When the Founding Fathers slapped together this great nation of ours, I’m sure they envisioned a lot of parades and fireworks being part of our celebrations.
“But parades and fireworks are boring!” protested Benjamin Franklin. “If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all!”
He was quickly shushed by James Madison, who pushed him down the stairs, thus establishing the first modern city council meeting.
But there’s one thing the Founding Fathers probably didn’t foresee: Andrew Jackson. Was that guy a nut, or what? A drunken inauguration party full of debauchery, and he still makes it onto the $20 bill. Next thing you know, Bill Clinton’s face will be on currency, or at least a Happy Meal box.
But more to the point, one thing they couldn’t have imagined was the addition of hot-air balloons as a means of celebrating freedom. Here in Provo, where currently we are not even free to dance in public, we use a lot of hot-air balloons to send our message to the world. That message: “We have hot-air balloons! No dancing, please.”
On Tuesday, I arose at the miserable hour of 5 a.m. in order to participate in the Balloon Fest, which is part of the monthlong America’s Freedom Festival at Provo, which is part of Provo’s yearlong Festival Festival: A Celebration of Celebrations.
Now, you should know that it is not uncommon that I find myself awake at 5 a.m. However, this is usually because I have not yet gone to bed, having found a particularly hilarious Web site or a movie on TV that I would never watch under normal circumstances but which seems fine in the middle of the night. (I can’t imagine watching a John Candy film at any other time of day. As far as I know, John Candy films don’t even EXIST during the day. They are nocturnal films.)
But to WAKE UP at 5 a.m.! This was preposterous. Apparently, though, hot-air balloons don’t work in the afternoon. I’m not clear on the physics involved, but from what I can gather, it has to do with someone wanting to irritate me.
Anyway, there were quite a few balloons going up, with many townspeople present to witness this marvel in hot-air technology. (Note: Obligatory politician/hot air joke coming.) Sen. Orrin Hatch was also present, to provide the hot air. (We now return you to your regularly scheduled all-original humor column.)
I was introduced to Dave, a professional balloon pilot from Colorado. He’s a rugged, Crocodile Hunter-type of guy who I happen to know doesn’t care if you spit over the side of the basket when you’re up in the air. We were joined by a fellow named Ed (I have nothing to say about Ed), and the three of us were on our way.
Riding a hot-air balloon is one of those things that seems really fun until you actually do it, at which point you realize it’s more trouble than it’s worth. It’s sort of like buying a puppy, or getting married. For the first 10 minutes or so (I’m talking about the balloon ride now), it’s very exciting, as you see familiar sights from a new perspective and imagine yourself plummeting to your death and wondering where you would land and if it would disrupt traffic. Then, the new perspective is no longer new, and the death fantasies have become more morbid than interesting, and yet here you are, still hanging up in the sky, running out of spit.
But I’m glad I did it. Provo is a beautiful little college town, especially when you’re 2,000 feet above it, where you can’t see all the Hogi Yogis and Chinese buffets. And while city councilpersons Stan Lockhart and Cindy Richards might complain about the various modes of transportation they’re forced to use in the parade — might I suggest walking? And in another city? — I bet they wouldn’t complain if we put them up in a balloon. And even if they did, who would hear them? In space, no one can hear you whine.