyone, after coming home from a full day of work. Maybe he is enabling the dysfunction, but what is wrong with this picture? I understand that it may be harder today to make a living or to find affordable housing than it was thirty years ago. I also don’t think there is anything wrong with adult children living at home, with the blessing of their parents. I had help from my parents when I graduated from university, and I lived at home for four or five years before moving out. I saved up enough money to put up a down payment on a house, and was grateful for the support my parents willingly provided. But what about the young adults who live a carefree life at the expense of their parents; is this OK? I used to wonder how I would be judged by the generation that grew up during WWII, when men and women were forced to grow up at 18.

I saw a funny video spoof the other day wherein a young female “Millennial” was in a job interview, and her works skills essentially boiled down to Facebook and Instagram. By the end of the interview, the exasperated interviewer told her that he didn’t think she was going to work out, and she threw a hissy fit. “Are you FIRING me?!! I don’t feel safe!” I know a lot of extremely capable young people who are successfully coping with the business of life. Still, I worry about many of today's young adults, numbed by video game violence, baby sat by a TV set, given a gold star for accomplishing next to nothing, and trained to rely on technology to turn on a light. Heaven forbid there should be a power outage.

Someone came up to me at the Craft Beer Festival a few weeks ago and asked me “Why aren’t you up there performing?” I was of course flattered, but I try to keep my live performances to a minimum. Sometimes writers are better off remaining in the background. Leo Kottke said in the album notes for his first album that his voice was like “geese farts on a muggy day”, and Leo has a much better voice than I do. Last Saturday night I had the good fortune to see Winnipeg singer / songwriter and excellent slide guitarist Joey Landreth perform at Peters Players in Gravenhurst. To see a talent like Joey in a boutique venue, which seats about 80-100 people, was as good as it gets for me. My dream and goal has always been to have my songs covered by talented artists like Landreth. So far, I’ve come a long way towards achieving that dream. My gifted songwriter friend from Edmonton, Bobby Cameron, recorded a song he and I co-wrote, along with my talented wife Shauna. As well, several local artists, including Juan Barbosa and Paul Lagendyk, have done amazing covers of several of my songs.

Sometimes it takes a lifetime to achieve one’s goals. Oftentimes, it never happens. In the beginning I thought I'd like to be in the spotlight, but mostly, for the past 40 years, I’ve only really wanted to be a recognized songwriter. Thanks to Hunters Bay Radio and a music-friendly community full of artists, I’ve had a little success (don’t book the limo just yet). In turn, this has encouraged me to keep writing and to support like-minded artists. This is my dream come true, but it certainly was not my day job. There were a lot of bends in the road, but I always saw recognition for my writing as my brass ring. I think about the kids coming into the work force now, and the possibility that they face a less hopeful future than I did. I wonder, what are their dreams and goals? I can’t imagine a world wherein I thought it was alright to sue my parents because, after having put up with my nonsense for 30+ years, they wanted me to stand on my own two feet.  That my friends, is chutzpah.

    - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/21/18

"Broke Toe"

Last Saturday, to usher in the May 2-4 weekend, and to sound the starting gun for the beginning of summer festivities, Huntsville BIA and Hunters Bay Radio hosted the annual Craft Beer Festival in River Mill Park. This event has been getting progressively more popular each year, and on top of the many craft breweries offering lots of different kinds of beer to sample, there were two sound stages and about ten local musical acts represented. I came for the music.

Unfortunately, the weather was less than spectacular, and it rained on and off throughout the day. That probably kept some people away, but the turnout was pretty good, and I had a ball regardless of the weather. I enjoy watching all the local artists, especially to see how their acts  are developing, but I really wanted to see one musician in particular. Scott Gilson, a good friend of mine, who recently got married and moved to Parry Sound, had not performed in public for years. Like too many musicians I know, he’d burned out on the “business” end of music and had all but given up playing or writing songs. I think Scott’s a talented songwriter, with a great voice and a strong, passionate delivery. I’ve missed hearing him play. He was the second to last act to perform, and just about the time he came on, the heavens let loose. I was taking a video with my phone of him performing a new song, and I had to take my hat off to protect my phone from the downpour. If you go to my Facebook page, you will see the clip I recorded and, if you look closely, you can tell the rain is coming down pretty hard. I’m sure everyone in the audience, under cover, was laughing at the fool standing in the rain. I’ve never had a problem acting like a fool.

River Mill Park is a lovely venue for live entertainment, and I’d like to see a festival, dedicated to local artists every year. Last Friday night I attended the monthly coffee house show in Burk’s Falls, and there were two new songwriters on the bill that impressed me. I now know of 20 or 30 local musicians who could hold their own in the national market, and it would be fun to see them all collaborate onstage in an outdoor venue. Of course, weather is always the wild card. I distinctly remember what a disaster the Muskoka Sound Festival turned out to be four or five years ago. It was the first big festival I attended in Huntsville, perhaps the first of its kind, and the rain really killed it. I remember watching people walk by and get stuck in the mud. Nature can be a mother.   

Final note on the subject of all things natural. Shauna and I share a love and appreciation of birds, probably enhanced by our many visits to  the Canadian Rockies. Out there, we befriended a Clark’s Nutcracker we named “Broke Toe”, who came to visit us every year when we’d stay in Banff. As spring erupts up here, we’ve been spending a little “us” time out on the second floor porch off our bedroom. It’s a little like sitting in a tree house, and the bird watching is spectacular. This afternoon I watched a hummingbird feeding four feet away from me, and there were Red Winged Blackbirds, Blue Jays, Chickadees, Nuthatches, Woodpeckers, Loons, Crows, Grackles, Grosbeaks, and someone says there are a few Eagles living down the lake. Strangely, five pigeons have moved into the neighborhood, thus vastly increasing the overall volume of guano on the property.  The yin and the yang of Mother Nature.

  - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/14/18

In one month, Hunters Bay Radio will be hosting(I believe) its 5^th annual fundraiser at the Algonquin Theatre in Huntsville. The theme for last year’s show was The Last Waltz, featuring the music of The Band, and it was a huge success.  The theme for this year's show is The Beatles White Album, and, under the musical direction of Sean Cotton,  over thirty local musicians will be participating. I won’t reveal what song I’ll be performing, but I will say it is daunting to cover any song from that legendary album. My high school hockey team used to start their Friday night games with Why Don’t We Do It In The Road, and the music from that album has increased  my appreciation of popular music more than any other album.

I see a lot of posts on Facebook wherein people list their top ten favorite record albums. As a practicing songwriter for over 40 years, I’ve had a lot of different musical influences, and I’ve gone through many phases. Earliest albums that immediately come to mind include Cream – Wheels Of Fire/ Disraeli Gears, The Beatles – Rubber Soul/ Revolver/The White Album, Jimi Hendrix – Are You Experienced/ Axis Bold As Love/ Electric Ladyland, The Allman Bros.- Live At Fillmore East, Cat Stevens -Tea For The Tillerman, The Rolling Stones – Beggar’s Banquet/ Let It Bleed/ Sticky Fingers/ Jethro Tull - Stand Up!/ Aqualung, Pat Metheny – Bright Sized Life, Fleetwood Mac – Then Play On/ Bare Trees/ Kiln House. Anyone under the age of forty is likely unfamiliar with these albums, but many of the songs from the 70’s are still being covered more than forty years later. I have found that a surprising number of my friends’ kids like the music of the 70’s, and decidedly, that was my golden era of popular music.

On my radio show, I sometimes talk about songs being mnemonic triggers. If I hear the Stones song Satisfaction it transports me to a hot summer day waiting to cross the border in my mom’s ’68 Buick convertible. When I hear an Allman Bros. song, it takes me back to my boarding school days. The Beatles White album was there from the very beginning of my days as a music lover, and it has stood the test of time. It included such a rich and varied catalogue of songs, ranging from blues to folk to rock ‘n roll; it’s an old friend. Each song is unique in its arrangement, and to this day, I still appreciate the genius of The Beatles as composers. My big problem with much of the music today is that it has become disposable. There are still, and always will be, artists out there who are fantastic writers and composers, but I don’t think people are listening to music (or anything) the way they used to. There is too much noise competing for our attention. Now, we might gravitate to a hit song, but we are less inclined to listen to the whole album of an artist. As well, videos have become a much more important marketing tool. I wonder if songs like Blackbird or While My Guitar Gently Weeps would even make the cut in 2018. Digital platforms like Spotify have cheapened music and corporations and commercial success have re-wired our brains (and I fear the way we create). Some feel The Beatles were over-rated, and that there were and are many better artists and composers out there. I don’t think The Beatles were technically the greatest musicians, but they composed beautifully, and they had an ear for melody that few can replicate.

This week, I’ve started to practice my song for the White Album show, and while I don’t perform a lot of covers, let alone in a theatre full of people, I will try to do my selected song justice. I’ve seen the list of who is performing what song, and I’m eager to hear how my many talented colleagues will cover these songs. The White album is a special collection of music, and I know this show is going to be a lot of fun for everyone involved.

  

  - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/7/18

My mom, circa 1962 at our home on Chapin Pkwy.

What is it they say about the best laid plans? Saturday morning there was a service in Buffalo to commemorate the passing of my best friend’s father, “Big” Bob Miller. I was going to attend that ceremony come hell or high water; I did not anticipate gale force winds. I figured I’d head down to Shauna’s mom’s place in Toronto Friday evening before dark, thus ensuring that I was a little closer to Buffalo for the 11AM service on Saturday. I thought I was being very forward thinking, but Mother Nature had a different plan. Around 4:30 Friday afternoon, we had some strong wind gusts, which only lasted a short while, but did major destruction. Old growth trees  toppled over, power and telephone lines went down, and it was a real mess up here. In fact, the winds were so strong that Hwy 11, and my direct access to Toronto, was closed for a few hours due to debris and fallen power lines. Our power went out, and later in the evening we lost our phone lines as well. I’m sure there were a lot of people crying “Why Me?” Friday night. I was very concerned about leaving my sick and home bound wife alone in a power outage. Murphy’s Law. Thankfully, we have a good generator. Eventually, I did make it down to Toronto, albeit a lot later than I had planned.

Driving down to Buffalo, early Saturday morning, I was hit with a mild panic attack, similar to one I’d experienced before my 35^th high school reunion. My memory is terrible these days, and I was about to see a lot of people I hadn’t seen in a long time. Would I remember their names? I have not been to my hometown in at least three years, and a lot can change in three years. It was strange crossing the Peace Bridge. Short of several old friends with whom I keep in touch, I was not familiar with my city anymore. Even the access to the city from the bridge was different. I got lost in my hometown.

The service was well attended, and a fitting tribute to Big Bob. There was no insufferably long mass, the speeches were just the right length, and there was just a good vibe in the room. I got there early and sat near the front, because I was feeling asocial, but wanted to make sure I heard all the speakers. To my surprise, the person who sat down next to me was an old friend and his wife, whom I had not seen for over 25 years. Jerry Miller lived on my street when we were kids, and he is the offspring of one of the three Miller brothers who lived on the same block. I had not seen him since shortly after he and his wife were married, and it was wonderful to see them both. We’d lost touch but old friendships never really die. Later, at the reception, I saw and caught up with a lot of old Buffalo friends, and even remembered many of their names. The re-connection felt good.

I don’t know why I’m having these anxiety attacks. It might be the chaos, lies, and spin blowing around on the news like a torn flag. Maybe it’s the swift passage of time, made more evident by the visible changes in the faces of the friends I rarely see. Their eyes speak volumes about changes that I was not around to see. Maybe it’s simply that, as I get older, it becomes so glaringly apparent how completely out of control of everything I am. I have been struggling with depression over the past few months, and I fear I am losing my ability to connect with others. Attending this funeral was important for me, likely more important than it was for the family of the deceased. I woke up the next morning, back in Katrine, a little wired from the residual effects of driving for 14 hours (we rarely go anywhere but to the doctors these days). I walked outside to survey the damage from Friday night’s wind storm. I think I’ll be using the chain saw today. I can only react after the storms have passed. One day at a time.

  - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 4/30/18

There were a surprising number of responses to last week’s post about the passing of my friend’s father. I guess I was a little surprised by how that subject resonated with so many of my boomer friends, now facing, or having recently faced, the imminent mortality of our parents. I feel as if I preceded many of my peers in dealing with the decline and passing of my parents, and I watch with great empathy as others cope with some of the challenges we all face. One thing we all seem to share in this complicated phase of our lives is the number of times we mutter to ourselves, “I didn’t see that coming.”

A few weeks ago, “Silver Lake” Joe Thompson, host of the live show that airs shortly before my radio show Thursday nights, asked me if I would fill in and guest host for him this past week. He was taking his dad back to his homeland in Northern Ireland for a visit. They’d been there not too long ago, but Joe’s dad couldn’t recall the trip, because he has dementia. When he realized that he had forgotten the trip he was assured he had made, Joe’s dad asked if perhaps he could go back again. Maybe he won’t remember this trip either, but I suspect that Joe felt this might be the last time he would be well enough to make the journey, so he arranged to do everything, again. I was moved by the gesture, and I think about all the other friends I know who are on their own unique journey with their parents.

My dad and I were like oil and water when I was growing up. He was well into his 40s when I was born, and we gave each other a pretty hard time. I was a difficult teenager, and I regret the valuable time lost before I got to know my dad. Thankfully, our relationship improved considerably over the years, especially after I started working in the family business, and we developed a strong mutual respect. The final stage of our journey as father and son was when he and mom needed assistance in old age. It is a seismic change in our duties as children, when we take on the task of assisting our parents in old age. It’s all complicated by issues of pride, independence, role reversal, and a hundred other mind-boggling variables that affect every family differently. While my journey with my mom and dad is over, I can empathize with the spiritual struggles my friends face as they tend to end stages of the ones they love.

