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.

Public Transit

“Get some sun, you’re in Miami!” shouted the drunk girl partying near us on the beach. I looked down at my blaring farmer’s tan and quickly understood the exclamation was directed at me.

But that wouldn’t be the worst of what was to come… I would soon be lost on a bus, lost on a train, food poisoned, bitten by weird insects, sunburned, ripped off by several restaurants, and thrown off my sleep schedule. Yes, as you might have guessed I was on vacation.

Vacations for my wife and me always turn out to be much more stressful, painful, and hectic than our day-to-day life. But as I keep telling her, we should be thankful our vacations are the way they are—they make our regular life seem so relaxing.

Though it’s my fault, not hers, that our vacations are so rough--I like to get out and explore when I’m in new country. I want the REAL experience. I find the best way to do that is to be one with the locals. I want to shop where they shop, eat where they eat, and commit crime where they commit crime.

However, my wife’s idea of a vacation stems from an absurd idea that when you go on a vacation you are supposed to unwind, settle down, and forget the cares of the world.

I think my tactic for forgetting the cares of the world is better than hers, though: it’s impossible to think of the cares of the world when you’re on a bus to who knows where, getting off who knows when, sitting next to who knows who, who is speaking who knows what. That is why I always try to talk my wife into taking the bus to different sites when we’re in our vacation city.

Despite all our terrible bus-experiences from past trips (like the time on our honeymoon I got us stranded in some back-woods village in Mexico), this last time I swayed her into riding the bus by promising our destination would be a very nice beach in a state park.

However, I left out the minor details of the obstacles that stood in our way: we had to go through several questionable areas of downtown Miami, transfer from our bus to the Metromover, then transfer to another bus, which would take us within a couple miles of our final destination, which would be reached by walking through the outskirts of a rain forest.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if that was the way it went—but we got lost at our first transfer and it was all down hill from there. But I still found bright spots in the voyage. I got to listen to music on the first bus—I sat next to an aspiring rapper who wasn’t afraid to practice out loud. I was eager to give him some tips, but for some reason he didn’t fully comprehend my street cred. Now the kid will never make it big.

Me being the problem-solving explorer I am, I guided us through the mess and we reached the beach I promised. My wife really liked it; she looked very relaxed as she lay on the sand. And I’m sure the journey made it seem even more relaxing.

Cover the tomatoes!

Some places have tornado warnings. When they go off, you get in the basement. Where I grew up, we had frost warnings. When they go off, you run outside and cover your tomatoes.

The minute my dad heard "frost warning" in the 10 'o clock news he'd drop everything and get into the backyard. From there he'd stumbling through the dark as he made his way to the tarps in the corner of the yard, which were usually employed as the walls of my and my brother's fort.

Last year was the first year I manned my own garden. It came in a small kit with three little pots and three types of seeds. "Simple to grow and harvest!" and "Enjoy herbs in your own home!" were statements found on the box. I suspected they were hoaxing me into growing pot. Never had a chance to find out.

The seedlings sprouted up rather quickly, filling me with dreams of a lush botanical garden in my very own home. The next day they shriveled up like morals in the US Senate.

Despite my failure, I still wanted to try again. Besides, with all the food recalls lately, I feel a lot safer getting my vegetables from my very own garden. Other than the random times the neighbor's cat mistakes our planting pot for it's litter box, my vegetables get nothing but dirt and water.

The stores will tell you otherwise, hoping you'll keep buying their vegetables. "Rinse your produce with water when you get home," they say, "and they'll be perfectly safe to eat."

My wife tells me I need to use antibacterial soap and complete the ABC's song while I wash my hands, at least if I want them clean enough to eat with. If that's correct, I have a hard time believing that running tap water over a bundle of spinach will rid it of salmonella.

So this year I decided to give gardening another chance. I started by going to the store for gardening supplies. Looking at the tomato plants in the Walmart nursery was like looking at puppies in the pound: they all looked terrible, but I felt it was my moral duty to take one home.

I bought three. They looked scrawny and weak, but inside I knew they had heart. Like Mickey did for Rocky, I figured I'd give them the chance they needed to prove themselves. One month later, after regular watering, Miracle-Gro applications, and unconditional love, they still look like the plants I bought at Walmart.

Maybe the frost got 'em.

Door to Door Sales

What do you do when you can't get people to come buy a product? You go to them.

A few days ago I was home alone and the doorbell rang. I opened it quickly, thinking it might just be the one person I've waited to show up at my door for the last 15 years: the dang kid that stole my Charlotte Hornets windbreaker at Jr. Jazz basketball camp.

I opened our door to find a man holding a large duffel bag. He was overly kind as he started asking me about the condition of our carpet, our bathroom, and the amount of money we're "wasting away" on various cleaning products. I quickly concluded my windbreaker wasn't in his bag.

He pulled out a jug of green liquid and started polishing the brass on on our porch light. "What do you usually use to take the rust spots off this thing, anyway?" he asked. "Oh, just a little spit shine and elbow grease," I replied. Actually, I didn't even know we had a porch light until he pointed it out.

When I was a kid, a man like him showed up at our door. He asked if we had any stains in our house that we couldn't get rid of. I pointed out one on my shirt. He shook his head and asked if we had any spots on our carpet or couch. My eyes lit up as I thought of the stain in my parent's closet where the cat had puked.

I escorted him through our home to my parent's walk-in closet. He crawled under my mom's church dresses and went right to work on the stain. He used every bottle in his bag but couldn't beat the barf with any of them. Eventually he pulled out what I assume was Clorox and bleached the thing.

After he finished he asked if we'd want to buy some of his cleaner. As any good child would do, I told him I was home alone and wasn't sure where my parents kept their money. I then told him I would like to buy some, but couldn't because I was saving up for the new Weird Al album.

Years later, still stupid, I again let the cleaning-solution salesman in the house, even though he didn't really do much for the rust spots on the porch light. He wanted to show me how his cleaner would shine up the bathtub, but when we got to the tub it was apparent my wife had already beaten him to it.

"You're going to have a hard time finding any imperfections in this house, my wife runs a tight ship," I said.

He then proceeded to tell me how his product would make her life so much easier. At that point I just wanted to get him out of our house, so I asked how much the freaking bottle cost. "It comes to $41.89," he said, "and that includes sales tax."

Little did he know he was standing in the home of one of the cheapest persons on earth. I squinted one eye, tilted my head to back, and placed my hand on my chin. "I'll give you six bucks."

"Are you kidding?" he exclaimed. "This stuff is concentrated, man... it will last you for at least a year!"

We both maintained our negotiating stances for a few moments until I broke the silence. "So would a $6 jug of Clorox."

Orphan Rats

It will be at least nine months until my wife and I have a kid... unless she knows something I don't. Actually, I've always thought her sisters would know she was pregnant before I would. Not just because I'm oblivious to mood swings, but because any news about Target coupons, holiday plans, and babies must be circulated through their phone guild before it reaches the public ear.

With baby plans up in the air, my wife still has the desire to love and nurture something cuter than me. In that light, we went shopping for a fish last week.

Keeping up with my cheap reputation, I made us go to the thrift store for a fish bowl. We actually found a real nice one, without any problems a little Windex couldn't correct. With a habitat secured, we started hitting up all the stores that featured critters: Petco, Animal Ark, and Hot Topic.

Once we walked into the first pet shop I was immediately flushed with memories of my childhood. Whenever I had a few bucks in my pocket I'd hop on my bike and ride down to the local pet shop to buy anything I could sneak back into the house. Over the course of my youth I think I purchased 6 hermit crabs, 2 lizards, 2 turtles, 3 frogs, 1 mouse, and 400 crickets from that store. I was lucky if any of them lived to half their normal life expectancy.

While wandering the isles we were approached by an employee. She asked if we were interested in adopting. My wife's eyes lit up, only to be dimmed when the employee stated, "we have two rats that need to go to a good home, and you guys look like a nice couple."

I couldn't help but think, "wouldn't rats prefer a bad home?"

No way in hell did I want two rats, but I also didn't want to tell the puppy-eyed employee "no." Looking for an easy out from the situation, I mumbled something about not being able to pass a criminal background check. Unaffected, she walked us back to the manager's office.

"They're both adult males," she said as she picked up a cage, "this one here is a hairless variety."

"Oh geez, is it supposed to look like that?" I asked.

"Yeah, hairlessness is a recessive trait, so he's very special. Isn't he beautiful?"

My wife and I took her question as rhetorical and remained silent, except for the sound that arose when I cleared my throat. "Do they pee all over when you take them out?"

"Not really--sometimes they trickle a little bit" she replied. "But that's just to mark their territory," she stated, as if she was their attorney.

"What about their, um, droppings?"

"You don't need to worry about those. Sometimes you'll find them in the corner of the room after you've let them run around, but they're really dry so they pick up easily." She then reached in the cage and picked up one of the pieces of crap. "See?"

After looking at a hairless rat and seeing a girl pick up its droppings, I was ready to come out and tell her we were not going to be the adopting parents for her rodents. At that point, nearly all of the employees in the store had gathered around us, thinking we were going to be the ones to finally take the rats home.

