I recently received notification of acceptance into the July cohort for the MSSA program. I applied for several Skillbridges, and this was my top choice. Additionally, I applied for a NASA Skillbridge with the Cloud Computing Services office.
I'm transitioning from Air Logistics to Cloud Computing. I hold an AWS Certified Cloud Practitioner Certification, an MBA in Information Technology Management, and have about nine months of study in the Cybersecurity Workforce Certification program. Currently, I'm studying for the Security+. While I feel my IT/Cloud background is not extensive, I bring 23 years of transferable skills such as leadership and other soft skills.
I'm debating which Skillbridge will fit me better. Both provide training but do not guarantee a job afterwards. The MSSA program seems to offer more support for job search and networking compared to NASA, which is relatively new in this space. The NASA Skillbridge provides in-person networking opportunities but seems less structured in terms of job placement support.
In the end, I have to pick one. I believe having NASA on my resume could be advantageous, although Microsoft also carries significant weight. I know I got lucky and this is a great problem to have.
Which would you pick based on these details?
Feel free to share your thoughts and vote below!
View Poll

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I have a few industries I'm interested in buying an in-place business. Currently, I'm looking at plumbing contractors.
That said, I'm interested in finding people in an industry segment. The ideal dataset will be structured with name, business name, phone number and/or e-mail address so reaching out to them and assessing interest would be easy.
So, is there a cheap/free/good data source out there or should I be trolling around with business brokers to find opportunities? If business brokers are the approach, how do I assess which are reputable and which will just push franchising opportunities on me?
Thanks!

I have a season pass and like to go a lot. Friday was really busy. Could not get a ride on Orion, but one ride on Diamondback. Monday as you expect, was also very packed. Rode Diamondback once and went home. Monday was just like a regular day. FoF like always, very busy. But got to ride Orion 6 times and Diamondback 8 times. Overall just a very busy weekend. Was expected though since it was a Memorial Day weekend and people who served on the military (thank you for your service) got in for free.

Hello! I am currently finishing up my Peace Corps term in a Latin American country and had a few questions about how Fulbright compares to Peace Corps and the general application process. I have heard that Fulbright is a lot more competitive than Peace Corps. For some context, I have a BS in psychology & a BA in sociology, I am TEFL certified, have an advanced low level in Spanish and I have been serving in the youth development sector for nearly 2 years. I also took on teaching English at an elementary school as a side project and have provided private tutoring in English to several people in the community. I am considering applying for an English Teaching Assistant position in Spain.
Here are my questions: 1. How does Fulbright compare to Peace Corps in terms of independence? Is there a curfew or areas in the country you are not permitted to go to? 2. How much structure do you have and how many hours do you work per week? I have found during my Peace Corps service I have had a lot of free time and have had to look for or invent more work. 3. How was the medical clearance process? How long were you given to complete tasks? 4. Is there anything I can do to make myself a more competitive applicant? I joined Peace Corps fresh out of college. Hence, I do not have many professional experiences.

Hey! SteamSphere is currently offering free tutoring services to high school students over summer. We're currently offering:

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🟢 WTS: Filson Ranger Backpack(YKK Era, MiUSA)
• Otter Green 🦦💚
• 27L
• Rugged Twill body, Tin Cloth flap, Cover Cloth interior, Mackinaw Wool detachable pouch, bridle leather (a little bit of everything Filson!)
• 8.5-9/10, Good/Very Good; no stains, tears, leather is well maintained, Twill is soft but not worn
• Great for use as a weekender or longer; internal laptop sleeve
• Most of these online are of the latter Filson era (2016+) but this one is a nice collection-ready bag with the YKK zipper and brass hardware as well as the classic 'Made at Filson' tagging
$275 obo including ConUS USPS Priority Mail; Paypal Good and Services included at my cost. Happy to entertain offers so don’t hesitate.
Vouch-able! I recently posted a tan version of this bag; I decided to keep the tan as the wool pouch matched my Buffalo Check Mackinaw Cruiser.

