I can save the airline industry

Not long ago I was watching talk-show host Glenn Beck interview some CEO of an airline company. They were discussing the rising costs the airline industry is facing and how consumers will be affected. The CEO predicted that eventually ticket prices will get so high that flying will be something the average person does only once or twice in a lifetime.

I was astonished! If what I heard was true, it would be the end of regular vacations and business trips.

To keep from getting to that point too quickly, airlines have begun to take action. They're reducing the number of flights offered, cutting out snacks, and charging $15 per suitcase.

Well I'm here to offer some real help. I now direct my words to Mr. Airline, CEO...

Dear Sir,

I've brainstormed some great ways for you and your associates to come up with significant savings in the airline industry.

So you've cut the peanuts and pretzels, but you're still serving branded drinks, such as Coke and Pepsi? Come on, you're throwing money away! Next time a passenger requests a Sprite, hand them a Shasta Twist. When they request a juice, hand them a cold glass of Berry Blue Kool-Aid.

Next, why are you placing all the lowly coach-passengers in bucket seats? Give 'em benches. You can fit more people on a bench than you can in lined-up bucket seats. Would people complain about having to sit on a bench for three hours? Not necessarily. If they go to church regularly they're already used to it.

Furthermore, why are you paying workers to load your passenger's luggage? Make them walk it out and load it into the airplane themselves. Maybe they'll think twice about bringing home that bag of sand from the beach when they have to hoist their overloaded suitcase up into the cargo door by themselves.

On that note, you should take a lesson from the Unites States Post Office; charge according to weight. It's simple math. Starting from JFK Airport, flying the Clinton family to Arkansas is going require more fuel than flying the entire New York City Ballet to Paris. And it'll require more chips and dip.

So place a weighing mechanism at the boarding gate that everyone must walk across before they get on the plane. Kind of like a livestock scale, just not as nice (i.e. pricey). At that point, compare the passenger's weight with the normal body mass index for a person of their height, age, and gender.

If they're under, give them some in-plane credit towards earphone rentals, blanket use, and extra drinks. If they're over, make them shell out a few more bucks to get on board. Sure, you may have people throwing up their breakfast while they wait in line because they want to make the cutoff, but I'm positive you've got extra barf bags handy. Speaking of which, could those be reused... ?

To the future of affordable flights!

I, like Tiger, started golf when I was young

Where I grew up in Southern Idaho, we had one golf course. I think the only folks who played on it were out-of-towners. Farmers don't golf, and in my hometown you were one, were married to one, or acted like one.

Golf scores weren't shared at gatherings. If a guy said "yeseree, I shot an 8 yesterday," he wasn't talking about the number of strokes over par he was. He was referring to the number of points on the antlers of the buck lying in the back of his pickup.

If a guy said "I'm gonna buy me a new driver," he wasn't talking about a new club. He was referring to hiring a new guy to haul his potatoes.

Even though I'd never seen my dad play, one summer my brother and I happened upon his old set of clubs in the garage. We didn't know what the heck they were. So naturally, we lugged them out to the garden and started hacking squash.

One zucchini exploded after another. We liked the irons best--their flat edge and sturdy metal head did the most damage. The putter was used on the tomatoes. By days end, we had broke half the golf clubs and moved my family's vegetable inventory from one side of the yard to other.

With that as my background in the sport, I was at a golf scramble last week for work. A few of my co-workers and I are invited to a couple golf tournaments each year. Last year's was a disaster. After 4 or 5 holes I made up some excuse about a dental appointment and got the heck out.

This year, in preparation for another tournament, I went to the driving range the evening before. I brought my wife along to watch the other golfers. While I practiced I had her give me tips based on their swings. "That guy over there has his arm like this," and "I don't think you're supposed to contort your hips like that, no one else is."

Of the 50 balls I hit, 10 of them skipped out a few yards in front of me. The other 40 soared a good 250 yards, but they sliced over the driving range's fence and into the public park on my right. Not kidding.

I had hoped my time at the driving range would prove worthwhile at the tournament. It didn't. I lost an average of one ball per hole. I'd go wander through the rough and find another golfer's ball just outside the fairway, pick it up and tell my team "this one's mine, it was just off target," knowing full well my ball was another 50 yards away. Since we were playing "best ball," nobody ever noticed that I had a different ball on every hole.

However, I did have one shining moment of the day. It came when we had to chip a shot out of some dirt and onto the green. The 3 co-workers on my team all attempted, but had no success. I stepped up and chipped a beautiful shot within a couple feet of the hole. I looked down on the ground on which I stood... I was on garden-like terrain. If only my ball had been a squash, then I probably would have sank it.