After telling them our intentions, the employee and her co-workers looked at us like we were the scum of the earth. "How could you be so cold?" said the look on their faces. We decided to skip the fish and we headed home. Now on our shelf at home sits an empty fish bowl. Maybe I'll just fill it with water and see if some form of life originates.

Stimulus Check

I got a paycheck without doing any work. That hasn't happened since I quit the fast-food job I had in college. Twelve-hundred bucks from Lady Liberty, just for residing between the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean (and for not living in Canada or Latin America).

They're calling it a stimulus check. Of course, the money once belonged to me. All the government did was hold it hostage for a while, then give it back. Uncle Sam: "I'll give back the $1200 I took from you if you file your taxes."

They're like hard-core regifters with these stimulus checks. We are the gifter when we pay taxes to the government. They then regift the taxes--not to someone else--but right back to us, the gifter and regiftee.

Actually, the money was probably going to go towards the cost of running the government, just like all taxes. Though that would probably mean the stimulus check was cut via a loan from the social security program. If so, I should probably should just put it towards my retirement fund because that's where it came from.

Since the U.S. is in a quasi-recession, my gut tells me to save the stimulus check for hard times. Yet economists are telling me to blow it on random junk so I can help pull America out of a recession. Which should I satisfy, my gut or the economists?

In my college Economics class I would eat gummy bears while I took notes. Maybe I should buy $1200 worth of gummy bears with my stimulus check to keep my gut and the economists happy.

Or maybe this is a time to be a true patriot. Perhaps I should return my stimulus check to the government. I could send it back with a post-it note that says, "I'd like this to go towards new hand towels at the White House." Maybe I could even request to have my initials embroidered on them.

I'd go down in history! One hundred years from now, kids would be reading in their textbooks about the man who gave his stimulus check back to the government.

"Ask not what money your country can give you--ask what money you can give your country," is a phrase I would coin.

Maybe those future textbooks would have a picture of me striding across the White House lawn, holding an American flag in one hand and a $1200 gift certificate to Bed, Bath & Beyond in the other.

Interior Design

I recently watched a show on Home and Gardens TV where a "genius" interior designer walked into a couple's house for a home makeover. After belittling the homeowners and criticizing everything on their walls, the designer reworked their living room so it looked like Ikea on crack.

I grew up around a lot of farm land, miles and miles from any Ikea store. For housewives married to farmers, a common thread in home decorating involves choosing their favorite farm animal, then plastering their homes with it. Our next-door neighbor had a rooster motif. The house next to their's chose pigs.

I guess the country folk figure that since they make their living from these animals, they might as well have the courtesy to dedicate a wall, or two, or three, to them. Now that I live thick in the suburbs, I've noticed the same courtesy isn't duplicated in the houses around me. Last week I walked into the home of a guy who works as a software engineer. For whatever strange reason, the wife didn't decorate their kitchen with computer-related items. I thought a strip of wallpaper featuring keyboards would have looked good above the cabinets.

One of the latest home-design fads is painting verticle pin-stripes on your walls. Considering myself an able striper, I bought a couple rolls of painter's tape and went to town on the wall in our laundry room. "June Day Yellow" was my background color, and "Deep Sea Blue" was my accent stripe--12 inches on center. I envisioned a morning-breaks type of sensation for all who walked into the room.

After I finished, and after the buzz from the paint fumes faded, I stood back to admire my work. It looked like I was staring at the sun through blue prison bars.

My wife walked in and almost threw up. Out of the goodness of her heart she tried to fabricate some form of a compliment, but I quickly butted in with a promise to erase the prison bars. Luckily it only takes about 13 coats of yellow paint to cover a dark-blue stripe.

Despite my home-improvement failures, I really came through as a hero last weekend. As I was driving along a country road, I noticed a large stash of reeds growing by a farmer's field. Earlier, my wife had expressed interest in a large vase with reeds in it, to put in the living room. Unfortunately, a few decorating reeds in a furniture store cost about as much as their new couches.

We went out and picked the reeds I found. They were transported home, chopped down to size, and stuffed in a big vase we got for only ten bucks. Maybe an HGTV designer would have ripped it to part, but it looked good to me.

And maybe it would have looked even better if I had a job in the reed industry.

MPG

I drive a lot for work. My commute is a good 22 miles, and then I travel around to different sites during my workday. So with gas prices soaring, my car's MPG is a big deal (I know the topic of gas prices is becoming cliche, but please bear with me).