I was touched when I heard Joe was taking his dad back to Ireland, perhaps for the last time (perhaps not). Last week, a friend responded to my report, by saying that a day doesn’t go by when he doesn’t think about his parents, gone these many years. One thing I can say is that I let both of mine know how much I loved them before they passed. The love you give is equal to the love you take. It's all we really have in the end, isn't it? There was a photo Joe posted on Facebook the other day, and it was of his father, with a serene look on his face, eyes closed, basking in the sun somewhere near the northern tip of Northern Ireland. The caption read “Daddy-O at the Causeway”, and It made me smile. I have a few of those photographs tucked away in my mind as well. Joe, it looks like you’ve turned out to be a pretty good son. Enjoy the ride my friend.      

  - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 4/23/18

Bob Miller Jr. and I

Last week, I got the call that the father of one of my oldest friends had passed on. “Captain Bob” Miller, as one of my other Buffalo friends nicknamed him, was unanimously voted “coolest dad” when we were all just neighborhood rug rats. I didn’t really get to know “Big Bob”, as I called him (my friend is Bob Jr.) until I was into my early teens, but he was legendary in our neighborhood for being a lot of fun to be around. He was funny, irreverent, sometimes naughty, and he somehow tapped in to the inner scofflaw mentality of the kids in our neighborhood. Big Bob had a lot of boy in him, right up until the end. He had a deep and abiding love for high performance cars, and if you caught a ride with “Big Bob”, it was likely in some exotic high performance American muscle car, or one of the many Porsches he owned over the years. From those early days, I remember a very hot red Camaro RS SS and an amply powered fastback Plymouth Barracuda. I thought my friend was the luckiest son in the world, because he got to drive many of these hot cars. Bob Sr. also loved boats, but he was a sailor and his son and I are both motor boaters. This was a constant source of contention, because everyone knows sailors and “stink-potters” don’t see eye to eye. To attend a boat show with Big Bob and Bob Jr. was interesting.

When we were kids, all the families in our Buffalo neighborhood knew each other, and many of them socialized. Buffalo was, in my opinion, a great party town, and our parents were great mentors in the art of celebration. One thing I distinctly remember about Big Bob in the early days was his propensity to wear the most garish, ridiculous pants, sporting bizarre designs. It seemed like the mission was to find the most outrageous color combinations and designs to establish oneself as the life of the party (or the person with the worst taste in clothing).

As I did, my friend Bob Jr. eventually went into the family business, and he worked for his father for many years. I can’t speak for my friend, but I can say that working for my father was one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. While I hated the real estate business, I valued the lessons learned by watching my father conduct business. I saw a different side of my dad as a businessman, and I learned a lot about life from him in this environment. I suspect Bob Jr. would say the same about his dad.

Now, my friend and I are in our 60s and we have both had the experience of watching our fathers slowly fade away. Big Bob had passed the nonagenarian mark before he passed, and my dad died just short of his 99^th birthday. It is a strange thing to watch your parents age, because they become exponentially more “mortal” as time passes. I always relied on my parents for emotional support and guidance, but near the end, I was charged with taking care of them. I never really did let go of the notion that my mom and dad were bigger than life. Then they died. No matter when that happens in life, when you’ve had good parents, it is a shock.

Last Saturday, Bob Jr. and I met when he brought me up some dog food supplies which I can only purchase in the States. We met and had lunch together on the waterfront in Burlington,  and we talked about the weird finality of saying farewell to a parent. It is no tragedy to lose one’s parent to old age; in fact we were both blessed to have had our fathers around for as long as we did. Big Bob had physically deteriorated in his last years, as did my dad, but to the end, and also like my dad, he had his wits about him. As my friend Bob said somewhat sadly, it’s strange to think that he will never have another phone call with his dad again, never sit down and have a meal with him, never be able to rely on his advice. Even stranger, now we are the adults. While none of our parents are or were perfect, they shaped us into the people we become, and regardless of their faults, my parents and most of my friends’ parents did a pretty good job keeping us on the straight and narrow.

I inherited a necktie from my dad when he died, and on it was the repeating design of little exhibitionist opening his raincoat. If I can find it, I think I’ll wear it to the funeral ceremony. I’m pretty sure Big Bob would approve.

   

            - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 4/16/18

Sean Cotton Live At Hunters Bay Radio 4/12/18

Last Thursday night, local musician, producer, singer / songwriter, Sean Cotton took the Home Depot stage to perform on the Hunters Bay Radio “Live Drive” show, hosted by my friend “Silver Lake” Joe Thompson. I don’t get out to see live music as often as I’d like, but I am fortunate to attend a live concert almost every Thursday night before my “Lyrical Workers” show. Sean is one of the first musicians with whom I made contact when I moved up here. Four or five years after we first met, we’ve finally recorded some of my songs together. He’s a good producer, and recently, “Mend”, one of the three songs we produced together, is currently climbing the Hunters Bay Radio Top 20 chart.

Sean moved up to this area shortly before Shauna and I did. For twenty years he had been in a successful band known as The Undesirables, co-writing with the very talented Toronto writer, Corin Raymond. Eventually, Sean elected to give up the road in favor of his family. Anybody who  has ever fantasized about being on the road with a band has probably not lived that “dream”. I know plenty of excellent musicians out there busting their humps touring, and the job is not all it’s cracked up to be. Unless you’re very successful, which few are, with a crew, a manager, a booking agent, etc., you’re likely driving yourself to gigs, loading your own equipment in and out, and playing a lot of under-attended venues and bar dates wherein people are not listening to your music. All the while you are dealing with the soul-sucking life of a touring musician.  

Sadly, I think the music business is only getting harder, and about the only way for and artist to succeed is to tour constantly, or to be fortunate enough to place original songs in movies or television. Digital platforms like Spotify and ITunes do not fairly compensate artists for their recordings, and for the vast majority of artists, the process of performing original music is not a living, but rather a difficult labor of love. This is one of many reasons why I never had the courage to pursue music as a career. Over the years, I may have developed as a songwriter, but I’ve never considered myself a strong performer. I was quickly apprised of the field in which I would be competing, and I did not like my odds. Perhaps I could have eked out a living, but there are many more talented artists out there competing for the same piece of the pie. I once wallpapered a room in my Buffalo apartment with rejection notices from various publishers and labels.

When we first moved up here to the Almaguin Highlands, I figured moving so far north of Toronto would nix any possibility of recognition. Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, I have achieved more recognition for my song writing up here than I would have ever achieved in a big city. I couldn’t get arrested in Buffalo; no one showed any interest in my songs, and Toronto was simply saturated with talent. Up hear, I found an artist-friendly radio station, music lovers who listen to and appreciate unknown artists, and the respect of my songwriting peers.

