Guru z3n8 is an Epic Ethical Art Hacker ::: This.. ladies & gentle freaks is -> FUCKTALK, on Ha.ck.er N3ws: Ask HN: Has anyone replaced Claude/GPT with a local model for daily coding?
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Guru z3n8 is an Epic Ethical Art Hacker ::: This.. ladies & gentle freaks is -> FUCKTALK, on Ha.ck.er N3ws: TinyWind: A pixel pirate sailing game with real wind physics (380k+ kms sailed) https://tinywind.io
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Before he signed the $1.7 billion sale, he added one condition nobody required him to add—and 540 people woke up the next morning with their mortgages paid off. Minden, Louisiana, 2025. Graham Walker had spent his career building what his family had started—Fibrebond, a manufacturer of modular utility structures that had grown, quietly and methodically, into something worth $1.7 billion. A global power management company wanted to buy it. Walker was ready to sell. But before he signed anything, he told his lawyers he had one condition. Fifteen percent of the proceeds—approximately $240 million—would be distributed among the 540 people who worked there. Not the executives. Not the shareholders. The workers. The people who ran the equipment, managed the production floor, showed up every day for years and decades and built something they didn't own. They had no equity. No legal claim. No contractual right to a single dollar of the sale price. Walker gave them $240 million anyway. The average payout was $443,000 per employee. Longer-serving workers received more. To understand why, you have to go back to 1998. That year, a fire tore through Fibrebond's operations. Devastating. The kind of setback that gives business owners legal and financial justification to cut staff, reduce costs, protect the balance sheet. The Walker family kept paying salaries. They absorbed the loss themselves. Every worker who showed up the next week still had a job and a paycheck. Then the dot-com crash squeezed the industry. More pressure. More justification to cut. The Walker family kept paying salaries. The workers noticed. You notice when the people who could let you go choose not to. You notice when a company absorbs financial pain rather than passing it to the people least able to afford it. The workers stayed. They worked. They helped Fibrebond recover from the fire and the crash and every difficult year between then and the $1.7 billion sale. Walker hadn't forgotten any of it. When the moment came—when he was sitting across from lawyers and accountants and the representatives of a global corporation ready to write an enormous check—he knew what he was going to do. The people in that building hadn't just worked for Fibrebond. They had built Fibrebond. Every structure the company had ever shipped, every contract it had ever fulfilled, every crisis it had ever survived had their hands on it. When the hard years came, they stayed. When the good years finally arrived, they deserved to be there for those too. No law required the distribution. No contract demanded it. No shareholder vote compelled it. No outside pressure was applied. One person made a decision. And 540 families had their lives changed overnight. Mortgages paid off. Retirements moved forward by years or decades. First-time family vacations. Children's college funds secured. The specific financial fears that had defined people's daily lives—the calculations about whether there was enough, whether there would be enough—simply gone. One employee, interviewed after learning about the payout, said she sat in her car and cried before she could drive home. She'd worked at Fibrebond for over twenty years. She never expected this. None of them did. That's the thing about what Graham Walker did that separates it from gestures and makes it something more: it was genuinely surprising. The workers had no reason to expect a share of the sale. They weren't owed it in any formal sense. They had already been paid—for years, reliably, including through the years when paying them cost the owners real sacrifice. Walker didn't owe them this. He gave it anyway. Because he understood something that gets lost in the language of business and transactions and shareholder value: The people who stay with you through the fire—literally, in this case—are the reason there's anything left to sell. You don't build a $1.7 billion company alone. Graham Walker made sure everyone knew he understood that. $240 million dollars said. In Minden, Louisiana, 540 people went to work one morning as employees. They went home that evening as people whose lives had permanently changed. Because the man who could have kept all of it decided he didn't want to.
