A Healing Hamburger

Madrid, Spain


August 1996

I had been in Madrid for only 24 hours and something was wrong. A bodily ailment of some kind. I had eaten hardly zilch since my arrival, I classify buttered buns as such, still I felt no pang of hunger. I surmised that my body was at war but had yet issued an adverse noticeable result of said ailment. Experiencing no hunger after a day of little intake left me inclined to force a meal into my belly to dissuade my fear of collapsing of an unknown illness while traipsing through the streets of a foreign land.

Concerned as to whether or not I could force my belly to consume and still retain the meal I’d be tossing down my gullet, I aimed for something that my insides would readily recognize. Recognition, I thought, would increase the retention possibilities. My self-prescribed antidote, I’m embarrassed to say, but here it is, I went to McDonalds.

I know, ‘The horror! A land of wonderful and delicious foods and Klem eats at McDonalds.’ ‘This is for medicinal purposes,’ I told myself. As a form of penance I made myself order in Spanish.

“Dos hamburgesas con queso y una Coca grande,” I spoke to the Spanish cashier. I was flattered at my language skills when she responded in Spanish and handed me change. ‘I spoke well enough to make her think I’m a Spanish speaker,’ so pleased I was with myself.

I sat at the table staring out the window in the sunny street and, despite the total lack of hunger, consumed the meal in its entirety and in delight. I discarded my wrappers, placed the plastic tray atop the bin, and exited the franchise fast food establishment. I conferred with my map then continued en route taking in numerous wonders of the fabled city. Hunger later returned at the appropriate interval. Concern subsided and I pronounced myself healed.


A month later I met up with a friend of mine, McGettigan the Elder, with whom I’d vacationed with briefly in Barcelona immediately prior to Madrid. Turns out he suffered from the same belly ailment. With this knowledge we pinpointed our mistake to a walkup food kiosk in Barcelona where we dined the morning before our travels took us in different directions. It was a bad schwarma that did us in.
-klem

Jim Morrison’s Grave

August 1996

Alone in Paris. What to do today? Ah, yes, Pere Lachaise Cemetery. Jim Morrison, former flamboyant singer of the Doors, is buried at this reputed world’s most visited cemetery. He passed away in Paris in 1971 at the age of 27 of a presumed drug overdose.

I exited my flat this morning to engage a sunny glorious day. With a freshly opened room temperature liter juice box of peach-orange nectar in hand from the previous day’s shopping, I purchase a pair of quiches from the local quiche shop, selected from the glass counter display, to be consumed on the saunter. Yes, the shop sold predominantly quiche plus numerous other enticing bakery items. I ate the two and walked to the underground Metro which I had by this time become quite familiar. It no longer enjoyed any intimidation over me, what with its foreign words and illegible posted notifications, as my confidence was handsomely buoyant.

With no difficulties I located the noted celebrity graveyard and entered. Very old, as estimated by the dates on many gravestones, but impressively well maintained. I possessed no French tongue so I didn’t burden the guards with an unprofitably cumbersome query as to the whereabouts of the American singer’s resting place. I walked the grounds leisurely reading the names on the head stones fully expecting to accidentally come across Morrison. After a brief respite on a bench where I read a book, refreshed, I resumed the casual search. I was certain of a victorious outcome, and, in the end, my expectations were not betrayed.

I came upon a large swath of grounds that was very heavily shaded. Shortly, I heard weeping. Not the lonely weeping of a single human, but that of at least two weepers plus additional folks in the distance coupled with the ambient noise of a small crowd. Possible funeral? Or folks spending time with a loved deceased family member? No. This was the crowd of about 15 people visiting the grave of Jim Morrison. The crowd was not together, meaning they were not of the same visiting party. The crowd was waxing and waning in a constant fluctuating roster of rotating personnel. Several would leave, another small group would appear. They were sight seers, as was I. Seeing this ridiculous scene of the crying and gawking, I was suddenly embarrassed of myself for now being part of this same silliness.

I stood 25 feet away and observed the goings on. Two girls appearing to be in their early 20s or late teens openly weeping and writing notes to the deceased singer. The tear stained documents were lain at the foot of the head stone. Several male members of the crowd retrieved bottles of liquor from their backpacks and left them unopened for the singer’s ghost to imbibe, I guess. A collection of five or so bottles had already accumulated. The guards certainly were very thankful for the offerings of these youthful buffoons, gifts of booze they would gleefully divvy up after hours.