After his performance last Thursday night, Sean presented me with a box full of CDs he’d collected over the years, mostly comprised of obscure Canadian artists, many of them from the Toronto area. He thought I might like some of the music to air on my show. Yesterday, as the ice storm raged outside, I took a few hours to sort through some of them, and I previewed about 40-50 songs by various artists. Much of this music was, in my opinion, mediocre, but some of it was really good. I love the hunt. My bar has been raised substantially after 3 years hosting a show about songwriting. One CD I played really resonated with me. Entitled “Groovy Mondays” it is a compilation of live performances from the Toronto club Holy Joe’s. Every song on the CD is a winner, and I was only familiar with two of the nineteen artists. 

With all the chatter in my head, it’s getting harder and harder to really listen, to music, to family members, to people who are wiser or more talented than I. Listening to the above-mentioned live album reminded me why I love music so much, and it was a lovely, peaceful moment in an otherwise lousy week. I love  hearing something so fresh and beautiful that it takes me by surprise. Thanks to all the artists out there who have written wonderful songs but who have perhaps not reached their audience. Yet. Talent and recognition rarely go hand in hand. I choose to gauge success by the former not the latter. To all those talented artists out there scraping to make ends meet, keep writing your songs, you never know who is listening. Your songs may outlive the myopic public to whom you present them.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 4/9/18

The other day, during an interview with Hunters Bay Radio host Matt Allen, author Peter Jennings was discussing a book he wrote about happiness. Jennings suggested that happiness is getting harder to achieve these days because of the current high level of stress in our society. In part, he seemed to be attributing this to a disconnect in our eroding personal relationships. I’ll extrapolate from this observation and suggest that we are losing our people skills because we favor electronic communication over face to face interaction. This in turn leads to an erosion of the sense of community.

How many times has it happened to you; you’re trying to explain something complicated to someone by text message, a message that might take one minute in a face to face conversation takes fifteen minutes on the phone (with auto correct, maybe longer!). More and more we seem to be failing to connect, to understand each other. People communicate by phone from opposite ends of the same room. We are fast becoming a society that would rather not interact face to face, or at least by speaking to each other, and I think this is a sad development. In the past week alone I can remember five different instances wherein a Facebook “discussion” degenerated into a disrespectful exchange of insults and personal attacks. We used to call it “flaming” in the early days, email correspondences that were designed to be hurtful and inflammatory. I wonder if people would be so insulting if they were in a face to face conversation. We’ve forgotten how to discuss controversial subjects with respect. We are losing our emotional maturity.   

Not only are nasty remarks in social media hurtful and destructive, they are often irreversible. Someone once said something to me which is indelibly etched in my mind ever since: we are the owner of our thoughts, but the slave to our words. I’ve said many things I later wished I could take back, but if it’s in print it’s even worse. Add to this the amount of disinformation churning around the internet, and the likelihood the truth will be compromised increases markedly. As we become more disconnected, and as the news we absorb, in its various degrees of legitimacy, chips away at our sense of control, it’s no wonder we find it harder to find happiness. In fact, much of what I glean from the internet and from the various news feeds I consult, contributes to my loss of faith in mankind.

The reason I so avidly support our local community radio station in Huntsville is that it makes me happy. It makes me happy to broadcast 36 of my unusual song choices once a week, it makes me happy to promote talented artists I don’t think are receiving the recognition they deserve, it makes me happy to in some small way connect with the people around me. Maybe I’m not reaching all that many people, and I can’t gauge that, but if I reach and entertain a few, that is something. Because of this little radio station, I’ve met a lot of people in this local area, and I feel a little bit more connected to the people around me. By supporting HBR I’m supporting a network of volunteers who through their services do some good for the larger community. I think goodwill is contagious. In a small community, there are palpable rewards, as well as consequences for our words and actions. Next time you’re tempted to respond angrily to a tweet, or post, or email, count to ten, and perhaps you’ll come up with a more constructive response. Perhaps your random act of kindness for the day is simply to turn a negative dialogue into a positive one. Choose your words well; try to do more good than harm. You might just find that this will make you feel better about yourself, and in turn will benefit the world around you. Just a thought.

             - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 4/2/18

Happy Easter to all my gentile friends, and Happy Passover to the members of my tribe. Because it is Easter Monday, and you are probably all by now recovering from your big Easter Sunday feasts, I think now is a fitting time to reprise my rabbit lab story. Forgive me if you’ve read it before, but with reference to a report I wrote a few weeks ago about the balance of nature, it recounts one of the more important lessons I learned in high school, and one of the few I still remember. Sit back and read about the time I killed a bunny.

In Grade 11 I took a science class called “Man In Nature”. It was taught by a man named Neil Currie, and Neil was at the time an active member of The Sierra Club. Judgmental punk that I was, I thought old Neil was a bit of a nerd, uncool because he was an avid bird watcher and a nature lover. While I and my scofflaw friends were out playing hooky, up to no good on a nearby golf course, we’d sometimes see Mr. Currie, dressed up in his khaki shorts and knee-high socks, sporting his Tilley hat, with his binoculars around his neck, observing the many species of birds on campus. What a geek.

One day in class, Neil began to discuss man’s carnivorous nature, and he suggested that most of us had become detached from the process of obtaining meat. Show of hands, how many of us eat meat? How many of us had ever watched meat being butchered? How many of us had ever killed an animal ourselves then skinned and ate it? His point was that we were a society of carnivores who was becoming further and further detached from the harsh reality of killing and eating our prey. Suddenly Neil wasn’t the geek wearing the Tilley hat anymore. He had lived in the wild, in conditions that I would describe as extreme camping, and he had a much clearer understanding of the laws of Nature than we did. Finally, he moved in for the close, which none of us saw coming. How many of us would agree to kill, butcher, and eat a rabbit, as an “experiment” in re-connecting with our inner carnivore? He rather ingeniously persuaded us to agree, and while no one was forced to participate in the experiment, almost everyone signed on for what would ultimately be a life-changing experience.

A week or so later, we the participants gathered outside the science building, and a man showed up, a rabbit farmer, to instruct us in the proper way to kill and butcher a rabbit. He wasted no time. From a cage full of rabbits, he reached in and grabbed one by the hind legs and, with what looked like a police baton, struck it on the head with great force. The rabbit shuddered for a moment and then, in an instant it was dead. Before we could react to what we had just seen, the man pulled out a butcher’s knife, cut off its head, and began to skin and butcher the dead animal. The whole process took maybe 3 minutes, and by the time it was all through, most of us were speechless. We were then called upon to form teams of two and to repeat what we had just observed. Now that it was getting real, a few more people lost their nerve and backed out, but I and most of the class participated.

I will not recount the chaos which ensued, but let it suffice to say that some of us are more successful at bunny butchering than others. In the end though, and in some cases with the assistance of the expert, we all managed to kill, skin, and butcher our rabbits. It was life-changing for me.Some of you reading this will ask yourselves what kind of a crazy, irresponsible teacher would encourage such a traumatic experience for his young and impressionable students. I am quite certain that this kind of learning experience would never be condoned by school authorities today, but things were a little different in 1973. In retrospect, I think what Neil did was brilliant. This science lab taught me a lot more than I would have ever learned from dissecting a frog. Anybody who was brought up on a farm, or who lived in a family of hunters would not be shocked or appalled by what we did, but this experience was monumental for a bunch of spoiled, jaded city kids who thought meat magically appeared in supermarket shelves. It was one of the most important lessons I’ve learned to date.

A week or so later, we had a barbecue at Neil Currie’s house, and you guessed it, rabbit was the main course. It was delicious, and there was a certain closure involved in eating the animals we had killed and butchered. I never want to do it again, anymore than I ever again want to rebuild the engine in a 1967 Triumph Spitfire, which I once did. Once was enough, but the lesson was learned. I think about that rabbit lab almost every time I browse the meat counter in a supermarket, and I now have a healthier understanding of the process of butchering meat. I am also more acutely aware of and sensitive to the ways in which man traumatizes and abuses animals.

There are many reasons why people become vegetarians. For some people meat is too expensive, others find it hard to digest. Some vegetarians simply object to killing any animals for food. I understand that, and I respect their choice. Having been through the process of killing and eating my own animal, I remain a carnivore. Because of that rabbit lab, I am perhaps a little more connected to the process. I think there are a few hypocrites among the militant animal rights zealots, because there are many ways we contribute to the death of animals other than by eating them. We wear leather shoes and other leather clothing, and animal by-products are used in a large variety of products that people use. I am now perhaps a little more mindful of my place in the food chain. Mother Nature takes no prisoners, and for me it is important to have some kind of understanding of my place in the natural world. In my opinion, we as a species are going in the wrong direction where this is concerned, and our ignorance of and disregard for the laws of nature will haunt us.

A girl friend of mine, who is a holistic medicine practitioner by profession, responded to an article I wrote recently about songwriter Jon Brooks, and more specifically about his album of murder anthems. She commented somewhat cynically that “we kill everything in the end”. I killed a rabbit once, and it changed my life.

  - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 3/26/18

Last weekend, I caught a little of the coverage from the anti-gun rally in the States, and I was encouraged. I was reminded of something songwriter Jon Brooks said recently. He said he’s lost faith in the adults, but the kids may save the world. I agree, and watching that rally last Saturday I was cautiously optimistic about the next generation. I listened to a lot of well-spoken, intelligent kids speak out against the NRA and gun violence. They are participating.

The other day I turned on the tube, and there was a story about how former VP Joe Biden had suggested that, if he were in high school, he would have taken a Donald Trump “out behind the gym” and beaten the crap out of him. It’s a strange turn of events when I’m rooting for Joe Biden. This of course prompted the cowardly and boastful Rump to counter with something like: “yeah, you just try!” That’s what I like to hear from my supposed leaders; childish schoolyard threats of violence. Perhaps they need to put  something in the food on Capital Hill to lower the testosterone levels. Then I began to think, hey, maybe we’re on to something here. Rump is always talking about his leadership and bravery. HE’D have gone into that school, unarmed, to take out the shooter, HE’S the tough guy who’s going to make America great again, blah, blah, blah.

What if we scheduled a televised, pay-per-view event: Rump Vs: Bannon? It would be The Battle of the Blowhards, The Rose Garden Rumble, The Cage Fight Clash of the Morons. For fifty bucks – and what American wouldn’t cough up $50 for this kind of entertainment – dress these two clowns up like sumo wrestlers (can you imagine!), slather some oil on them so they’re both slippery, and put them in a cage out in the Rose Garden for a no holds barred fight to unconsciousness. The last man standing wins. My money is on Bannon, but we all know Rump fights dirty, so it’s really anybody’s call. The catharsis alone would be healthy and, I predict that hundreds of millions worldwide would gladly pay for that kind of entertainment. Hell, we could probably put a little dent in the national debt selling tickets. Just brainstorming here.

A friend of mine put up a clip on Facebook the other day, and it had to do with the heroic actions of an old man who ran an orphanage in Nazi Germany during the holocaust. Although given the opportunity to escape, he remained with the 192 children in his care until they were all eventually exterminated at the Treblinka death camp. I know there are heroes in our world today, but I never hear about them. All I hear about are the fools and liars. Take Rump out of the equation, and like a toothache, or a hemorrhoid, the immediate discomfort will abate, but the underlying problem will persist. Why did such a large percentage of Americans believe that this bonehead would save the United States? We have a much bigger problem than Donald Trump, and it's aglobal epidemic. I was a spectator; I never saw this coming. Shame on me. Democracy is not a spectator sport.

Final thoughts. Much has been made in the news about the Cambridge Analytica scandal and the shocking revelation that Facebook did not have our backs. Wake up and smell the coffee people! A nineteen-year-old in Markham Ontario successfully hacked into the Canada Revenue Agency a few years back. I gave up the illusion that my “information” was safe a long time ago. With cameras and computers everywhere, anyone could be listening in on our lives. Remember, this is the golden age of information ….  

Siri, what is my neighbor’s social insurance number?

  

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 3/19/18

The morning before last I was awakened by the sound of crows. There must have been a lot of them, and the cawing was coming from down by the frozen lake. There have been a lot of deer around our house, as there usually are with the approach of spring. They come out of the woods, foraging around on the newly exposed grounds. Almost every year there is at least one kill somewhere nearby. A few winters ago, I watched two wolves dragging a deer carcass across the frozen lake. Last Friday morning, I discovered that the crows were picking at the remains of a carcass in front of our neighbor’s house. I went down to see what was going on, but there wasn’t much left to inspect. Ribs, a lot of blood, legs, and a little fur scattered about. I was reminded of the symbiotic relationship of all living beings, and of the harsh realities of Mother Nature.

I’m a “citiot”, born and raised in a city, and I remained relatively oblivious to nature throughout my ill-spent youth. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always loved the outdoors, but I wasn’t particularly respectful of the balance of Nature. It wasn’t until Shauna and I began to vacation in Banff National Park that I became profoundly sensitive to that delicate balance. Over the many years we travelled out to Banff Park, we befriended a lot of locals, and some of them guides and park officials. We learned about the dangers of habituation, and of the damage ignorant tourists do to the park habitat. People act badly, and it is the animals who pay, sometimes with their lives. Now, we live in this natural paradise near Muskoka, where wildlife and wonder are omnipresent. People come from all around to experience the beauty of our parks, but many are not respectful of the wildlife. Loon chicks drown in the wake of jet skis, people feed bears, thus creating a “problem bear” which must often then be destroyed. Most of us are unwittingly the party to animal abuse, simply because we eat meat that is raised in an inhumane manner. In short, things are getting more and more out of balance, and no doubt man is the primary culprit. That saddens me.