The river wins every time

Every July "the running of the bulls" is held in Pamplona, Spain. Thousands of idiots crowd cobblestone streets to run in front of an angry mob of bulls. 33 were injured in this years’ run. 15 have died since the tradition started. To outsiders, the event may seem ridiculous. But to the participants, there is probably some intangible splendor that comes from getting mauled each year.

I think I can relate. Every July “the river run” is held in Provo Canyon, Utah. My friends and I, all idiots, set out to float the unforgiving waters of the mighty Provo River. To the casual observer, the river looks peaceful as it winds through the canyon’s terrain. But to us it is death.

The annual river run started a few years ago, in college. My roommates and I gathered up some flimsy inner tubes from a service station and entered the river as brave seafaring men. We came back as frightened little girls.

The water was frigid; as in it would’ve been one big block of ice if its temperature had dropped just one more degree. We were also not equipped for the rapids we’d face. Gripping to our inner tubes, we tumbled around like clothes in a dryer. Moreover, there were jagged rocks lining the bottom of the river, all of which laid claim to our backs, butts, legs, and arms. Many of us still have scars from that first run.

We swore we’d never do it again, but year two came around and we were once more summoned to “the river run.” We again took a beating. This last weekend marked the third annual river run, and it may go down as the most dreadful of them all.

The “proper” way to float the Provo River is in some kind of raft, or if not that a heavy-duty tube wrapped in fabric, like the kind you’d pull behind a boat. But this year many of us tried out pool toys.

One person rode down the river on an inflatable lobster that barrel rolled every time it hit rapids. Others rode on tubes shaped like lounge chairs, two of which popped on the first stretch of the river. I rode down on some little donut-shaped tube I got from ShopKo. I think it was designed for an anorexic child, because it sat about 6 inches below the water the whole time.

Most casualties on this year’s river run occurred at The Bridge. As the water rushes through the support columns of The Bridge several narrow chutes are created. As you approach you must decide which chute you want to run, and paddle accordingly. You always choose one, then at the last second change your mind and try to go through another, only to be flipped upside down and wrapped around one of the support columns. Then you drown for a few moments as your tube races on like an unsaddled horse.

When it was all said and done, everyone was miserable. Many were suffering from the first stages of hypothermia; many were bleeding from lacerations caused by wrecking on the rocks, and many felt like they’d been run over by a bull. I know I have a cut on my knee that probably warrants stitches.

It was another river run in the books, and in 12 more months we’ll be ready for our next mauling.

Celebrating the 4th, Miley Style

In economics a "free rider" is someone who enjoys a public good or service without paying a fair share of its cost of production. Among other things, I usually free-ride fireworks. Why pay to go in the venue when you can see it all just fine from outside the gates?

Every year, Provo, UT puts on concert/fireworks show called "The Stadium of Fire." It traditionally features some mediocre country star, followed by a surprisingly good fireworks show. Except the ignorant folks running the show always launch the fireworks above the rim of the stadium, so there's never been a need to pay to get inside the thing--except for this 4th of July.

Keeping up with tradition, the event managers invited Billy Ray Cyrus for this years' Stadium of Fire. But he, like Hillary Clinton on the campaign trail, was not very eager to come to Utah. So he sent his daughter Miley, who you may know only by her alias, Hannah Montana. And she was probably fine with it, because I doubt the 15-year old pop-star even knew where Utah was on the map.

At least that's how I think they got Miley Cyrus to come to Provo.

My wife wanted to go, and I'm not cheap and I don't care about money (cough, cough), so I forked out a stack of bills and picked up some last-minute tickets.

The show started out great; some sky jumpers parachuted into the stadium, I enjoyed a bag of gummy bears that I smuggled past security, and jets flew over the crowd.

Then a thousand or so youth dancers from around the area put on a show that was supposed to be a representation of Team USA in the upcoming Beijing Olympics. As long as Team USA looks like a bunch 11-year old girls in pig tails running around like lemmings, it was spot on.

Then out came Miley, who really knew how to wake up a crowd of teeny boppers. She effortlessly triggered one earth-shattering scream after another from every girl in the stands, as well as many of their mothers.

I quickly realized that the earplugs I had seen being sold at the concession stands for $1 weren't for the fireworks...

Actually, for a 15-year old she handled herself pretty well. Except for the time in between songs when she tried to get sentimental and said "I know God has a plan for us, and I'm stoked!!!" and other than the fact that most her songs centered around boys, sleepovers, and recess, it was a decent concert.

I went home with my ears ringing from pre-teen squeals directed at Miley Cyrus, ash on my clothes from sitting under fireworks, and a belly full of illegal gummy bears. And I wouldn't have experienced any of it if I had watched it from outside the gates.