It was a silly scene, one I could not muster the strength to embrace. Unable to overcome my embarrassment I turned and absconded with the balance of my dignity.


I next stopped at a nearby grocery store to purchase a number of croissants, a piece of chocolate, and a bottle of water. A snack to remain properly fueled.
-klem

The Day I Became a Conservative

Summer 1996

I entered my adolescence as a Republican on the merit of my parents having been on that team. The nonthinking acceptance continued until one day in the summer of 1996 when I became a Conservative under my own volition, my own conscious choice.


My job entailed much driving and I’d recently become burned out listening to music, I needed a break. Acting on a recommendation from a colleague with whom I worked, I tried talk radio. On this sunny summer morning driving around Southern California there had been a discussion about a bill President Clinton signed. The bill provided a segment of the population with free phone service. My initial thought was, ‘That’s OK with me. The phone company can afford to give it away to a few folks.’

I naively figured the phone company would carry the burden of being required to furnish the free service. But the discussion continued that this was not the way it worked out. The radio host insisted that the phone company passed those lost service charges forward to the paying customers by simply adding a fee. ‘No way,’ I thought to myself. ‘There’s no charge back. This guy is a wind bag.’

My next phone bill arrived and I scrutinized the thing. There it was, the fee! The guy on the radio may be a bag of wind, but I was indeed paying for someone else to have the same service that I paid for. ‘This sucks!,’ was my prevailing amended sentiment. My naiveté was rendered a powerful blow. I was a singe fella renting a 500 square foot hovel in a 40-unit apartment complex in Pasadena at the time. Why was I paying for other peoples’ goods when I had few things of my own?


Turns out nothing is free, especially if the government says it is. Free, in government parlance, just means that the folks receiving the service or benefit aren’t paying but everyone else is.

To look at it another way, let’s consider milk shakes. I’m a guy who is very fond of milk shakes and am wildly in favor of them being available to the populace. Yet, I have no interest in being required to pay for someone else’s milk shake. Those who desire this wonderful concoction should be prepared to either pay for it or pass it up.

Certainly phone service is more important than milk shakes. [Note: This even holds true while we’re within grasp of McDonald’s seasonal Shamrock Shakes.] But the point is that the Government, both Federal and state, are much more generous with give-aways than I prefer.

While the ‘Free Phone Service’ discussion may have some merit, the scenario just brought the reasoning home for me. And so it came to be that my politics turned away from the language of enablers and took a large step toward self-reliance.
-klem

Four Eyes

1979

I was a generally well behaved 7th grade kid which resulted in me being assigned a seat at the rear of the class. Trouble was, my eyeballs couldn’t see the chalkboard. I wasn’t aware of my vision deficiency, I just assumed the other kids in the back row couldn’t see either, so I squinted and never thought to complain. The annual school eye exam was the revelation. It was under these conditions that Dr. Dressler, now retired, fixed me up with my first set of glasses. The chalkboard was restored to my visual realm.


February 2012

Both Klem kids have been issued glasses. The boy, 5th grade, needs spectacles for seeing distance while my daughter, 2nd grade, needs them for reading. Each, curiously, has a properly functioning eyeball countered by a crummy one.

“How do you feel about getting glasses,” I asked the boy after the eye exam with the optometrist.

“I’m OK getting glasses. Anything that will help me do better,” came his mature response.

“Did you know you needed glasses,” was my follow up question.

“Yes, because we had a test at school and it said I needed glasses,” he replied. Before the school test, though, he said he thought he could see just fine.


He and Wife Klem joked that it’d be cool to get a monocle for his one problematic eyeball. Luckily the monocle option was no pushed forward.

“I can read the titles of the books on the fireplace,” he said of the Harry Potter series on the mantle from 20 feet away while sitting at the kitchen table wearing his new glasses and a smile. His formerly blurry world had regained some range.


And so it starts, another generation of four eyes. Cute looking four-eyed animals, though, these ones.
-klem

The Drive

It’s true that I’m a football fan. My team is the Cleveland Browns, a troubled franchise that is one of only four NFL teams (there are 32 football teams in all) to have never advanced to the Super Bowl. We can wax and wane effortlessly for hours as to the number of ways in which this team is troubled. But I prefer instead to share with you the closest the Browns have been to the Super Bowl. The following tale recounts what transpired during the closing minutes of the ball game and my sentiments as the game crumbled and fell away.