Hey guys, I want to reach out to Local businesses (landscaping, roofing etc.). Have 4 gmail Accounts (free ones no business mails, no custom domains) with which I send 20 Emails a day. After the first day I noticed that everything goes to spam.
I have warmed them up, they are a couple of months old but only got warmed up for around a week.
Basically now I have to make new gmail accounts, but I dont want to send them in spam again after a day...
What are the Metrics, for how long should I warm them up and how many could I send at the start.
I think I know how to do it but maybe I am completely wrong so I need some opinions from you guys.

Hey guys, I want to reach out to Local businesses (landscaping, roofing etc.). Have 4 gmail Accounts (free ones no business mails, no custom domains) with which I send 20 Emails a day. After the first day I noticed that everything goes to spam.
I have warmed them up, they are a couple of months old but only got warmed up for around a week.
Basically now I have to make new gmail accounts, but I dont want to send them in spam again after a day...
What are the Metrics, for how long should I warm them up and how many could I send at the start.
I think I know how to do it but maybe I am completely wrong so I need some opinions from you guys.

It happened. He didn't deny that. Not like he was a suspect or anything—not yet—but he never denied it to himself. At the same time, this all happened over a decade ago—twelve years to be exact.
He didn't think of it every day; in fact, sometimes an entire month would go by where it barely crossed his mind.
In a way, that whole experience—he thought of all the abductions and murders as a singular event—now felt as if it belonged to somebody else.
It was a time in his life when he was confused, mixed-up, searching; a dark time, you know, like a phase. Who didn't have one of those in their past?
Plus, he was married now. His wife, Dee, obviously didn't know about it and he felt no obligation to tell her. Did he ask about her former lovers?
Sometimes there are things in the past and you just let them be. Whether it was Dee losing her virginity to the quarterback of the football team in the backseat at a drive-in or him using multiple black garbage bags and masking tape on that thing he didn't have time to bury in rural Tennessee, everyone has things they would rather forget about. Sometimes you just leave things where they lie.
So that's what Ned Doyle did.
Until that Sunday morning, November 6th, 1988.
He was a having a glass of Dee's pulpy homemade orange juice, waiting for his coffee to percolate, when he opened his heavy weekend edition of the New York Times (probably Ned's greatest extravagance—he liked its heft; and how the Arts & Leisure section made him feel culturally superior to his Ohio townsfolk, “the Philistines of Findlay,” he called them) when he saw the article buried in the back.
The country was two days from heading to the polls for the General Election—Bush v. Dukakis—so most everything else that week had been relegated to the back.
He read the article twice before he could even begin to make sense of it. It seemed to be a story about something called "DNA fingerprinting" and a 27-year-old baker in Great Britain named Colin Pitchfork who had confessed to raping and murdering two 15-year-old girls, in separate incidents a few years apart, after a new scientific process had been used to extract information from semen which he, Colin Pitchfork, had left at the crime scenes (likely inside the victims) some five years earlier.
Now if they could do all that after five years, why not ten years—or maybe even… twelve?
"Interesting story here," he said to Dee. It wasn't uncommon for Ned to read a news story twice—once for himself and a second time aloud to Dee while she brewed his coffee and burnt her toast. But this was his third reading and Ned acted as if it were his first.
"What do you make of that?" he asked. It somehow got worse each time he read it. After the third time, he felt as if he had been sucker punched in the stomach.
"Science Fiction is what it sounds like," Dee said matter-of-factly, pouring Ned his coffee in a mug that bore the Marathon Oil insignia. Findlay, Ohio was Marathon’s headquarters although there had been rumors circulating about a move to Texas.
"And unconstitutional," he said. "Cops running a dragnet like that, taking blood samples from 5,000 townspeople. Thankfully, that would never pass the muster here."
"They did catch the killer so maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea," she said, buttering her burnt toast. "Otherwise, who knows? They could have convicted the wrong man.”
Ned had already gotten lucky once – astonishingly so. Griffin Gerald Jones, the famed “I-75 Corridor Child Killer,” had claimed responsibility for all but one of Ned’s victims before dying in Florida’s electric chair.
"You can't have police in this country running around, sticking everyone with needles, drawing blood for some sort of science experiment,” he said. “Nevermind the Constitution, what about AIDS?”
“What about it?” she asked.
“There's been hundreds, thousands of cases now where people have been infected by giving blood,” he said. “That's a medical fact. Get accused of a crime and AIDS too?"
"It doesn't sound like any of the townspeople there in England got AIDS, darling. Unless there's more to the story, besides what you read to me."
He watched her spread orange marmalade over her burnt toast and take a bite. She had a dead tooth and he saw it every time she opened her mouth. He loved Dee but had never been sexually attracted to her. Not in the way he had been attracted to others.
"It really is just a matter of time before that stuff makes it over here," she said with her mouth full. "To this side of the pond, as they say." She took a sip of his orange juice. "Isn’t that how it always works? Things start over there in England, or in California, and then phht, before you know it, it makes its way to Findlay."
He held his hand over his stomach. She saw him wince.
"Was it my orange juice again? Was it still pulpy? I squeezed it by hand and even strained it twice this time."
"It’s not your fault,” he said. “I think it’s me. Orange juice is getting too… acidic for me." He looked at the clock on the coffee maker. "I'm going to be late."
He turned the page.
He played the 8 o'clock Mass by rote as he had many a bleary-eyed Sunday morning. It was pure muscle memory at this point. He made a few mistakes here and there, missed a key or two, but it was nothing the organ's sustain pedal couldn't mask – not that anyone would complain (not at the 8 o'clock anyway).
On Sundays Ned had four Masses: the 8, the 9:30, the big one at 11, and the 12:30 for the dilettantes who couldn't get their acts together for the 11.
He turned the page.
Today he was using Glory and Praise, AKA "the blue hymnal" for songs he knew by heart.
Turning the pages of his sheet music, reading each note, he was able to keep his mind off it.
Ned abhorred cliches (especially those involving sports) but he made an exception for “Out of sight, out of mind.” For Ned, that wasn’t a cliché; it was a way of life. He was a man who preferred to be heard, not seen, which made St. Bartholomew (or St. Bart’s) the perfect home for him.
In a spectacular architectural oversight, the church's pipe organ was situated so the organist's back was to the altar and pews. The organist of course needs to see what's going on in the Mass to read certain non-verbal cues but the arrangement suited Ned just fine. The congregation was comprised of many young families who had many young children—boys in particular—and it wasn't so much that he couldn't control himself because he was now firmly in control of all that; it was more that he didn't need any reminders of that time when he couldn't.
Especially during church.
So to see the altar behind him, Ned had installed an actual rearview mirror, the type you'd find on an old Buick, and he used a special type of putty to affix it to the mantle of the pipe organ. Having been the church organist at St. Bart's for nine years, he seldom needed it anymore—he could do it in his sleep—but it came in handy today as he found his attention drifting and he nearly missed the oratory refrain at the 9:30 Mass.
His real problems didn't start until the 35-minute break between the 8 and 9:30.
He was reorganizing his sheet music after the first wave of churchgoers had cleared out, when he began thinking about Colin Pitchfork again. The article said he was a baker in England somewhere—did it say he baked cakes or was that Ned's invention?
Even though no picture was provided in the Times article, Ned spent the balance of the 9:30 service picturing the 27- year-old ex-rapist/murderer working in his small English bakery, quietly going about his business, baking his cakes, when the police (Bobbies?) came.
Was he expecting them?
He played the offertory hymn, "On Eagle's Wings," as the ushers began taking up the collections and a family of parishioners he’d never seen before brought the gifts up.
And what was going through Pitchfork's head when he saw the Bobbies there? When they began asking him about rapes and murders that happened almost five years ago? The article said that he had initially given investigators someone else's blood when “the enquiry” began. Had he somehow caught wind of this “DNA Fingerprinting?”
There was a new usher, Ned noticed, in his makeshift rearview mirror.
The Times article said that one of Pitchfork's co-workers at the bakery had taken the blood test masquerading as Pitchfork because Pitchfork had told the co-worker that ‘he could not give blood under his own name because he had already given blood while pretending to be a friend of his who had wanted to avoid being harassed by police because of a youthful conviction for burglary.’ This story was later overheard by a woman in a pub who immediately went to the police.
Ned realized he had missed the homily twice now. Not that it mattered. Heard one you've heard them all and Ned was pretty sure there would be no surprises. Plus, he'd have two more chances to catch it. He knew he would have to really focus for the 11 o'clock. That was always the main event. He was going to play "I Will Raise Him Up," a complex hymn, which required his full attention. He would scratch that one now if he hadn’t read that article and if the Sunday programs hadn't already been printed. People liked that one –it was a real barn burner, as they say—and if he skipped it, there might be questions.
The last thing Ned needed right now were fucking questions.
Who was this new usher, by the way?

