When I mentioned to my father-in-law, a retired agronomist turned do-all handyman, that I was on the hunt for materials to make flying saucers for the Bullshit issue of a friend's newspaper, his eyes perked up. "Do you need 'em to fly?" I didn't. But I realized then that I'd come to the right place. Twenty minutes later we were standing in his Greensburg, Indiana, storage unit, rummaging through organized bins of old lawnmower parts, door hinges, and sprinkler nozzles atop the hood of a tarp-covered 1964 Ford Galaxy.
We emerged from his 50x50-foot box with an armload of dusty, dinged-up aluminum pie tins and clamp-light shades, some filthy cake molds, and a couple inoperable smoke detectors.
A week later, on the morning of Black Friday, my dad, his friend Mike (who I'd last seen on a speedboat during the summer of 1983), and I snapped the tips off some tubes of epoxy and banged out a nice little set of UFOs. They won't fly for shit, but they sure are good lookin’.