The elastic waistband in America’s underpants was fraying, blown out. Shot. We’d sucked too hard, too long, on the pillowy E-cups of excess. Our bunions hurt. It was 1982.
Lawn Chair Larry Walters tore through the torpor from his backyard in L.A., streaking to 16,000 feet in a beach chair lashed to 42 weather balloons—a loaded gun his only means of descent, a Miller Lite his sole libation. Inexplicably, he survived his electrifying landing.
Forty years on, I wonder what he’d do today, floating above our fratricidal tribes, bobbing in a sea of blue Viagra?