In fact, I calculate my latest gas mileage number every time I fill up. As a kid, I remember my grandpa doing that. He kept a little notebook above the sun visor of his 1970 Chevy and would jot down his mileage when he filled up. I never understood why; I guess I just though it was something all grandparents did. My grandpa loved statistics and figures. He was always rattling off numbers like the inches of rain we got last year, the distance between the rows of corn in his garden, and how many minutes are needed for an effective nap.

Yet here I am in my mid-20s, tracking my gas mileage like it's going out of style. If my MPG is down a little, I start to think up all sorts of reasons for the drop in efficiency. Did I hit an unusually large amount of bugs on the freeway? Did I put a new box of mints in my car? Is there a leaf stuck under my windshield wiper, causing drag?

Yes, these days I'm doing everything I can to keep my car's MPG optimal. The psi in my tires is right on the money, and I'm seeing all sorts of "birds" by driving 5 MPH under the speed limit. I've also stripped my car of any unnecessary weight (e.g., jumper cables, insurance and registration forms, my spare tire).

A few days ago I was reading an article about ways to improve your car's efficiency. One suggestion was to replace the air filter. The article guaranteed it was a do-it-your-selfer, so I stopped by Checker on my way home from work. I walked in the store and started scanning the isles for air filters.

"Can I help you find anything?" the clerk asked. "Yeah, I need to replace the air filter on my '97 Accord." He then proceeded to embarrass me with all sorts of ridiculous questions:

"Is your Accord a DX, LX, or EX?"

"I don't know, it's um, white."

"Is it a 2.2 liter, or a 2.7 liter?"

"Um, probably somewhere in between."

He walked down one of the isles, grabbed something off the shelf, and told me it was what I needed. For all I knew, it could have been a twenty-dollar air freshener.

Installing my new air filter turned out to be the quickest fix I've ever made on my car. I only had to go back in the house once for another otter pop, plus another three times for the correct size of socket wrench. Luckily, there's only three flights of stairs separating my parking space from our third-story condo.

Where I'm from, a man is measured by his ability to look at a bolt and gauge it's size. "Yeah, that's a five-eights incher," I initially thought. But after three trips up and down the stairs, I was loosening the bolt with a three-eights inch socket.

Sometimes just two-eights of an inch separates you from home-town manhood and better gas mileage.

4X4

Many of you know I'm serving hard time as a scout leader. As part of my sentence, I'm required to sleep outside from time to time. We (13-year old boys and some other leaders) have been calling it "camping."

Last weekend, camping meant driving away from society until we found a place where we could burn stuff without other people caring. Our journey took us to the base of some mountains, where we proceeded to baja-race up an antelope migration trail.

Eventually the trail took us to a nightmare of a slope. The other two leaders, in their 4X4 trucks, scooted right up it without a problem. I was in my little Honda CRV, which my wife and I bought last summer. I had only taken it off road once before, when I had to park on some grass.

I made it half-way up the slope on my first try, then my tires spun out and I had to back it down. There were three scouts in my car; the two older boys in the back were calling me a wuss, and the 12-year old in the passenger seat was in a state of shock.

"Let me out, I want out" the 12-year old screamed. "We'll die if we go up that again!"

"Listen soldier, you're gonna man your position," I said, while locking the doors. "You're not getting out until we ascend this hill."

He looked around for an item of comfort, and found nothing. He eventually grabbed the tire-pressure gauge that was laying on the dash, and clung onto it as if it had some life-saving quality.

We proceeded to climb the slope a second time. My engine started making weird noises, the windshield filled up with blue sky, and dust surrounded us. As I reached the point of failure from the first attempt, I looked to my right. The 12-year old was glassy-eyed and tears were streaming down his face. The tire-pressure gauge was still locked in between his hands. The boys in the back were yelling something about the car rolling over.

I looked up to the top of the hill, and saw the other two leaders standing proudly next to their big trucks. They began to yell things like, "just drop to a lower gear and get your RPMs revved up," and "ya gotta crank 'er to the right, or you'll tweak your driveshaft!" Even though I know nothing of auto mechanics, I wanted to counter with something intelligent. I leaned out my window and shouted, "yeah, I'll just pop the clutch a couple times to boost the alternator's intake." They both stopped yelling and looked at each other.

The soldier in the passenger seat held his ground and we made it to the top. The boys in the back got out immediately and jumped into the other leaders' trucks. "I think my manifold distributor is shorting out, so it will best if I have less weight anyway," I said.

The 12-year old was mad; his face was as red as my check engine light. "Dang it, you should have let me out," he exclaimed. I apologized and told him he could join the other boys in the trucks. He consented and quickly hopped out of my car, still clinging to my tire-pressure gauge.