The Drive
1987. January 11

I was in my second year in the dorms at UC Santa Barbara. The tv reception in my dorm room was poor, only ABC was rendered watchable. Sadly, Sunday football and the playoffs were on CBS and NBC. Since I didn’t get those channels, I had simply given up Sunday football as a viewing option. So much so, that I hadn’t been watching the football playoffs even though my Cleveland Browns were a viable participant.

I recall this particular Sunday morning, I was having breakfast at the on-campus dining commons with several chums. We got to talking about the AFC Championship game between my beloved Browns and John Elway’s Denver Broncos, winner would advance to the Super Bowl. As we dined someone mentioned that the Browns were ahead in the 3rd quarter! Game was still on when we got back to the dorms so we traversed the the tv lounge to catch the end. The game was being played in Cleveland, it was now in the 4th quarter and the Browns were leading 20-13!

The tv lounge was surprisingly packed. I ended up in the back of the room on the floor, but I didn’t mind because my Browns were winning and I figured it’d only be a few minutes to finish this thing off and I’d return gleefully to my dorm room to either study or take a Sunday morning skate through campus on my skateboard. And so I watched.

After a muffed kick return by the Broncos they were backed up to their own 2-yard line with five minutes to play. A field goal would not suffice. My confidence was strong knowing that they’d have to drive 98 yards for a touchdown just to tie the game. Giddy almost, was I. It was under these circumstances that Broncos QB John Elway took the reigns on a possession that would be dubbed The Drive.

The first play from scrimmage had Elway in his end zone to pass the ball, a short five yard catch. Then came a scramble, another pass, mix in a sack somewhere, more short catches, it was agonizing to watch them move the ball steadily downfield. When the Broncos converted the 3rd down and 18 from the Browns 48 yard line with 1:47 to play, that marked the onset of panic for me. They scored a touchdown with 37 seconds remaining to tie the score 20-20. This game was going to sudden death Overtime.

Bernie Kosar and the Browns had a quick three plays and punted. The Broncos went on to win 23-20. Cleveland Browns tanked in the playoffs again. My gripe with Elway before this game was that he had giant teeth and a too-confident swagger. To my grave disappointment his giant teeth would slide from the radar of angst as he completed the first of a three year annual decimation of my beloved footballers in the AFC Championship game.


Looking back 23 years later I am confused as to how I was not watching this game from start to finish. What was I doing with a leisurely breakfast in the dining commons with an important playoff game underway? An important playoff game hosted in Cleveland Municipal Stadium with Quarterback Bernie Kosar at the helm? I even recall talking smack to someone at a party the night before about how my Browns were going to ruin the Broncos. And then come game time I’m absent?

Two weeks later the New York Giants would beat the Broncos in Super Bowl XXI by a score of 39 to 20. The Drive still hurts to this day, thankfully though, not nearly as much as it did immediately after that game in the winter of ‘87.
-klem

The Payroll Tax Cut

‘Hip Hip Hooray! The Senate graced us with a tax cut!!’ Or did they?

Congress voted last week in favor of extending, by two months, a payroll tax cut allowing the citizens to retain an extra 2% of their pay checks. “A tax cut is a tax cut, right,” ask the citizens looking for reassurance. Not exactly. These payroll taxes are earmarked specifically to fund, or ill-fund, Social Security. The end result is a deepening of an already vacuous funding hole.

Social Security already lacks the money needed to pay current benefits. This rerouting of 2% back to the tax payer simply means that the Government will shortly be asking for the money back to repay Social Security for the additional short changing this will cause. “We’re gonna have to raise taxes because we just don’t have enough money to pay Social Security,” we’ll be told by the Federal Government with a vacant look on their collective faces. To put it in terms as seen by this Klem, ‘Don’t tell me that you’re buying me a milk shake only to ask later for the funds to be returned in full plus interest.’