By the start of the 11 o'clock Mass, Ned wondered whether anyone would even show for the 12:30, seeing that it was already standing room only. The 11 was always the most popular Mass, but today felt different; it was packed like Christmas Eve. What was the occasion? Was the predominantly conservative town that afraid of Dukakis winning the presidency? Ohio was a swing state after all and that image of the little Greek man in the tank was unnerving, sure, but was it enough to warrant this sort of turnout for the 11 AM Mass at St. Bart's in Findlay?
Or was something else going on?
Ned didn’t believe they had come to hear his rendition of "I Will Raise Him Up."
Or could there be another reason? Maybe they had all read the same Times article. Maybe there had long been simmering suspicion of Ned in the community and maybe the article finally prompted the townspeople to join together and take arms. With pitchforks.
On March 31, 1892, the only known lynching in the history of Hancock County occurred when a mob of 1,000 men, many "respectable citizens," broke into the county jail in Findlay. They lynched Mr. Lytle, a man who had killed his wife and two daughters with a hatchet the day before. The townsfolk hanged the man twice (first from the bridge, then a telegraph pole) and then, in a classic case of overkill, shot his body over a dozen times. The authorities had intended to transfer the prisoner out of town at 1 o'clock in secret, where a train was scheduled to transport him to Lima, but someone talked.
Ned had only confessed what he had done to one person – a priest eight years prior. The priest was set to retire as he was dying of pancreatic cancer and visiting from a nearby parish. For years Ned had heard this priest was “of the old school” – i.e., your word to God’s ear, and it went no further. He was as safe as they come. Still, even then, Ned used the screened side of the Confessional, lowered his voice a full octave, and spoke of what he had done obliquely and in generalities. They were mortal sins. His penance severe: to repent and refrain from repeating the act again. The priest was now long dead. There’s no way he could have tracked Ned down and told anyone. Was there?
The last one was named Derek. That was the only one left unsolved.
He would play "I Will Raise Him Up" during Communion. Because of the crowds, he knew the communion lines would be longer and would thus require him to stretch the already difficult song a few minutes longer. If he was going to supply the masses, he was going to need a bigger yield. In a way it was like baking a cake, wasn't it?
He met Derek at a Dairy Queen in Paducah, Kentucky. It was Labor Day 1976. It must have been 100 degrees out, but it felt even hotter with the humidity. It was a real scorcher.
Derek had a bicycle with an American flag banana seat. It was the summer of Bicentennial Fever. The Dairy Queen was in an area known as Noble Park. It had a tin canopy that kept cars cool in the shade.
Ned missed a note as he turned the page. He stepped on the sustain pedal and his mistake sounded deliberate and beautiful even.
It was early evening; fireflies were out in full force and Ned was blotto. He had been drinking beer—cans of Schlitz—all day at the picnic of a friend (technically, the friend of an acquaintance so basically a stranger). A born introvert who still lived alone (this was pre-Dee), Ned was very drunk and primed for small talk. You must also remember this was a very different time. This was back when you still opened cans with an opener; drunk driving was frowned upon but not the cardinal sin it is today; and a grown man could still park outside a Dairy Queen and strike up an innocent conversation with a prepubescent boy on a bike.
"What da ya' got there?" Ned asked.
"Butterscotch Sundae," the boy said. The boy was blonde with brown eyes.
"Butterscotch, eh?"
The boy licked his plastic spoon and stared somewhere beyond the pea-green 1974 Buick Riviera Ned had inherited from his old man after he had kicked the bucket.
"For the life of me, I can't remember if I like butterscotch or not," Ned said. "That probably sounds pretty screwy, I bet."
