Deep inside every man is the horrible desire to create art with balloons.

Each man must find his own way past this temptation. Focus on intense study, focus on engineering and the world of numbers. Cut off his own fingers, one by one, leaving only the thumbs for harmonica play and companionship. A busy mind, occupied by thoughts of digging decorative lawn ponds keeps itself well away from the lure of bended balloons.

In weaker moments, when it seems all but inevitable a poodle dog will spring forth from one’s lungs, spelling his beloved’s name aloud, and in reverse, keeps a man on the course. Others may spend time blowing on their finger stumps or recklessly driving while blindfolded and chained to a dog. This is where the soul shines and true art finds its way out; out past inadequate country law and small town ordinance; out past farm animals and their deceptive smiles; out past a man’s horrible, eternal flaws and deep down back behind the couch where magazine subscription cards and shallow pans of mustard sauce set out as traps for furniture spirits hide. When a man denies his weakness, when he channels the ugly into himself, he becomes heroic.

Oh balloon art – temptress of the carnival bag – keep away your empty promises of low-risk performance stardom. I am more than you, balloon art. I know your way. It leads to Gomorrah.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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