My logs were never about fun. They're journals of a big chunk of my life, and there's a stack of logs.

A long time ago when I was much younger, I was looking at a Smith Mini-plane on a hangar floor, selling for a song. A local happened through; he flew for a major, and we chatted about the airplane. "Buy it." He said. "Put the pictures in your log. Nobody will know what it is, everybody will ask. It's an ice breaker." The logs today do have some pictures, some of aircraft nobody knows or cares about, old medicals, business cards, snapshots in time of this or that. The logs are dog eared, worn out. I've had several re-spined because they were falling apart. The pages are stained, one ten years to fill one out, or more, and the books look like it. Today nobody looks at them, and the last interviews I've been through, nobody wanted to see them, or any log at all.