Category Archives: mass transit

Leaving Las Vegas

Don't let the HostGator bite ya.

Some updates, for the Facebook and Twitter Nation; 12apostrophes was absent from the triple-w for approx. a few days, give or take many hours. For some of those days, I was in Vegas, so I didn’t care.

But, in the good news column, 12apos received four (count ’em, four) e-mails about the outage, along the lines of “Where is 12apostrophes?” and received zero e-mails of the “Good riddance!” variety.

This proves two things irrefutably:

1. 12apostrophes has at least four readers, not the before-thought . . .

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I’m Not Reassured

Coming up in August, I have the terrifying opportunity to take a helicopter ride down into the Grand Canyon (it’s an integral part of my two friends’ Vegas wedding).

When I say “opportunity” I mean “Oh my God is that safe?” I’m just starting to fly — in airplanes — with a relaxed white-knuckle grip on the tray table in front of me. But helicopters? Like in ‘Nam?

I decided to do some Interweb searchings to still my beating heart. Surely, helicopters are extremely safe contraptions to routinely defy the laws of physics like they do. I tried googling “helicopter . . .

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Why did the bird cross the road in Salt Lake City?

I was in Salt Lake City for my job thingy. I expected craziness. I expected Mormons proselytizing me at every corner. I expected to have to buy a club membership to get a drink. But it hasn’t happened that way; so far, you get a drink just like anywhere else. And the locals I met have been pleasant and polite.

I wasn’t expecting new modes and methods of crossing the street. Who knew?

First off, Salt Lake City’s Walk/Don’t Walk electronic signs at crosswalks (you know, the white walking man and the red hand) are supplemented with bird chirps and . . .

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Why isn’t anybody sitting by that guy?

I often take the #17 bus home from work. It goes down Nicollet, turns right on 24th at the McDonald’s, and over to Hennepin. I don’t know what kind of SuperSized drinks they serve at the McDonald’s on the corner, but this Tuesday made the third time an Extrememly Drunk Guy got on the bus from that particular spot.

There’s no guesswork here — All three, I’m talking weaving down the aisle, shouting, stinking of gin, etc. The 5:30 in the afternoon kind of drunk.

Last time, a Really Drunk Guy sat down between me and another guy, put his . . .

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