"Get a free sample at the window,” the kid said. “They're free."
"Looks awfully busy over there. Mind if I have a taste of yours? I don't have any cooties, I promise."
The kid dragged his spoon over his ice cream as he mulled it over. Maybe seeing that he was almost done with it anyway, he figured what's the harm. He handed Ned the Styrofoam cup.
Ned looked at the boy as he stirred it a little and then placed the curved side of the spoon on his tongue and kept it there.
"I do like butterscotch," Ned said, giving it back. "Thank you for sharing that with me, that was awfully kind of you—say, what is your name?"
"Derek," the boy said.
"Derek. What a nice boy you are. Do you like dogs, Derek?"
"Sure," Derek said.
"Do you have a dog?"
"Not anymore. Used to. We had a beagle named Eleanor but she went blind and then lame and then..."
"What kind of dog was she?" Ned asked.
"A beagle," the boy said.
"A beagle, yes you said that. You like Golden Retrievers?"
"Sure," the boy said.
"Cause I have a Golden Retriever. It's a girl too. A bitch."
Derek smiled.
"She's pregnant. I mean she was. But… she just gave birth."
"To puppies?"
"You betcha. It was just a few weeks ago. She had a whole litter of 'em. Boys, girls. Cutest little pups you've ever seen. The thing is, Derek, I don't know what to do with them all. You're a nice boy. You just shared your Butterscotch Sundae with me and I'd care to return the favor. Would you… like a puppy?"
"How much?"
"For nothing,” Ned said. “For free.”
"You'll give me a puppy for nothing? And I can pick the one I want?"
"Sure can. They're at my place just down the road. Thing is, it's probably too far to bike there. And you're going to need both hands to hold on to the puppy. Hop in, I’ll give you a lift."
"What about my bike?"
"We could put it in the trunk but we're not going to be long. We'll be right back. It'll be safe here. People don't take things that aren’t theirs around here – especially when there's a lot of people around."
He remembered waking up on the floor of his apartment disoriented. He was late for work. He was still working as a salesman at the piano store. There was a big Labor Day sale still going on. Labor Day was always a big day for retail. The owner was a nice man and Ned wanted to call him and apologize but he wasn't sure what to say yet.
He hadn't planned on sleeping in. Forgetting work on Labor Day. The irony.
He saw the boy's underwear on his floor. They were tighty-whities from Fruit of the Loom. He thought of that every time he saw an ad for that company afterward.
They weren’t bloody but they were torn.
He remembered the sound of the filter on the aquarium he used to keep in his apartment. It was noisy but sometimes that was a good thing. He was very into Japanese Fighting Fish for a while until it became too expensive as they always killed each other.
There were no puppies obviously.
His apartment did not allow dogs.
His sense of disorientation and the ensuing panic prevented him from experiencing any of the usual remorse he felt afterward.
There would be plenty of time for that later.
The boy's body was in the bathroom just off the bedroom and he needed to get rid of it. He needed to get out of town. Out of Paducah. Out of Kentucky.
He placed the boy in a hardshell Samsonite suitcase, carried it out of his apartment, walked down the one flight of steps. He saw no one and he was confident no one had seen him. The suitcase was lighter than it should have been—a detail he never forgot—and he walked out to the carport where he saw his Riviera parked sloppily between the lines. He felt a wave of nausea come over him but he suppressed it. He opened his trunk, placed the suitcase in the back, and then looked around the apartment complex before walking back inside. He cleaned up with bleach. Showered. Hit the road.
There were no police gathered outside the Dairy Queen. It wasn’t a crime scene. He didn't look to see if the boy’s bike was still there; he didn’t want to appear suspicious.
He needed to get out of Paducah so he headed toward the freeway.
For a moment he briefly considered the Shawnee National Forest, which was to the north, but he stuck to his gut and took the newly-constructed Interstate 24 East toward Tennessee. Aside from getting out of Kentucky, he didn't have a plan. The asphalt was brand new and at times he felt as though he were floating across the highway. It took about two hours to get to the state line and once he was over, he filled up at a 76 Station in Clarksville, Tennessee. Only when he was filling his tank and had a moment to reflect, did he think about what was in the trunk. He imagined he had Superman's X-Ray vision and pictured the suitcase in the back, the boy's tiny body folded like a pretzel inside.
He missed both the readings, the Gospel, and the homily again. Then came the Consecration which was over before he knew it. It was time. He began to play "I Will Raise Him Up." In his rearview, he saw the communion lines forming and he thought he caught a glimpse of the new usher staring at him, but he couldn't be sure. He needed to concentrate on the song. People knew this one; people wanted to hear it exactly as they remembered it, and it was a full house, so the sustain pedal wouldn't save him this time.
Once he made it through the chorus, he knew he could relax a little.
The "DNA fingerprinting" in Pitchfork's case came from semen that was left inside of the victims.
Ned had made it to the outskirts of Nashville faster than he expected. He still hadn't checked in with Mr. Cory, the owner of the piano store. He desperately needed an alibi. Old Mr. Cory could probably send Ned to the electric chair if he wasn't careful.
He got on Highway 386 and headed north. After 20 minutes, he exited in Gallatin and drove around until he found an area he thought was remote. There was a road called Cages Bend.
He liked the sound of that.
It sounded hopeful.
He took that until he came to a gravel road, which looked as if it led to an even more secluded wooded area.
In the rearview, he remembered the cloud of dust kicked up by the tires of the Riviera he had inherited from his father, the drunk, who had done to him what he had gone on to do to others.
In the rearview, the communion lines were still going strong. No sign of that new usher.
He came upon a bend in the road that looked totally secluded, as if no one had been there in years. He cut the engine and listened for a moment. The invisible cicadas high up in the trees made it sound as if a giant rattle snake was slithering around him, preparing to strike. He got out of the car.
He didn't know if it was the trees or the fields of tall grass, but something smelled like semen.
He opened the trunk with his keys and pulled out the hardshell suitcase. When he closed the trunk there was a rustling in the tall grass but when he looked, he saw only a herd of white tail deer scattering.
Initially he had planned on dumping the body and taking the suitcase home with him. He didn't think to bring a shovel. Then he heard the sound of a bush hog—a piece of farm equipment with spinning blades that cut vegetation and cleared the land. He couldn't tell which direction it was coming from. He checked to make sure his suitcase didn't have any labels on it or name tags. He then two black trash bags in his back seat and wrapped the suitcase – one bag around the top, the other on the bottom, and secured it with masking tape. Then he carried it into the woods and set it down in some brush. He began snapping tree branches off to make cover but as the bush hog got louder and closer he panicked, leaving it only partially covered.
The communion lines had dissipated. Everyone was sitting now, even the priest.
Everyone always knelt until the priest sat and Ned should never be playing if the priest was sitting but somehow, Ned had missed his cue.
He concluded "I Will Raise Him Up" softly, using the sustain to ease himself out.
He looked in the rearview and saw the priest staring at him.
As was the rest of the congregation.
They would all be coming for him soon enough.
Unless he could make it back down to Tennessee and get rid of that thing once and for all – assuming it hadn’t been found yet.
Somehow, deep down, Ned always knew it was going to happen.
He was raised up, alright.
Now it was just a matter of time.

Bought a set of two chairs off Amazon, opened one and immediately realized that it's not right for our place. Immediately requested a return, printed the label, and went to the UPS store -- the guy told me the return would be $500 TO SHIP... WHAT? That's more than the entire purchase - I would get $$$ back for the return of the chairs once they received them but the $500 shipping cost would be a sunken cost - I've never experienced this before as usually everything is a very simple free return once you show them the printed label.
Has anyone else experienced this? What can I do? Should I check out other return methods (can I go to a USPS or diff mailing store, than UPS?) like Whole Foods or what not? Will calling Amazon help support do anything? Not super experienced at this so appreciate any and all advice yall may have ^thanks

I can't seem to find anything definitive in New Zealand regarding the legality of linking to another website without permission.
The open web seems to have a pretty clear policy of 'freedom of links' so if a page is publicly accessible then it is free to be linked to. But I want to know if this is actually legal in New Zealand?
Specific scenario: Website A has a project case study for a business that includes review of their competitors offerings. The case study links to each of the websites of the competitors that were reviewed so that the reader can see for themselves. Basically: "we reviewed the following plumbing companies [link list] and learned XYZ about the market".
Is this legal?

Disclaimer, this is in Haywood county. I read the rules and it seemed ok, but feel free to remove if not.
So a friend rents a lot in Haywood county, in the Clyde ETJ. He's rented the lot for years, but in recent years a company has moved in next door selling mulch and landscaping services. They have been consistently "expanding" their property by simply blowing mulch across the line, to the point they have almost totally blocked my friend's driveway.
He's brought it up to his landlord numerous times, and she has supposedly said something to the guy, but we don't know what or how stern she was. He took pictures this time and sent to her, and she said she was going to get to the bottom of it.
If she doesn't, is there any way for him to do something legally considering he doesn't own the property?
Edit: punctuation

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E runs via the F in both directions between 21 St-Queensbridge, Queens and 2 Av, Manhattan from May 28 - 31, Tue to Fri, 9:45 PM to 5:00 AM
No E service at Queens Plaza,‌ Court Sq-23 St, Lexington Av/53 St, 5 Av/53 St, 7 Av,‌ 50 St, 42 St-Port Authority, 34 St-Penn Station, 23 St, 14 St, Spring St, Canal St and World Trade Center.
Overnight free Q96 shuttle buses run between 21 St-Queensbridge and Court Sq-23 St, stopping at Queens Plaza.

• Transfer between E, F trains and Shuttle buses at 21 St-Queensbridge.

Travel Alternatives:

• For Queens Plaza, take the R until 10:45 PM or use the nearby Queensboro Plaza (7, N) station.
  
• For Court Sq-23 St, take the 7.
  
• For Lexington Av/53 St, use the nearby Lexington Av/59 St (N, R) station. Or, take the 4 local, 6 at 51 St* to connect with the 7 at Grand Central-42 St.
  
• For 5 Av/53 St, use nearby ‌F stations at 57 St or 47-50 Sts-Rockefeller Ctr.
  
• For 7 Av, take the D.
  
• For 50 St, 42 St-Port Authority, 34 St-Penn Station, 23 St and 14 St use nearby F stops along 6 Av, or take the A, C.
  

For 50 St, 42 St-Port Authority, 34 St-Penn Station, 23 St and 14 St, take the A, C or use nearby F stations along 6 Av.
*Uptown service only after 11:45 PM.
Transfer stations:

• Jackson Hts-Roosevelt Av/74 St-Broadway (7, E, F, R)
  
• 47-50 Sts-Rockefeller Ctr (D, F, E)
  
• Lexington Av/59 St (4, 6, N, R)
  
• 42 St-Port Authority/Times Sq/Bryant Pk (7, A, C, E, D, F, N, R)
  
• 34 St-Herald Sq (E, F, N, R)
  
• W 4 St-Wash Sq (A, C, E, F)
  

What's happening?
Structural maintenance

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I formed an LLC in California using Zen Business and opted for their Registered Agent service. My understanding was that the point of using a registered agent was to avoid using my home address for business correspondence.
However, when I attempted to form a DBA in Los Angeles, Zen Business informed me that I couldn't use their registered agent address for the DBA. Additionally, I found out that I can't use the registered agent address as the mailing address for my LLC either.
Is this typical of all registered agent services, or is this a limitation specific to Zen Business? My primary goal is to avoid having my home address receive mail for my SaaS business.
Thanks in advance for any insights or advice!