“Just because I have it doesn’t mean I wear it,” I tell Ira. The shirt was a birthday gift from my aunt Mona, who has no kids or common sense. I’ll give you one guess how many times I’ve worn it since my fourteenth birthday.

“You think anyone’s documented seizures from looking at that color combination?” asks Howie. “We should run some tests.”

“Great. I’ll get my shirt, you can stare at it for six hours, and we’ll see if you go into convulsions.”

Howie seriously considers this. “Can I break for meals?”

Let me try to explain Howie to you. You know that annoying automated customer-service voice on the phone that wastes your time before making you hold for a real person? Well, Howie’s the music on hold. It’s not that Howie’s dumb—he’s got a fertile mind when it comes to analytical stuff like math—but his imagination is a cold winter in Antarctica where the penguins never learned to swim.

On TV, the band had almost passed, and one of the giant parade balloons could be seen in the distance. This one was the classic cartoon Roadkyll Raccoon, complete with that infamous tire track down his back, the size of a monster-truck tread. We were about to turn the TV back to football, but then Ira noticed something.

“Is it my imagination, or is Roadkyll on the warpath?”

Sure enough, Roadkyll is kicking and bucking like he’s Godzilla trying to take out Tokyo. Then this huge gust of wind rips off the band members’ hats, and when the gust reaches Roadkyll, he kind of peels himself off the street, and heads to the skies. Most of the balloon handlers have the good sense to let go, except for three morons who decide to go up with the ship.

Suddenly this is more interesting than the game.

Howie sighs. “I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. Helium kills.”

The cameras were no longer watching the parade—they’re all aimed at the airborne raccoon as it rises in an updraft along the side of the Empire State Building, with the three balloon wranglers clinging like circus acrobats.