"This is better than when President Lyndon Johnson came to the Minnesota State Fair in '64," the man standing next to me said.

"Wow, he came here, huh?" the man's companion asked.

"Yeah. We didn't see him, though. He was in a car. I saw Lady Bird. This is better, though," the man said.

Not having been there, I can't say for sure, but I'm inclined to believe that he was right -- the King Boreas Grande Day Parade through downtown St. Paul this year was better.

Of course, I'm biased. I love parades.

I'm not sure what it is about me, but I just can't get enough of parades. After several years of serving my part in the global media conspiracy, I have to admit that I am a pretty cynical person. But all that crumbles away when a man in a fez rides past on a little motorcycle.

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As the first whooping police car clears the way, and the old guys from the American Legion trudge by out of step, some sort of physiological change takes place deep within my skull -- like when the Grinch's heart grew at the sound of Whoville's singing. The chemicals in my brain balance in a new way, electrical impulses are sent faster and clearer through my gray matter, and suddenly I'm in parade mode:

I wave at every person who goes by as if they were a dear old friend.
I shout encouragement to parade participants who look a little tired: "Only four more blocks! You can do it Mr. Guy-Dressed-Like-A-Bar-Of-Soap!"
I cheer local television personalities, city council members and beauty pageant winners as if they were royalty: "Long live the dynamic Channel 9 news duo! Huzzah for Ward 4! I'm gonna go home and tell all my friends that Miss South Saint Paul waved at me."
I applaud wildly for even the slightest display of talent -- nothing gets me going faster than a strolling Elvis impersonator followed by a marching band rendition of "Louie, Louie."
I think clowns are funny.

Soon I find myself swaying, marching in place, hopping, and waging an internal battle to pick up and run alongside the parade, shouting and cheering and abandoning all sense of adulthood.

At least I'm not the only one. A few years ago, my wife, Rachel, and I were in London while the country celebrated Queen Elizabeth II's jubilee. A huge parade of soldiers and marching bands and guns and horses and bagpipers stomped its way toward Buckingham Palace and I completely lost it.

"Look at the bagpipes, honey! Look at the horses!" I yelped at my wife as I tugged her to keep pace with the parade.

I moved alongside in a sort of half skip, trying to remain dignified. Then, I broke into a full skip. Then, that enormous, staccato sound of a huge, collected military band hit me and I broke out running -- back and forth, up to the trombones, back to the bagpipers, then up again to the horses pulling cannons (I get tears in my eyes just thinking about it). I was darting through the crowd, laughing out loud and -- I am ashamed to admit -- completely unaware of where my wife was. I had abandoned her in a crowd of hundreds of people in a foreign country.

Fortunately, there's nothing in the marriage vows about not ditching your wife to chase after a parade. I doubt there could be, because in a tiny moment of clarity I looked around me and saw men of all ages running, skipping, hopping and shouting alongside the procession, just like me. Little boys rode rodeo style on their fathers' shoulders and old men abandoned use of their canes. Women crossed their arms and walked along at their own pace, wondering what the fuss was all about.

My wife was, no doubt, back there somewhere commiserating with the woman to whom belonged the Greek man who slapped me on the back and shouted: "This is great! I want to be British!"

Back at the King Boreas parade, the one that was better than Johnson's visit in '64, I was able to stay put, but just barely. It had kicked off with a group of guys parachuting into downtown, and Olympic gold medallist Sarah Hughes was the grand marshal (I actually squealed when I saw her). The temperature outside was about 8 degrees (yes, 8. Fahrenheit). And I forced my poor desert-born wife to stand there for two hours.

Often after a parade I will find myself thinking: "I love parades so much. Why aren't there more?" Probably because the wives of parade organizers would leave them if there were.

Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday.