This one’s from Mumbai… y’ know the city in the country famous for its snake charmers and…

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 of “two” or “a couple of” readers.
2. 100% of 12apostrophes readers respond favorably to the blog.

The site downage was caused by a roving band of crack Internet hackers trying to strike terror by crashing the world economic infrastructure and obscure blogs. Or else the hosting company “switched the name server” and then “forgot to switch it back,” should “propagate” in a “couple of hours,” but really “took a week.”

Meanwhile, back at the Vegas wedding, Pulao and I survived helicopter travel, although I had had my doubts. In fact, besides just avoiding the firey crash, the rides and views were a bit on the super-awesome side. Here’s what a small part of it looked like:

Vegas, for me, was unstoppable forces vs. immovable objects: freezing casinos v. scorching sun, Disney World v. Bourbon street on Fat Tuesday night, hooker calling cards on the sidewalk v. a beautiful wedding. Nice strangers v. mean strangers. Swift ‘copters v. sluggish busses.

The highlights of the trip were the wedding ceremony at the Chapel of the Flowers, a classy oasis tucked away on a un-classy street, the Grand Canyon (from the air and the ground), friends and more friends, and craps at the Golden Nugget.

Another way to look at Sin City; friend and sometime-12apos commenter Crash Damag said that Vegas had moved way beyond capitalism, capitalism used to be you gave your money and got something, a good or service, and in Vegas you just give the money away, without that other part, where you get something.

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 safety.”

Don’t try this at home. I landed at www.helicoptersafety.org, and this is the Web banner that greeted me:

There are a few problems with this Web banner. Perhaps you can spot them, “Where’s Waldo” like.

First and foremost in my mind, was that the helicopter pictured is not in the air. And it is not safe on a landing pad, either. It appears to be “resting” on the surface of a lake, which is not the optimal end result of my preferred landing procedure.

Next is the “Y” in “Helicopter Safety.” The “Y” has fallen off the word “Safety,” and is cracked in half. Helicopters, apparently, do not put the “Y” in “Safety.”

And lastly, but certainly not least, is the banner’s tagline: “Let’s Stay Alive!” Don’t get me wrong, I agree with the sentiment. In fact, this is a rousing affirmation of just the thing I want to do on my helicopter journey. But I’d rather staying alive be more of a given, and not so much a lofty goal.

I foolishly proceeded past the banner to the rest of the site, which consists almost entirely of botched helicopter landing videos, YouTube style. Botched helicopter landing videos are immensely captivating to someone afraid of botched helicopter landings (OK, we could crash this way. . . or like that . . . interesting . . .), but have sort of the opposite effect of what I was looking for.

After watching the videos, the Web banner makes total sense to me.

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 whistles, piped into little crosswalk speaker boxes.

I kid you not.

“Cross now” is translated into bird tweet (which bird species’ dialect, I don’t know), and it sounds like a high pitched “chee.” The “don’t walk” cheep is a lower-register “wee-ert.”

This immediately caused my conference colleagues to make smart-ass remarks. I may have made one or two myself. Good for the blind, right? But what if you hear a bird that sounds like the “cross now” bird, and end up stepping into the path of a semi? What if, God forbid, a mockingbird takes up nearby residence?

And, as my friend Margery said, “Why would you listen to a bird anyway?” Birds, with their teeny-weeny brains, are not particularly renowned for their street-crossing advice.

Well, don’t worry. Because you can wave an orange flag around furiously instead.

In lieu of crosswalks, here and there, there are semi crosswalks. Pseudo crosswalks. They aren’t at lights. They’re in-between lights. No walking man, no red hand. Just the crosswalk hash painted on the street with the word “look,” and little orange flags to carry with you.

Again, with the me, the you, and the not kidding.

The sign says to wave the orange flag as you walk across, “to help increase your visibility.” I tried it out, and let me tell you, I waved the heck out of that flag. I waved that flag as I have never waved anything before.

So if you hear the bird say “go!” in Utah, grab your flag, close your eyes, and run like hell.

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 arm around him, and struck up a conversation. I was a little miffed. The object of his affections was more traditionally handsome, I suppose, but I have a lot to offer conversation-wise.

Tuesday, a different Extremely Drunk Guy sort of made himself a spot between two women at the very back of the bus by plopping down in between and immediately saying “You’re pretty,” to one of them. The other one got up and walked down the aisle. The pretty woman said “Thank you.” Then he said that he was tired of “all this gangster shit.” The pretty woman said “I’ve had a long day,” and decided to stand the rest of the way home.

“Mother,” he kind of warbled. “I just killed a man.”

Whoa! Me and the people in the back shifted in our seats nervously and shared wide-eyed glances.

“Put a gun up to his head, pulled the trigger, now he’s dead,” he sang.

Wait a minute . . . was that Queen?

“Cause nothing really matters . . . anyone can see . . . nothing reeeaaaly matters . . . to me.”

Definitely singing. Sort of. Definitely “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Everybody likes “Bohemian Rhapsody.” In the back of the bus, we breathed a collective sigh of relief.

The back row he was sitting in was wide open. A woman newcomer with some shopping bags plopped down beside him and looked him over. He was swaying a little bit. She turned to the guy in front of her:

New Woman: I wondered why nobody was sitting back here!

Guy in front: You’ll find out in a minute.

EDG: I’m a king, I’m a king, I’m a motherfuckin’ king.

If only he had stuck with “Bohemian Rhapsody.” By the time he got to “scaramouche, scaramouche, will you do the fandango” he would have had us all caught up in a giant bus-shaking singalong, Wayne’s World style.