I having a lot of strange outcomes finding a lot of my clients for cleaning are from the same church(network) I had the sex scandal in with a weirdo (united) I am finding I am better off just bowing out then having to deal with what they laid out for me lol just a lot of strange grammy and grampies network of old spies oh well
Bruce Johnson was 57 years old. He’d lived with severe mental health challenges since he was 10 years old. 10. For nearly 5 decades he navigated a world that isn’t built for people like him. For almost 30 years he received AISH which is Alberta's disability support program and with it, he survived. Survived. Not thrived. Survived. AISH paid $1,940 a month. Statistics Canada's poverty line for a single person in a city like Calgary or Edmonton sits above $2,200 a month. That means the maximum disability payment in the province (the ceiling, not the floor) leaves recipients living below the poverty line. Bruce Johnson was not living comfortably. He was clinging to the edge. Then the Alberta government sent him a letter. Beginning July 1, he’d be moved from AISH to a new program called the Alberta Disability Assistance Program, or ADAP. His monthly support would drop by $200, to $1,740. And he might be required to participate in employment programs and job searches, or risk losing support entirely. No increase for cost of living, instead the exact opposite. So he was a man who’d struggled with mental illness since childhood. A man who’d already tried employment and knew his limits. A man already living below the poverty line who was now told he would receive less, and be expected to do more to keep it. Bruce Johnson wrote back. To the government, to media, to advocates. He tried reaching out to anyone who might care enough to listen. "The Alberta Government kicked me in the teeth with the introduction of ADAP," he wrote. "Just something that has finally pushed me to end everything." On June 8, RCMP responded to a fatal fire at a home in the Village of Empress. It was Bruce Johnson's home. The government's response was a press release. In it, Minister Nathan Neudorf expressed his condolences. He declined an on-camera interview. His statement didn’t acknowledge any connection between Bruce Johnson's death and the policy changes that Bruce Johnson himself named as the reason he could not go on. Premier Smith was conveniently unavailable. Her office referred media to the Ministry A man who was desperate wrote to his government. He told them exactly what their policy was doing to him. And when he was gone, they hid behind a spokesperson and called it a tragedy as if tragedies just happen, as if no one in power made the decisions that led here. Now look at the latest example of where this government chooses to spend. On October 19, 2026, Alberta will hold a referendum. Administering this referendum is projected to cost taxpayers up to $100mm. And yet there is $200 less a month for Bruce Johnson and others in his same situation. This isn’t a budget miscalculation. This isn’t a tragic oversight. This is a choice. It’s a deliberate declaration of who matters and who does not. He isn’t alone. Larysa Armstrong, a Calgary woman about to transition to ADAP, says her household will lose approximately $460 a month as of August. She said: "There are a lot of people who are afraid. This person who passed isn't alone. There are other people who are in despair just like him." Elaine Lee, another Calgary recipient: "That's actually how I feel. Like a dead end." When pressed about community consultations, recipients say simply: "Nobody asked us. Nobody asked for the change." The government claims it consulted the disability community. It cannot or will not say with who. We are not bystanders. We are concerned citizens. I’m writing this because Bruce Johnson had a voice and he used it, and no one in power listened. The people who will be hurt by this transition on July 1 are people who are already exhausted from fighting to be seen. They shouldn’t have to fight alone. We can be bystanders. We can scroll past this, feel briefly sad, and go about our day. Or we can be engaged citizens and people who understand that a government's budget is a moral document, and that silence in the face of injustice is its own kind of moral answer. The ADAP transition is weeks away. There’s still time. Please. Call your MLA. Write to Minister Nathan Neudorf at the Ministry of Assisted Living and Social Services. Write to the Premier. Tell them you know what Bruce Johnson wrote. Tell them you are watching. Tell them that a government willing to spend $100 million on a separatist referendum while cutting disability supports below the poverty line does not get to call itself a government that protects its people. Hell start a petition - because they clearly listen to those. Bruce Johnson told them. They chose not to listen. Now it is our turn to speak for others who can’t and, worse, are not heard when they do. And this time, don’t stop until someone listens. - Arlene If you or someone you know is struggling please call or text 988