At first, I was a little shocked to see the deer carcass, and to think that the animal probably suffered before it died. I don’t like killing things myself, although I will (and have) if those things become a nuisance to my home. Still, I do not deny my nature as a carnivore, and was fascinated by the sight of this kill. We rarely see wolves around here – I’ve probably seen two since we moved up here – but I know they are in the woods lurking. Mother Nature is one tough lady, and she takes no prisoners. We can build all the waterfront condos we want, closer and closer to the shore, ignoring the potential for a weather catastrophe. We elect myopic, greedy politicians, but what is in the interest of some may not be in the interest of most. More and more I don’t know wherein lies that delicate balance. I know that hindsight is 20/20. I got a little reminder the other morning, when the black birds were hovering around the kill. Mother Nature is in charge, and she will cull the herd. Much can be learned by respecting her laws. Alternatively, much can be lost by ignoring them.

Of late, I’ve been in a dry spell with my songwriting, but the sight of that carcass jump started a lyric in me. I penned a song full of metaphors, about watching out for the wolves. Nature will always win in the end, no matter how we struggle to control it. Man’s hubris never stops amazing me, but in the end, Mother Nature and her wildlife will likely have the last laugh.

“Deer carcass on the frozen lake/ Ribs picked clean in the morning light/ I turned away from this bloody sight/ Knowing no soul goes down without a fight.”

  - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 3/12/18

Last Wednesday afternoon, I listened to an interview with Singer/Songwriter Jon Brooks and Hunters Bay Radio host Sarah Coombs, shortly before I attended Jon’s concert at Michaels On Main At The Ridge in Sundridge. In the interview, Jon discussed the sometimes disturbing subject matter of his songs. Two of his albums in particular, Ours And The Shepherds and The Smiling And Beautiful Countryside, are collections of war anthems and murder ballads respectively. Those albums beg the question: does a talented artist lose a potentially larger audience when he or she presents stories about mankind’s darker side?  You don’t need to convince me that Jon Brooks is a remarkable Singer/Songwriter, I’m a fan. For those of us who appreciate great songwriting, we accept the good, the bad, and the ugly. Regrettably, much of the best song writing goes under-recognized, and I think it’s because people aren’t listening to each other the way they used to. How does a great songwriter manage to resonate and capture a large following in this attention-deficit-disorder-instant-gratification Satan of social media, where PODUS tweets out irrational, thirty-word rants to tens of millions of followers?  It’s a crazy, and increasingly inarticulate world, and we don’t need our art to reflect the bad news; we prefer to get that message from CNN, right?

Wrong. Jon’s superb ability to craft words, along with his unique, percussive, and beautiful musical treatments, draw me effortlessly into his message. Jon can write songs which resonate with the masses, in fact he has written many such songs, but he also writes some deeply disturbing short stories (The Only Good Thing Is An Old Dog / TWA Sisters). Marketing aside, I think there is an untapped demand for Jon’s darker prophecies. I am skeptical, but I hope he succeeds in waking up my generation, because I fear that the most intelligent among us are either oblivious or running for cover. Jon is the consummate folk artist, who reflects the society we live in while straddling that fine line between righteous indignation and objective reporting. He’s a modern day Brecht, who makes his stories interesting by always maintaining his distance from the voices in his songs. He’s a troubadour with multiple personalities, and it is those voices who present his inconvenient truths. Whether it is the mass murderer, or the gun dealer, or the WW1 soldier in a foxhole, or the Yugoslavian cage fighter, Brooks shines a light on the darkest corners of the human psyche, and I for one find that exploration fascinating.

Never before have I been more skeptical of the information I glean, from the news, and from my so-called leaders. I’m fearful, discouraged, confused, and I’m ashamed that we as a species have screwed things up so badly. Jon isn’t on a soapbox preaching “the” truth, in fact he may be just as lost as you or I. What he does do, with uncanny eloquence and a spellbinding delivery, is paint unforgettable, sometimes nightmarish pictures with his songs, and those songs compel me to listen to his truth. He explores the foul underbelly of mankind, all the while maintaining a perplexing hopefulness, and nothing is presented as black or white. In his song Cage Fighter, he refers to a quote by Alexander Solzhenitzyn about the divided heart. It is a universal theme for Jon that good and evil reside in us all.  We all harbor good and evil, and it is that uncertainty about which one will prevail that makes life interesting and meaningful. He may not have the answers, but Jon Brooks’ songs reflect the belief, the hope anyway, that love can prevail.  His songs entreat me to explore the abyss with him, to listen to his truth, to be the teetering idealist, in hopes that together we can find our way through this hellacious maze of disinformation and spin. His stories are far more captivating than all the cinema noir to which I gravitate, and I can’t look away from his car wrecks. It’s a crap shoot whether good or evil wins in the end, but there is much to be learned from Jon’s songs. Watching him perform live, well that’s a different kind of epiphany. His performance last Wednesday night with accompanist and producer Alec Fraser Jr was superb; I doubt anybody in the audience left disappointed. I certainly didn’t.

It’s been four years since Jon Brooks put out a new album, and he has a new CD due to be released in the spring. I anxiously await what he has to say next. The other night, he ended his show with a couple of songs from this soon-to-be released CD, and the songs suggest a different theme. I always hope Jon will reach a much larger audience, but regardless of his commercial success, I look forward to every new chapter in the Book of Jon Brooks. His songs emanate from the divided heart of one of the world’s great songwriters. Jon, thank you for you for your art.

-Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 3/5/18

This probably falls into the category “I’ve run out of things to discuss in this report,” but humor me. 

We bought a food dehydrator a few months ago, and while it took me a while to get the hang of dehydrating food, I use it all the time now. With all the health problems Shauna has been experiencing, I’ve learned that there is a clear connection between autoimmune illnesses and problems with the gut. Because Shauna has Crohn’s Disease, and a myriad of other potentially related autoimmune disorders, I have been experimenting with dietary changes which might allow her besieged bowel to heal. We’re now eating more plant-based foods, and we have substantially reduced the amount of dairy, grains, and animal fat we consume. I bought the food dehydrator because I was looking for nutritional alternatives to corn chips and other snacks we used to eat. I have tried dehydrating a variety of fruits and vegetables and have found several we really like. The best part about a food dehydrator is that we no longer have spoilage; I simply dehydrate leftover fruit and vegetables before they can spoil. Dehydrated foods maintain much of their raw nutritional values, keep for a long time, and can be re-hydrated to be added to soups and stews.  

