Friday, December 28, 2001  [!]

The smell of burnin' shoes A first-hand account about the guy who tried to light his shoe-bomb on the Paris-Miami flight... from someone who was sitting in the row in front. [via now]

Poor L.A.... everyone experiences the New Year before we do.

Ignore for a moment the troubles inherent to Southern California—the traffic, the lack of central gathering places, the, uh, traffic—and accept that New Year's Eve anywhere is a tough night. The stroke of midnight, Dec. 31, brings with it such a forced sense of importance that it's nearly impossible to get right. During the last moments of each year, we are expected to: (a) understand, digest and accept the events of the last 360 or so days with a rushed sense of nostalgia, binding a chapter of our lives between artificial numerical bookends, (b) outline a solid plan for the future and develop a can-do attitude about it, (c) feel warmly connected, in some way, to the entirety of the human race, each member of which is, at this moment, experiencing the same thing, and then, worst of all, (d) kiss somebody. The night, with or without the roadblocks set up by life in Southern California, is loaded.

Don't ask Dodge Route Van pictures. I grew up riding in one of those, too. A Mother's Cookie Truck. Called "Mother's". A do-it-yourself RV in the days before RVs were manufactured. This one was outfitted by my dad based on compact living spaces on boats, with things purchased, I suppose, from the local marine hardware stores.

mothers cookie truck: That truck has some stories, yep.