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Martín Ramírez was 36 when they locked him up. 1931. California. He had been picked up off the streets the day before. Homeless. Hungry. Confused. He spoke no English. Couldn't tell the doctors his name. Couldn't tell them where he was from. He just kept repeating one sentence in Spanish. "Me no loco. Me no loco." I am not crazy. I am not crazy. There was no translator. No investigation. No family to call. The doctors wrote: catatonic schizophrenic. He was committed to Stockton State Hospital. He would die there 32 years later. Without ever speaking English. Without ever going home. Here's how he got there. 1895. Rincón de Velázquez. A village in Jalisco, Mexico. Martín was born to a Catholic farming family. Poor. Rural. No school. He grew up watching gauchos ride the hills. Trains cross the valleys. Saints painted on church walls. By his twenties he had a small ranch. Some cattle. Some land. In 1918 he married a woman named María Santa Ana Navarro. They had three children. She was pregnant with a fourth when his world fell apart. The Mexican Revolution had bled the country dry. Then came the Cristero War. Catholics versus an anti-Church government. Soldiers burned villages. Took land. Killed priests. Martín lost his ranch. Lost everything. 1925. He kissed his pregnant wife goodbye. Took a train north. He was 30 years old. He never came back. He found work on the California railroads. Laying track in the desert. Hauling rock. Sleeping in labor camps. He couldn't speak English. Couldn't read English. Had no one to teach him. For five years he worked. Sent money home when he could. 1929. The stock market crashed. The Great Depression hit Mexican immigrants first and worst. The US deported hundreds of thousands. The ones who stayed lost everything. Martín lost his job. Couldn't find another. By 1931 he was sleeping on the streets of Northern California. Homeless. Cold. Confused. Speaking a language no one around him understood. Then the police picked him up. Once committed, leaving was nearly impossible. The diagnosis followed him forever. He had no lawyer. No advocate. No family who could come. He stopped speaking. The hospital labeled him "chronic mute." He cut off contact with Mexico. The letters home stopped. His wife thought he had abandoned them. His children grew up without a father. He grew old behind the asylum walls. Sometime in the 1930s he started to draw. He had no supplies. No paper. No paints. So he made his own. He saved everything he could find. Paper bags. Used envelopes. Postcards. Pages from books. Sheets torn off examining tables. He glued them together with potato starch from his meals, mixed with his own saliva. For paint, he chewed colored newsprint into pulp. Mixed it with mashed potatoes from his lunch. For color, crayon stubs and pencils he found in the day room. He drew the same things over and over. Mexican gauchos on horseback. Madonnas with raised hands. Trains entering long dark tunnels. The trains were huge. Dozens of cars long. Always going through tunnels. He had built tracks he would never ride. The trains in his drawings always made it through. The staff didn't know what to make of him. Most thought he was just another patient making strange marks. One nurse said later: "Many of his paintings ended in the garbage cans. None of us saw the value. It was a TB ward. He used a lot of sputum in his paintings." Most of his work was thrown out. In 1948 they moved him to DeWitt State Hospital in Auburn. Put him in the tuberculosis ward. A visiting psychology professor named Tarmo Pasto walked through one day. He saw one of Martín's drawings on the wall. He stopped. Pasto studied art made by mental patients. He recognized something nobody else had. He started collecting Martín's drawings. Brought him better paper. Crayons. Pencils. For the next 15 years, Pasto saved everything Martín made. In 1952 Pasto organized a small show at the Crocker Gallery in Sacramento. The drawings were labeled as the work of an anonymous schizophrenic patient. Not an artist. Not Martín Ramírez of Jalisco. A patient. In 1955 Pasto sent 10 drawings to the Guggenheim Museum in New York. The Guggenheim accepted them. The man who made them was still in a TB ward in California, mixing oatmeal with chewed paper to make new colors. Martín Ramírez died on February 17, 1963. Tuberculosis. The disease that filled the ward where he had drawn for 15 years. He was 68. He had been locked up for 32 years. He had never seen Mexico again. Never seen his wife again. Never met his fourth child. Buried in California. Unmarked grave. His wife died in Mexico a few years later. She never knew what had happened to him. Ten years after his death, two Chicago artists named Jim Nutt and Gladys Nilsson came across his work. They were stunned. Took the drawings to a New York gallery. 1973. First major show. With his actual name on the wall. The art world finally saw what they had. The prices climbed. 2007. American Folk Art Museum in New York. Major retrospective. Broke attendance records. 2008. US Postal Service released five commemorative stamps with his drawings on them. Only one other Mexican artist had ever been honored that way. Frida Kahlo. By the 2010s, individual drawings were selling for half a million dollars each. His grandchildren in Mexico eventually learned what had happened. He had been dead almost 50 years before his own family knew his name. Martín Ramírez. Born 1895. Died 1963. Mexican rancher. Husband. Father. Railroad worker. Patient. Painter. Drew with chewed paper and mashed potatoes on salvaged paper bags. Now in the Guggenheim. The Smithsonian. The Met. The Museum of Modern Art. Face on a US postage stamp. His crime? Being poor, brown, and unable to speak English in a country that wouldn't listen in Spanish. His legacy? Some of the most important art of the 20th century. And every drawing that ever made it out of the garbage. #MartínRamírez #OutsiderArt #MexicanArt #ForgottenStories ~Forgotten Stories
🍁 🍁🍁🍁🍁 Monsanto wanted its growth hormone in every glass of Canadian milk. One government scientist stood in the way and his own bosses spent 14 years trying to destroy him for it. His name was Dr. Shiv Chopra. Born in India, 1934. Came to Canada in the 1960s. PhD in microbiology. Senior scientist at Health Canada's Bureau of Veterinary Drugs. 35 years reviewing drug applications. Approve the safe ones. Reject the unsafe ones. Protect the public. For 20 years he did it quietly. Then Monsanto came knocking. A new drug. Bovine growth hormone. Brand name Posilac. Inject it into dairy cows, get 10-15% more milk. Bigger profits for the industry. Far bigger profits for Monsanto. The FDA had rubber-stamped it in 1993. Monsanto expected Canada to follow. The file landed on Chopra's desk. He started reading the science. He started finding holes. The data was thin. Long-term safety studies were missing. The cow studies that did exist showed lameness, mastitis, reproductive failure, shortened lifespans. If it was doing that to the cow, what was it doing to the milk? His recommendation: reject it. Demand real safety data. His managers had a different idea. Approve it. The Americans approved it. Why are you holding it up? Just sign off. He refused. So the pressure started. Closed-door meetings. Attempts to pull the file and hand it to someone friendlier. Gag orders don't talk to the media, don't talk to anyone. Suspensions. Reprimands. Demotions. Dead-end reassignments. He kept refusing. Two other scientists refused with him. Dr. Margaret Haydon. Dr. Gérard Lambert. Same data. Same alarm. Same answer. In 1998 the Canadian Senate launched an investigation into what was happening inside Health Canada. Chopra and his colleagues did something almost nobody does. They walked into the Senate and testified under oath. Said managers were pressuring them to approve unsafe drugs. Said industry was running the regulator. Said the system was broken. It made headlines around the world. In 1999, Health Canada rejected Monsanto's application. rBGH would not be approved. Europe banned it next. Then most of the developed world. Sit with that. One immigrant scientist in Ottawa beat one of the largest chemical corporations on Earth — and won. Then his own government fired him for winning. July 14, 2004. After 35 years of service, Health Canada fired Chopra, Haydon, and Lambert on the same day. Official reason: insubordination. Real reason: he embarrassed them in front of the country. The same year, the Prime Minister mailed him a gold watch for "illustrious service." While they were firing him. He called it comedy. He sued to clear his name. The fight took 13 years. He lost appeal after appeal. The final ruling came down in 2017. Three months later, in January 2018, he died. 83 years old. Never reinstated. Never given his pension back. Never owed an apology by anyone. But here is what they could never take back. rBGH is still banned in Canada today. Every glass of Canadian milk is still hormone-free — because one man refused to sign. And the United States? Never banned it. It's still legal there. Right now. He kept it out of Canada and they fired him. The system he fought is still pouring it into glasses across the border. So tell me below was Shiv Chopra a hero, or just a troublemaker who got what was coming to him? Pick a side. Because someone in those meetings is still telling scientists to "just sign off."
Guru z3n8 is an Epic Ethical Art Hacker ::: This.. ladies & gentle freaks is -> FUCKTALK, on Ha.ck.er N3ws: There is a shadow hanging over this Fable thing https://ift.tt/PnajNKS
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