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Mark Anthony Conditt, who police say was behind a wave of bombings in Austin and south-central Texas, killed himself early Wednesday in what investigators described as an explosion inside his car, leaving them scrambling to determine whether any bombs remain and if he acted alone.Federal agents went to the bomber's home Wednesday while police interviewed his roommates.Fred Milanowski, the special agent in charge for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives' Houston office, said one room in the house had components for making similar bombs to the ones that exploded in a string of incidents this month. There was also similar homemade explosive material in the room.No finished bombs were found, he said.Conditt detonated a bomb in his vehicle before dawn on the side of Interstate 35 in Round Rock, north of Austin, as police approached him, authorities said.Even in announcing his death, though, police warned a wary public not to let down their guard."We don't know where this suspect has spent his last 24 hours, and therefore we still need to remain vigilant to ensure that no other packages or devices have been left throughout the community," Austin police Chief Brian Manley said. 1221

Many of us can’t go a few seconds without checking our smartphone. Do you think you could last a whole year?Vitaminwater unveiled a challenge inviting anyone to “break the cycle with scroll-free life solutions” for 365 days for a chance to win 0,000.“This means you may not physically operate, caress, hug or otherwise be physically affectionate with anyone’s smartphone,” the company said on its website.Those interested in the challenge can enter by creating a Twitter or Instagram post but make sure to include hashtags #nophoneforayear and #contest.Laptops, destktop computers are OK to use. Voice activated devices are also OK.You have until Jan. 8, 2019 to enter.Vitaminwater said they will pick a winner on or around Jan. 22.Click here for a full list of rules.?  786

MillerCoors says beer prices could rise and workers could lose their job if the president follows through on a new tax on imported aluminum. President Donald Trump announced Thursday he’s planning to impose steep tariffs on foreign steel and aluminum to protect the U.S. industry from unfair competition. In a statement, MillerCoors called it “misguided” and says there isn’t enough domestic supply to meet the demand for its products. House Speaker Paul Ryan said Thursday he hopes the president, “will consider the unintended consequences of the new taxes."  593

MILLIKEN, Colo. — Beatriz Rangel holds onto precious moments with her father. She took hundreds of pictures over the years, and now, she is more grateful than ever to have them.Her family made time to visit each other every single week, but they also loved vacationing together. “We’d just hit the road and go everywhere,” said Rangel of her parents and siblings.Looking back on their moments of joy is now helping Rangel find a shred of peace.“He loved posing for pictures and I loved taking them,” she said of her dad, Saul Sanchez. “We had so many good times.”She never expected those memories to end so soon. “I still have a hard time believing that my father is gone.”At 78 years old, Sanchez died on April 7 after a weeks-long battle with COVID-19. The loss is still fresh in Rangel’s mind.“I got a text, a group text message, from my older sister that said, ‘Dad and mom were just here. Dad can't even walk. There's something definitely wrong,’” said Rangel.Soon after, Sanchez went to the hospital and he tested positive for the virus. That was the last time his family would see him in person.Rangel made sure to speak to her dad as much as she could while he was in the hospital. “I called him and he sounded great,” she said. “He’s like, ‘Hi honey, hola mija. You know I'm doing OK. I’ll be fine, I’ll be back to work on Monday,’” Rangel remembered.However, Sanchez never left his hospital bed. Within days, doctors put the father of six on a ventilator.“We just thought, ‘Oh they're going to help him breathe,’” said Rangel.Sanchez’s condition took a turn for the worse suddenly and Rangel got a call she will never forget.“They're like, ‘We want you to say goodbye, and they're taking him off the ventilator.’ I just told him that…that I loved him, and I was going to miss him, and thank you for all the lessons, but I knew he wanted us to be happy. You know, he wanted us to find joy in whatever we did, 'cause he loved life. They took him off the ventilator, and within like two, three minutes he passed away, so it was very, very hard,” said Rangel through tears.Months later, with the pain of the loss still just as deep as it was in the spring, the true cost of this virus is becoming all too clear to Rangel and her family.“He helped so many people, and he was, for our family, the glue. So I think we all really, really miss that. We miss that one person that always made us feel like anything was possible.”Saul Sanchez’s life proved just that. He brought his family from Mexico to America, leaving his life behind for a better future for his children.“He came here with nothing because of my sister Patty being sick and needing health care, and his biggest thing was education. He went and got his GED at 60, 60 years old. He didn't care about his age, he cared about what he could learn and how he could be a help to society and contribute to the community,” said Rangel.Losing the person who cared about her family most is making a time of year meant for joy harder than she imagined, and now Rangel just hopes her community will see the hole in her heart as a warning to keep others safe.“I feel like he was my backbone, and I don’t have it anymore,” said Rangel. “You go through, ‘Who am I?’ You’re lost, because I don’t have him to tell me, ‘Honey you’re going to be fine, you’re going to be great.’”For the more than 250,000 Americans who have passed away from COVID-19 this year, their families know the same pain. Counselors say making time for the traditions your loved one enjoyed can help honor their memory. That’s something Rangel plans to do.“It’s very hard to have the spirit to want to celebrate,” she said. “It is going through the motions, but we still have to do it because that's what Dad would want.”Even though this Christmas cannot bring her the gift she really wants, Rangel knows the warmth and kindness her dad showed her will be there.“There is a lot of goodness that went away with him, but I was thankful, grateful to have him fifty two years of my life,” she said. 4024