Here’s the issue. Neurotic individual that I am, it occurred to me the other day, as I was cutting up the fifteenth apple for the food dehydrator, that I may be subconsciously hunkering down. I think I may be going into survivor mode. I’m watching all these stories on the news about climate change and weather disasters, crazy despots and nuclear Armageddon, the seemingly exponential rise in mass shootings in public places, and of course Baby Rump’s daily chaos-inducing foot-in-mouth tweet, and I think all this negativity is eroding my anemic sense of security. Stress is widely considered to be a fertilizer for ill health, and I don’t think the world has ever seemed more stressed than it does right now. Just the other day, our quiet little rural community made the national news because there was a triple murder/suicide, very close to our home. Americans can’t seem to persuade their NRA-paid-for leaders that it is a wise decision to make automatic weapons a little harder to purchase, so I’m thinking the horse is out of the barn, barking up the wrong tree with both oars out of the water, and it didn’t look before it leaped. The talking heads keep drumming it into my head that the world is stockpiling ridiculously overpowered weapons ( if you can’t hit that rabbit you’re hunting with the first shot, the next fifty or sixty are bound to do the trick), wiping out endangered species (white rhino, you’re next), warming up the planet, and hating just about anybody who doesn’t look, act, or worship like us; and here I am, frantically cutting up food for dehydration, so that when civilization finally does reach that fast-approaching tipping point, Shauna, Jasper and I will have a three month supply of dried apples and beef jerky on which to survive. I’ve become a closet hunker-downer.       

When I was seven or eight years old, many of my friends lived in houses with bomb shelters. Cuba and the evil Russians had missiles pointed at the U.S., and we were told it was just a matter of time before someone blinked. We practiced drills in our school wherein we hid under our flimsy desks when an alarm was sounded. Even at that early age, I was skeptical that hiding under the desk was going to save me from a nuclear blast. I guess history is once again repeating itself, except now I won’t be hiding under a desk, I’ll be in my basement with a garbage bag full of dried fruit.

   - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 2/26/18

The weekend before last was snowmobile central up here on our little lake. It seemed like anybody and everybody with a sled was out on the lake that weekend. It was really the first weekend all winter when I did see a lot of sledders out, because the weather has been so changeable. With the extreme temperature variations, it has not been safe to take machines out on the lakes. Indeed, even the annual Kearney dogsled races had to be cancelled last weekend, because conditions were deemed too dangerous for mushers to run the course. When I saw all those snow machines out on the lake, I wanted to take my ATV out, but could not find time that weekend. With rain in the forecast, and puddles on the lake, I think I have now missed my chance. I’m wondering how the owners of the one ice hut on our lake will be able to remove it safely. This winter, and really the past several winters, have been a series of extreme freeze-thaw cycles, not great for winter sports. Right now, our sloped driveway is a bobsled run.  

I don’t really mind the winter or the cold all that much, and in fact I prefer it to extreme heat. The proper winter gear helps immeasurably. This includes snowmobile overalls, good, knee high, lined winter boots, and heated gloves. My hands were always my Achilles heel, but my new heated gloves with lithium ion rechargeable batteries really keep my hands warm. When I was a little boy, growing up in Buffalo, I wore “leggings” in the winter. Mom would bundle me up, hand me my “flying saucer’ and throw me outside to play in the snow. Trouble was, I was virtually immobilized by all the cumbersome outerwear and could hardly move my arms or legs. I felt like the Michelin Man. Now I’m back to wearing “leggings’ again, but they are not quite so restrictive. Outerwear in general has come a long way since I was a boy.

Speaking of winter, Shauna and I watched a good deal of the 2018 Winter Olympics in PyeongChang and, as usual, the televised coverage on CBC was fantastic. Some of the freestyle skiing and snowboarding events were remarkable, and I enjoyed the figure skating as well. Canada ranked an impressive 4^th in overall for the number of medals earned (29 in all, ahead of the U.S.A. but behind Norway and Germany). Probably my favorite Canadian Gold was the “Big Air” event won by Quebec snowboarder Sebastien Toutant. I remember watching the first snowboard competition back in 1998 during the Nagano Winter Olympics, and I am amazed by how far the sport has come since then. Of course, one of the best Canadian gold medal stories had to be Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir winning the ice dancing competition. The fact that they’d retired and then came back to become Olympic champions was noteworthy, and it was inspiring to see them end their 20+ year career as an ice dancing couple on such a high note. Of course, there were also some disappointments along the way, most notably the Canadian men’s and women’s hockey upsets. I did enjoy watching the nail-biter gold medal Men’s Hockey final between Russia and Germany. I realize that there is great skill involved, but as much as I have tried, I don’t think I will ever become a curling fan.

Final notes. Thanks to Hunters Bay Radio as always, for placing my song New Constitution at #3 in their weekly Top 20 charts last Friday night. I wrote that song recently, and it falls into the category of righteous indignation about the current state of political chaos in the United States. I appreciate the recognition, and I feel honored that some of the locals enjoy my songs. I never in my forty years of songwriting thought this would ever happen. Coming up on April 17^th I’ll be performing some of my songs at the Gravenhurst Opera House in a songwriting show including talented singer songwriter Angie Nussey. I’m stoked about that. Next stop, Massey Hall! 

            - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 2/19/18

As I begin writing this report I am listening to E.T.’s Martini Music show on Hunters Bay Radio. This week, E.T. has dedicated the entire show to Vic Damone, who passed away last week. Vic had been a dear friend of the Taylor family for decades, and I’ve heard many Vic stories told over the past 25 years. The other night, while we were talking to E.T. on the phone, I set the phone to speaker and recorded some of her reminiscences. Because she was unaware she was being recorded, she told her stories spontaneously and naturally. The reason I recorded these stories, is that Shauna thought we could use them in E.T.’s radio show. I produce her Martini Music show, and we decided it would be a good idea to edit the recording and use clips in between sets of the tribute show. It turned out to be a great success, and because of Shauna’s efforts to advertise the show, a lot of Vic Damone fans heard the show, or will hear it when it is archived (https://soundcloud.com/user106713574/vic-damone-tribute-show-21818-on-martini-music ).

Did you ever find a product you like, a dish soap, or toothpaste, or cosmetic, or something else, then someone at the company decides to improve what didn’t need improving? Shauna is chemical and fragrance sensitive, and when we finally found an acceptable dish soap fragrance, someone decides to modify the formula. The other thing I find irksome is companies that use almost identical packaging for different products. I bought three boxes of tooth paste the other day, and they looked identical to the toothpaste we use, except for one tiny little icon (which of course I did not notice) on the corner of the box which indicated that it is gel not paste.

