Hot Air Balloons Are Ridiculous

I was wandering around the kitchen one Saturday morning doing dad shit — making oatmeal for a 6-year-old and making messes I would later loudly complain about — when my hungry kid ran to the window.

“Look at the balloons!” he demanded.

Leaving the banana to mash itself, I took a few steps in his direction to glance out the back window. Sure enough, it was the morning of St. Louis’ legendary balloon race.

I knew the event was coming, but it wasn’t a household priority. Most years we get a glimpse at a few of the wayward balloons out here in West County, and everyone will have to forgive me if I can’t deal with the irony of taking my land vehicle to the city to compete with 100,000 people for 50,000 parking spaces to watch a bunch of air drivers go park anywhere they want. My wife and I considered it once when we were young and carefree and even lived downtown. I think we ultimately decided on Applebee’s and Netflix. This level of local non-participation comes second only to the time The Urge — one of my favorite bands of all time — played a free concert outside right across the street, so I just opened the window and went about my business.

As my son marveled at the balloons, we had a strained discussion in which I tried to explain the basics of how they work and what they do and realized I knew almost none of the…