frankilin roosevelt

It's not about being liberal or conservative anymore y'all. That is a hype offered by the fascist whores who want to confuse the people with lies while they turn this country into an aristocratic police state. Some people will say anything to attain power and money. There is no such thing as the Liberal Media, but the Corporate media is very real.



Check out my old  Voice of the People page.


Gino Napoli
San Francisco, California
High School Math Teacher

jonsdarc@mindspring.com




Loyalty without truth
is a trail to tyranny.

a middle-aged
George Washington



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Wednesday, 12 December 2018 at 21h 36m 34s

Meanwhile

Life goes on ...


Tuesday, 11 December 2018 at 19h 40m 50s

Biographical Log

I am going to try to be more active on my blog. The literal meaning of "blog" is Biographical Log.

In other words, saying something interesting, expressing something real, sharing experiences and real world circumstances.

So today, I get a "refund" from CalStrs -- California State Teacher Retirement System -- because apparently it took more money away then was legal. So I got $83. Wow. I would rather sock away $83 into a fund that will enable me to retire at age 59 for $4200 a month before taxes. But some bumpkin proletariat out there was manipulated into filing a law suit, under the delusional notion that he/she was being screwed out of his/her money, and the state system lost under the semantic letter of the law.

Meanwhile the goons are storming the legislature and city councils crying foul because having a large pension insurance fund doesn't help the folks on Wall Street make money. Oh, but apparently the Free Market applies to managing money, and large pension funds inhibit the creativity of Wall Street. Really now. You mean how to creatively screw people out of money by slicing up millions of mortgages into meaningless financial entities that got rated triple A because the ratings agencies were paid very well to pretend and overlook the entire fraudulent scheme that crashed when AIG could no longer insure against the fragility of the market.

Fuck these people. They only care about sinking their teeth into other peoples money and dish out this free market nonsense as camouflage. A large pension fund is absolutely better for everyone in the system. It is also the most efficient way to manage money -- because the costs are minimized and the vagaries of the irrational market are spread out and sunk into an aggregate fund. Individual accounts are subject to individual fees, along with the whims and/or inexperience of those who manage such individual accounts, and their is ample historical evidence that only the financiers benefit.

Yea of course, some people can gain more than others, but so many others lose, you have to wonder why change a system that benefits everyone into something that might (at the very extreme best case scenario) only benefit a few at the expense of the many?

Answer: because the donor class funds the corrupted politicians to screw the middle class and they make sure their corrupted view is available in the media jungle, preying and trouncing upon the weak and ignorant.


Monday, 10 December 2018 at 20h 48m 5s

This is from Australia : part one



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XwvjkJXaIJE


Sunday, 9 December 2018 at 12h 5m 12s

Here is an interview with Dr. Ken Berry



Dr. Ken Berry explains how he came to his current understanding as a progression from when he was in medical school. He wrote a book called "Lies my Doctor Told Me" that breaks down about 17 or so various myths that have no data or science backing the claims, and more usually have credible science absolutely refuting them.

I bought the book and read it. Dr. Berry gave links to sources at the end of every chapter.


Sunday, 9 December 2018 at 11h 42m 3s

Is Diet related to joint pain and arthritis?



Good quote at the 1:50 mark:

Your body is not like a car. The more you drive your body it doesn't wear out.... The human body, the joints, are constantly repairing and renewing. If you are feeding your body the correct diet and you are using your joints appropriately .... So do not believe the wear and tear myth ... the myth is pushed by doctors, especially doctors who get paid well by chopping out joints and putting in new artificial joints.

Interesting perspective. Given that artificial hip replacements are a modern phenomenon that is escalating, you have to wonder if this is in trend with the other escalating metabolic syndrome diseases (Heart Disease, Type 2 Diabetes, Cancer, Alzheimer's, Obesity, etc...).


Friday, 7 December 2018 at 22h 2m 1s

DC corruption by co-optation




Wednesday, 5 December 2018 at 22h 47m 36s

AOC rocks




Wednesday, 5 December 2018 at 20h 8m 16s

The first chapter

For those of y'all who don't know, I am a writer. Which is why I have a blog I suppose.

Some people see me as a Math Teacher, but I see myself as an artist and writer who teaches Math to make ends meet. My mother was numerical and literary. My father was literary. Both of them read prolifically, but it was my mom who was good with numbers and she passed this onto me.

However, my passion is to create. I love to create songs and music. I also love to write poems, short stories, and work on novels. Currently I already have 2 novels finished. The first one is a mess. The second one is finished, but I am insecure about it, and have been editing it for 2 years now.

The third one has just started. And let me say that I am so excited about this one that I am fortunate the ceiling is 12 feet high in my apartment because I jump for joy and reach 10.5 feet.

Here is the first chapter.

