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A friend of mine received an e-mail from Global Associated News reporting the death of Jeff Goldblum.  She forwarded it on to others, including a reporter, without realizing the story originated at FakeAWish.com. 
I 've begun to look at the world through apocalypse eyes. When the shit hits the fan, you're going to want to find me and be doing whatever I'm doing.
At this point in American history, the interests of the few have vastly outstripped not only those of the many, but those of the common good. There is an imbalance, and it is going to be corrected.
The Cold War lasted so long because the opposing superpowers were evenly matched. Now that the US has no superpower competitor, could this spell the demise of America?
Osho had the reputation of "sex ashram." Not that I had anything against sex, but I wanted to go somewhere to heal from relationship wounds. Men on the make, I feared, would simply rip up the scabs.
To date, the green movement has focused on the external world of objects and resources. But what about the internal landscape of consumption – the subtleties of our state of mind as we attempt to change our patterns?
Barbara Marx Hubbard asks us to channel instincts of procreation into that of Earth-sustaining "co-creation."
During meditation, I activate a pattern of acupuncture points on my back and ask for "The Wingmaker Frequency." Then an astonishing thing happened: Wings sprouted from my back, I shit you not. Have homo sapiens reached the next phase of our evolution?
Dick Cheney has always believed that the President should have unchecked power. It appears he may have gotten his wish.
What happened on the playa that Monday night? There you are, in a fireman's coat, hurling through the wee hours across a parched and dusty lakebed in a 1979 American LaFrance fire truck. Above you the rare shadow of the earth has morphed the full moon into a dusky half-burnt clementine that hangs there pendulous like some wandering orb on the cover of a 70s SF paperback. "Baby's on Fire" is spewing out of the iPod, and Fripp's incandescent solo mixes with Burning Man's surrounding soundscape of engines, explosions, house beats, and the rising cries of gesticulating passersby who have-wait a sec-just realized that the iconic 40-foot-tall trademark that centers their entire week of organized revelry is prematurely aflame.

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