If you want to stimulate the economy beyond the purchase of Christmas presents, which this essentially accomplishes, make it a tax cut that will actually stimulate. This stimulating effect may be achieved by implementing a tax cut that households and businesses can make intermediate and long term decisions on (tax cuts on income or capital gains are two examples). Allow people to make spending decisions going forward into the future. Businesses must be able to plan on tax cuts for them to have a positive effect. So let them make plans to retain a larger percentage of their gross sales to reinvest back into the business in the form of buying equipment, constructing new buildings, and hiring new employees.

A two month 2% tax cut allows individuals to buy Christmas presents for the family. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan of both presents and family. But I’m not in favor of a tax cut that will later obligate me to pay for the presents of someone else’s family. That’s what’s happening here. Those 46% of Americans who pay no Federal income taxes [46% figure was obtained from Forbes.com] are probably fully in favor of this bonus because they’ll have no obligation to pitch back in to fill the Social Security funding hole. Me? I’m feeling gypped.

-klem

$10 Million in Cash!

Wife Klem and I saw Fast Five recently, a fun movie starring Vin Diesel and Paul Walker. A high-culture ‘art house’ piece it’s not, but it’s fun occasionally enjoying a film for the visual pleasure in lieu of scintillating dialogue. Justification for the viewing aside, the film raised an interesting topic. How would $10,000,000 in cash change one’s life?

In the film, a crew of thieves in Brazil aim to steal $100 million in cash from a drug dealer mogul. If they succeed, each of the crew members would get $10 million. Initial thought is, ‘Oh yeah! $10,000,000 is a life changer!’ But after some thought, the fact that it’s all cash raises a few problems: [1] You can’t take it home to the United States because you can’t carry such massive amounts of cash across borders without raising unwanted questions, [2] You can’t keep it safe in the bank because you can’t simply bring a series of duffel bags stuffed with $10M in cash to the bank without raising unwanted questions, [3] and then there’s the theft and life-safety exposure that comes with possessing $10M in cash. Not only could the stash get stolen, but who knows what danger a person may be willing to cause in order to steal the $10M. So Wife Klem and I got to thinking, ‘How could $10 million in cash improve our lives?’

Despite the hurdles noted above I’d be delighted with the problem of having $10,000,000 to bog me down. For simplicity purposes I allowed myself the luxury of starting with the $10M already in my possession, no border crossing conundrum with which to contend. I don’t think, however, I’d be able to quit my day job because it’s questionable I’d be able to convert enough of the cash quickly enough to pay all the monthly bills. For example, consider the monthly mortgage. I guess I could go to the bank monthly with a bag of cash to pay the bill, but I’d prefer to avoid any such questions about the origin of the stash. You also can’t pay off the balance of the mortgage with the cash because of the same concern. Traditional bill paying is also problematic without the ability to write a check or make a electronic payment. In order to do that you must first be able to get the hefty load of cash into the bank. Other areas, however, would easily flourish if one found themselves flush with ill-gotten cash.

Retail purchases would become a snap! Groceries, clothes shopping, meals, gas, and entertainment suddenly all become cash purchases! How swell to buy merchandise with no trailing obligation for payment! I’d open additional bank accounts, possibly as many as eight to ten, and make weekly cash deposits. Not huge enough amounts to raise eyeballs, just enough to be of functional use that can slowly be ciphered, by means of electronic payment or check, into retirement accounts and stock market transactions. Donations would also be an easy outlet, unless the charity started asking uncomfortable questions about the source of the ‘bottomless bag of cash’.

Money laundering was raised as a possibility for consuming the cash. This degree of difficulty, however, seems like too much work. We could periodically bring a briefcase full of cash to a casino, convert it to chips, and later go back to cash out, but we’d still be bogged down with cash, it’d just become ‘scrubbed’ cash. Wife Klem had the astute idea of opening a Check-cashing business! Bring us your checks, we’ll hand over cash, and everyone’s happy. A legitimate business to convert the cash! Except, of course, at that point we’d actually be working instead of just enjoying the easy life. Sure, we could just hire employees, but we’d still have the hassle of being involved in the rat race. Not as good as simply being worth a cool $10,000,000 and be free to spend it at will, as opposed to being obligated to surreptitiously disseminating it with the burden of trying to remain anonymous. Giving off the appearance of being worth $10M would be a luxury we’d be unable to portray.


In conclusion, $10,000,000 in cash would come with some inconveniences, but I’d be happy to try to prevail and triumph. But, yes, I would feel compelled to keep my day job.
-klem