Today, a notification popped up on my computer screen from an old high school English teacher of mine, who often posts links to interesting articles. This article concerned the use of social media as a vehicle for spreading moral outrage and hateful rhetoric. Today is Family Day, and I enjoy seeing all the Facebook photos of families enjoying their day together. In fact, pictures are my favorite part about Facebook. I’ve been watching my nieces and nephews grow up in Facebook photos. But the foul underbelly of Facebook is that it is also a platform for every half-baked political rant and lunatic with an opinion or an agenda. You’re either with us or against us, and the divisiveness is discouraging. I sometimes need a “Facebook holiday” to regroup. Agree to disagree, but show a modicum of respect for others who do not share your opinion! I don’t as a rule copy and paste to my page people’s righteously indignant opinions about mental health or corrupt politicians. Indeed, I rant in this report, but one would have to be following the report link to read it, and you can always choose not to read. I recently wrote a first draft for a song with the chorus … “Follow the lessons you teach your children: agree to disagree.” I can’t fix the gun lobby problem in the U.S., or the propensity for a disturbingly large number of my fellow humans to hate each other’s religious beliefs, or the fast-eroding quality of leadership, or any of society’s other ills. Someone said it so simply the other day: try to do more good than bad. Be kind to a stranger, display a random act of kindness; turn the other cheek, count to ten before you react. Show some respect, or at least try to behave like an adult. I wish the truth was more apparent, but it isn’t, and it isn’t likely to be found on Facebook. Nevertheless, we can choose to be kind and respectful. Admittedly, I am the pot calling the kettle black. I should take my own advice

Happy Family Day everyone!

 

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 2/12/18

It’s one of my duties at Hunters Bay Radio to upload to SoundCloud all the talk shows recorded at HBR during the week. People who are so inclined can then listen to the shows on demand by going to the SoundCloud HBR podcast page. One of the mandates of community radio is to provide a certain percentage of talk radio, and Hunters Bay Radio features some good local shows. My particular favorite is a show is called Food For Thought and is hosted by my friend, Catherine Cole. Catherine owns a local health food store, and she very effectively explains why it matters what we put in our bodies. While I was loading in the shows from the last week, I listened to a little of another local show, called The Car Show, dealing as you would expect with all things car related. I learned why the 1990s inline six cylinder engine used in the Toyota Celica was a remarkable motor, specifically for it’s ease of modification.  

Learning machine that I am, I like to listen to talk radio, and I especially enjoy listening  when I’m in the car. When we still lived in Toronto, I used to listen to Talk Radio AM 640, and I particularly enjoyed the call in shows. When I lived in Buffalo, I used to listen to Howard Stern, before he was given free reign on satellite radio, and when he was at his most outrageous. I once had to pull over to the side of the road because one of Howard’s rants had me laughing so hard.  

Whenever Shauna and I went on a road trip, we listened to talk radio. I distinctly remember driving through the moonless, starlit spring darkness somewhere around Wawa, Ontario, lost in the captivating, if incredible science fiction of Art Bell’s syndicated Coast To Coast show. There I was, at 

3 A.M. in the middle of nowhere, with no one else on the road, and Shauna asleep beside me, listening to some guy spout off about the Kenndy assassination. Alien abductions, sinister conspiracies, monsters, shadow people; you name it, you’d hear about it on the  Coast To Coast show. George Noory has taken over the hosting duties, but I think Bell is still on from time to time.

We’ve been watching the Winter Olympics competitions which began last week in PyeongChang, S. Korea, and I’ve particularly enjoyed watching the slopestyle snowboarding. Some of those aerial acrobatics are simply amazing to watch. Last night, two Canadians made the podium in that competition. I’ve also enjoyed the figure skating. As always, CBC coverage has been fantastic, and I’ve even begun to appreciate curling. It may take a little more time. I’m looking forward to watching the skiing competitions, and especially the Giant Slalom and Downhill races.

Finally, it is with sadness that I acknowledge the passing of one of the world’s great crooners; Vic Damone, a dear friend of the Taylor family, has passed on at the age of 89. Sinatra once said Vic Damone had the best pipes in the business, and I think most pros would agree. For various reasons, most which have to do with the ubiquitous dysfunction of the music business, Vic did not achieve the fame of other crooners like Sinatra, Bennett or Crosby. Shauna and I first met because I’d heard that Vic had recorded one of her songs. I’m sorry I never had the opportunity to meet him in person. As I have mentioned more than once, Shauna’s 93 year-old mom ET hosts a show on Sunday nights called Martini Music, and that show always begins with the song Shauna and ET wrote and Vic Damone covered, entitled Every Time I Look At You. RIP Vic Damone, you will be missed.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 2/5/18

A word about groundhogs.

Since my very first moments of cognitive development, not long after I learned that throwing my cornflakes on the floor in a petulant frenzy could demand the attention of my parents, I followed the teaching of the world’s most famous weather rodent, Punxatawny Phil. A truth seeker, Phil was the John Lennon of weather rodents, a leader, and icon, a mentor. Admittedly, I’ve never completely understood the science behind shadow watching, but like religion, or politics, or reality television, it’s just one of those things I’ve accepted. Just as slaughtering one’s fellow man demonstrates one’s allegiance to G-d; lying, cheating, and stealing are the fundamental principles of politics; so is it one of the somewhat incredible constants of the universe that groundhogs can predict the advent of spring.

That said, not all groundhogs are created equal. There are imposters out there in every community, groundhogs who claim to have the secret powers bestowed upon the almighty Phil. Do not be fooled by the “Nickelbacks” of the groundhog world. Wannabe weather rodents, lacking the proper credentials or skills, abound. Shadow reading is a gift, and something only one or two groundhogs in the world may ever know. It’s rather like being born a Jedi warrior. All the other groundhog posers are like all those Seattle grunge band clones that try to imitate Nirvana or Pearl Jam.

We in Canada harbor many of these wannabe forecasters. The most bizarre example is Lucy the Lobster in Nova Scotia and I’m sorry, there is nothing more foolish than suggesting that a lobster can predict the weather. Many years ago, in the 90s when I first moved up to Toronto, there was a huge controversy over the death of local weather groundhog “Wiarton Willie”. Much was made over his suspicious death. Because Willie was an albino groundhog, it was a little harder to make a “seemless” transition to his successor. Hey, I have grudgingly accepted that the current Phil is not over 100 years ago, even though his legendary prowess dates back to the late 1800s. I mean, how many Lassies do you figure there were over the span of that television program? Some of them probably weren’t even females. It’s called suspension of disbelief, and I am OK with my denial. I digress. Willie’s death was shrouded in mystery, and at the time, it was a big scandal. Documents were shredded, lurid stories emerged about a spoiled life of debauchery and excess. When the scandal broke, I interviewed several of Willie’s  family members, and the general consensus was that Willie succumbed to drugs, alcohol, and sex addiction. Twas Booty killed the beast. I thought all those celebrity groundhogs had handlers, but I think Willie’s dropped the ball. It’s an old and familiar story: showbiz ain’t pretty.

Be forewarned, there are a few PT Barnums out there in the animal kingdom, cashing in on the celebrity of weather rodent forecasting. Let Willie’s death serve as a reminder to all the Staten Island Chucks, Dunkirk Daves, Potomac Phils (D.C.), Subenacadie Sams, Fred la Marmottes (Quebec), etc. … You’ve got to be special to pull the sword out of the stone. Punxatawny Phil is the real deal. The rest of you may talk the talk, but can you waddle the waddle? I think not.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED