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Guerrilla Public Service Can Make the World a Better Place

Regular people are taking it upon themselves to make fixes and repairs around their cities, from cutting back overgrowth to filling in potholes.

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The next time you walk through your neighborhood, observe your surroundings. At a glance, everything might appear in tip-top shape. But look closer and you may see that things are, well, falling apart. See the pothole in the street? That overgrown bush? The missing slats on those park benches?

Sure, the city might fix them…someday. But every once in a while, an anonymous hero comes along and does the work themselves. For those living in Cambridge, England, that work is likely accomplished by one do-gooder in particular: the Guerrilla Groundsman.

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I Was Talking With a Ghost

What’s it like hunting for spirits in a 134-year-old Victorian house.

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It’s almost 10 p.m. on a Saturday night and I’m sitting in pitch-black darkness inside a Victorian house in East Oakland. There’re about 15 other people here — each of whom paid the $50-$75 ticket price for tonight’s five-hour event — and we’re all sitting on the floor, waiting with bated breath as our guide, a flaxen-haired medium from Colorado named Chris Moon, makes his first attempt of the night to communicate with the dead.

“We’re not here to disrespect you in any way,” Moon says aloud, in a calm, even voice. “We’d like to speak to you, not speak at you. The reason we are here is to learn more about you, to help you in any way, and to have a conversation with you. Would you like to speak us tonight?”


The voice that answers Moon is thick and raspy, and it doesn’t belong to any of the people in the room.

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Why Would You Fake Having Cancer?

A lymphoma survivor investigates disease scamming — a growing trend of faking health tragedies to rake in donations.

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Most people didn’t know that I had cancer. They didn’t know why I stopped going to school or why I was suddenly absent from basketball practices and Bat Mitzvah classes. I was 11 years old and the last thing I wanted was to be seen as sick. I felt gross for having a tumor in my neck and weird for having a prominent medical device the size of a water bottle cap embedded beneath my left collarbone.

I was especially keen on remaining hidden during my year-long treatment. I didn’t want people — even strangers — to see me bald, bloated, and 20 pounds heavier. To conceal my scalp, I wore bandanas from the Gap, and later, when I returned to school, donned a shoulder-length brown human hair wig purchased at a hospital gift shop. To this day, I have only one picture of myself from when I had cancer. All other evidence of having been sick has since been erased.

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How To Find Out If Someone Died In Your House

That information is not always disclosed to buyers and renters. Fortunately, there’s a website that can give you answers.

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In Los Angeles, there’s a 3-bedroom, 3-bath single-family home at the end of a cul-de-sac that’s currently empty and waiting to be rented. It’s got hardwood floors, exposed beams on the ceiling, a brick patio, and a hillside view of the city below. It can be yours for only $9,595 a month.

But there’s a catch: In September someone died in the house. That’s why it’s currently on the market.

The person who breathed their last breath there was the 26-year-old rapper Mac Miller, who had been renting the property before overdosing on Sept. 7.

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I Got a Yoni Massage For Journalism

The tantric healing modality is supposed to release tension through your vagina. But it was more like getting finger-banged by a stranger.

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It was the middle of the day on a Monday and I was lying on my bed topless, wearing only black undies.

A man who was not my boyfriend, whom I had met for the first time a mere hour ago, was seated between my legs. Save for a pair of boxer briefs, he, too, was practically naked. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths while his coconut oil-coated hands fluttered down the length of my body, from my breasts to my abdomen to my crotch. He flirted with my panty line, inserting his fingers ever so slightly underneath the elastic, kneading the space where my thighs and groin meet.

It was a pleasurable feeling, albeit a foreign one. Though I’ve had massages in the past, I’d never had one like this. Except for during sex or at the gynecologist’s office, I’d never felt another person’s hands wander so intimately around my vagina — or as they say in tantra, my “yoni.”

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The Rise and Fall of Snortable Chocolate

Coco Loko was poised to become the next fad, but then the FDA intervened and it’s since disappeared from the internet.

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When Legal Lean started selling a snortable chocolate called Coco Loko in 2017, it made sense.

The three-year-old Orlando, Fla., company was already turning a profit selling a fake version of one illicit substance: lean, a cough-syrup-soda-mixture popular in the hip-hop world and prized for its calming and relaxing abilities. So why not add another?

It wouldn’t be hard to do.

Legal Lean founder Nick Anderson knew he could use the same distributors he was already working with and target the same consumers if he put out a new product. What’s more, Coco Loko could help the company expand by appealing to a new demographic that liked taking uppers and ingesting things through their nose.

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Would You Do It In a Truck?

Because you can, thanks to this Californian art project on wheels.

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Back in my younger, wilder days, when I still lived with my parents, hooking up was a challenge. Since I couldn’t invite members of the opposite sex over to my house, I had to get creative, which meant doing it in my car. Anyone who has ever tried this knows that it’s not only cramped and squishy, but risky, too. Finding a place where you can park and bone is no easy task, and there’s always the chance that you’ll get caught. Fortunately, the worst that ever happened to me was when a resident of the Hollywood Hills neighborhood I was parked in knocked on my window and sternly told me and my partner to “leave and never come back.” If only there had been a Hook-Up Truck for us to use back then!

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Going to a Witch Dance on Halloween

How a sect of politically active, feminist neopagans try to make the world a better place, one night a year.

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The setting was incongruous.

They were in a midcentury auditorium in Richmond, California, with wooden flip-up seats and the faded lines of an old basketball court still visible on the floor. Over the last six decades, thousands of students had walked across the auditorium’s stage to retrieve diplomas. Eulogies memorializing slain cops had been delivered at its podium, and countless teeth and plenty of bets had been lost during boxing matches held there.

But on that night, there was something different going on in that room. On that night — three days before Halloween in 2017 — a sect of witches known as Reclaimers were throwing a party. They were celebrating Samhain, the witches’ New Year.

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Teach Kids How to Play Classical Music & They Might Become Tiny Geniuses

San Francisco’s Little Stars Trio is hard-working, insanely talented, and still in grade school.

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On weekend mornings, while most kids are sleeping in or watching cartoons, the Breshears siblings are often busy performing impeccable renditions of classical music in a downtown San Francisco subway station.

Collectively known as the Little Stars Trio, they usually arrive at BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) around 9 a.m., ferried there by their father, Dustin, who is also their manager. In their monotone frippery and finery, the Breshears — Dustin Jr., 11; Starla, 10; and Valery, 9 — stick out like sore thumbs in contrast with their grimy, bird-shit-stained environment. (Click here to read more)