MATIAS ROMERO, Mexico (AP) — Dozens of transgender women and gay men in the caravan moving through Mexico with hopes of seeking asylum in the United States have banded together for protection — not from the uncertainty of a journey fraught with danger from the gangs who prey on migrants but from their fellow travelers.Fleeing violence and discrimination back home because of their gender identity or sexual orientation, these LGBTQ migrants have found the journey north to be just as threatening amid catcalls and even physical abuse."Sweet little thing!" ''Baby, where you going?" ''How much do you charge?" These all-too-familiar jeers are spewed at them as they make their way with the caravan of several thousand.Loly Mendez, a 28-year-old who began transitioning to a woman in her native El Salvador, knows all too well the dangers her fellow transgender migrants faced back home: Her best friend, also a transgender woman, was murdered for doing the same.RELATED: Interactive map: Migrant caravan journeys to U.S.-Mexico borderThen Loly herself began getting threats — "that if my breasts were going to grow, they would cut them off," she said. They were always anonymously delivered, which only made her more fearful and finally drove her to flee."In my country there is violence, a lack of work and opportunities," said Loly, who like many of the transgender women in the group preferred using only her first name. "In the caravan there is also violence — against the LGBTQ community."Loly linked up with the caravan in Tapachula, in southern Mexico, and hopes to work in the United States and save up to start a beauty products company — perhaps in Los Angeles or New York. It's something she has planned for a long time, all the way down to the business' logo, but she's never had the money."I am going to a country where I know I will achieve my dreams," Loly said, hopefully.Reports are common in much of Central America of LGBTQ people being murdered, assaulted and discriminated against, due to their gender identity or sexual orientation.But getting U.S. asylum is difficult even with proof someone has been the victim of persecution for being transgender, said Lynly Egyes, director of litigation at the Transgender Law Center in Oakland, California.It often takes days or weeks for transgender immigrants to get a hearing before an asylum officer. If they are allowed to move forward in the process, many are traumatized and struggle to tell their story, Egyes said. They are also much less likely to be granted asylum without a lawyer."It is a horrifying process, and not everybody makes it through," she said.Many of the migrants have said they joined the caravan because it offered safety in numbers. The 50 or so LGBTQ migrants traveling together, most of them in their 20s but some as young as 17 or as old as 60, say they, too, banded together for safety — a sort of caravan within the caravan.Sticking out in their bright-colored clothing and makeup, the group has suffered verbal harassment, especially from men, and has been the victim of robbery and other aggressions. One recent day as they walked in a row on the highway to Isla, in the Mexican Gulf coast state of Veracruz, a group of fellow migrants passed by on a flatbed truck and showered them with water, oranges, rinds and other refuse.Fearful of being attacked more violently or sexually assaulted, they stick by each other's sides 24 hours a day, walking and sleeping in a group and even using the buddy system for going to the bathroom.In Matias Romero, in the southern Mexican state of Oaxaca, rather than sleep outdoors they took over an abandoned hotel damaged in last year's deadly earthquake. Dirty, windowless and with no electricity or running water, it was nonetheless a place to have a roof over their heads and be safe. They bathed by the light of a small lantern, dressed themselves and applied makeup as dozens of men milled about outside.Each night "the girls," as they call themselves, sift through piles of donated clothing to try to look as sharp as possible. And they face a dilemma: Where to dress and relieve themselves?"We have problems when it comes time to go to the bathroom," said Nakai Flotte, a transgender woman and activist. "We bathe in the men's, sometimes in the women's, but it's difficult. There isn't one for us."Flotte was accompanying the migrants to provide support and information about making asylum claims.The U.S. "should take into account their condition of vulnerability and violence," she said.However, a decision by then Attorney General Jeff Sessions this year to deny asylum to victims of domestic and gang violence could also have a negative impact on transgender women and men because many are victims of gang violence who are targeted for being transgender."I know it will be difficult to win asylum," said Alexa Amaya, a 24-year-old from Honduras, "but we have to make the attempt."The caravan has traveled more than 1,000 miles (more than 2,000 kilometers) in the month since its initial participants set out from San Pedro Sula, Honduras, and as it traverses Mexico's central highlands it's still about the same distance from its goal of Tijuana, across the border from San Diego. It's unclear how many will make it. A similar caravan earlier this year fizzled to just about 200 who reached the U.S. frontier.Much of the trek has been on foot, but hitching rides in pickup trucks, minibuses and tractor-trailers has been crucial lately, especially on days when they travel 100 miles or more. For the LGBTQ group, it's been tougher to find those rides."A taxi driver kicked us out of his car," said Lady Perez, a 23-year-old from Honduras, adding that sometimes truck drivers who often transport migrants for a small fee have doubled or tripled the price for her group.Lady began identifying as transgender at age 5, and her father ultimately disowned her. She was subjected to insults and beatings, her boyfriend was killed and she was warned to leave Honduras or else."In our country the rights of the LGBTQ community are not respected, and anti-social groups take advantage of that," Lady said.Walking on the highway in a black miniskirt, red lipstick and black eyeliner, she said many men in the caravan have been harassing her and the others."They have denigrated us. Supposedly you're emigrating from your country because of the violence, the discrimination, the homophobia, and it turns out that in the very caravan you face this kind of violence," she said.In the face of the near-constant harassment, march organizers and human rights workers have sought to provide the group some security in the form of two men in green vests who travel with them and try to ward off any attacks.If the verbal harassment doesn't cross the line, "we feel protected," Loly said. "If someone does cross the line, human rights is with us to protect us."___Associated Press writer Astrid Galvan in Phoenix contributed to this report. 6973