He found himself waking up concomitantly with the Eastern sun rising over the East Bay mountains, shining bright and brilliant, bouncing blinding scintillating rays of sunshine onto the windows of tall San Francisco buildings that faced eastward. In the cove off of Townsend Street where Jack Sweeney slept for the night, the sun's rays glanced off the window by his feet and bounced directly to his eyes. Bundled in a 3 year old haggard sleeping bag he bought at the Goodwill store on Haight and Cole, Jack Sweeney begrudgingly reconsidered his two options : continuing his slumber, or becoming functionally conscious. A scruffy large knapsack wedged between his back and the glass door of a Nail Salon that had not yet called the cops on him for regularly sleeping there overnight. It also helped to avoid the brisk cold night air which sweep over San Francisco on a regular basis.

Jack had become homeless 3 years ago for some really fucked up bullshit — although honestly, Jack currently drank alcohol everyday and was making no effort to change or evolve his current circumstances. He also gladly smoked marijuana whenever he got the chance. Thus it was really easy to condemn him for being an absolute fuck up just because he sleeps outside and has no official address attached to a building or home. People often judge others based upon their own moral rectitudes because they secretly fear they themselves are not living up to their own standards. Hence it is easier to condemn someone else or those who are obviously derelict, rather than correct oneself according to one’s own virtues.

The first thing Jack does every day — after waking up with the sun in his eyes and the concrete on his back — the very first thing Jack Archibald Sweeney does, is breathe. Then he reaches over, grabs the nearby pack of cigarettes and sparks up the first of what will probably be 28 to 35 cigarettes a day. He used to roll his own, but nowadays the pre-rolled cheap cigarettes were so much more affordable, even for a 62 year old cagey Vietnam Vet living off of both a small government pension and a large inheritance fund from his wealthy grand-father who was one of the original automakers in Detroit that sold out to General Motors when the consolidation phase of the industry occurred before 1970. Investing the proceeds in various stock and bond portfolio’s, Jack Sweeney found himself with 1.2 something million dollars worth of interest-bearing investments at the age of 51. How he became homeless 11 years later was a mystery to everyone else but Jack, who would gladly tell anyone his story, except no one ever asked, and most people he encountered were loath to say anything to what they perceived as a rotting human carcass wearing filthy garments and reeking of tobacco.

Born to a middle class family of two hospital workers, Jack grew up in a modest home near 23rd Street and Capp in the Mission district of San Francisco with his sister Susanne, who was 3 years younger. His father was a radiation specialist. His mother was a nurse for a cardiology team. Due to the nature of hospital schedules, they were rarely home at the same time. As a result Jack spent more time with his sister than he ever did with both his mom and dad. This was during the sixties in San Francisco, which was one of the places out in the Western United States where the restive youth of the United States decided to go after uprooting from stale rigid local social environments, those states East of the Rocky Mountains, most going to California — but also to places in Oregon and Washington State — in order to achieve and attain what they felt was freedom.

At age of 51 Jack was suddenly a millionaire. He decided to retire after 25 years working with the Coast Guard. This was right before the first dot-com crash in 1999. Jack had diversified his funds wisely, but a size-able portion was also in future valuations of tech stocks that all were bust after 2001. His wife divorced him in 2002. It was a childless marriage, but not any less emotionally destructive. They had met during an event the Coast Guard would hold on July 4th near Crissy Fields. She was a secretary in the office at Fort Mason at the time. They started dating and were married within 11 months. 11 years later the contract was broken and he had to yield half of his estate.

Was it jealousy because he was no longer working 35 plus hours a week like his wife? Did the romance die and the willingness to co-exist wither on the aged vines of what was once a sweet nectar? Jacqueline did seem to grow more aggravated and distanced over the last few months before she asked for a divorce and left the apartment they both shared in the Mission district.

“Look Jackie, I wouldn’t consider being a curator of that lovely posh gallery on Jackson the same thing as jumping into the water and swimming out to rescue someone,” which he knew would be stirring up the beehive, but he couldn't help himself

“You could come visit me more often,” was all Jacqueline responded.

That was the pivot point, the one most people never understand in the moment, the beginning of the downward slide to where he was now, the moment before his out of state corporate landlord priced him out of his apartment on Valencia and 18th by deciding to increase his rent by 350 percent.

The inaugural moment of conversation with his ex-wife Jackie he now remembered as he leaned against the cold window with the Eastern sun becoming brighter and more confident. After that moment there would be no chance that their marriage would last. The bickering became incessant. They both projected their wounded sense of failed expectations upon the other person. Within 6 months they mutually dissolved the contract, with thankfully no rancor and minimal drama. At times, when Jack was briefly honest with himself, he would acknowledge his own inability to have relationships that were not condescending or held at arms length, but this wasn’t one of those moments. Instead, his emotions blundered across the miasmic consciousness of his roused existence, sloshing with the unrelenting bi-products of the alcohol from a plastic container that he had imbibed before passing out not long after midnight.

He would have to move in a few minutes. The air of the city was cold and moist, swirling around the caverns and valleys made by the skyscrapers and tall building on the North-east side of the city by the bay. Since it was Tuesday, early risers began to walk on their way to work, one of the many different offices or building from where Montgomery Street meets Columbus Avenue in North Beach, South across Market Street to Harrison and 6th Street in an area that is called the SOMA (SOuth of MArket) -- just like SOHO means SOuth of HOuston in Manhattan, New York City. Cars barreled down streets towards daily destinations where they would park and coexist within work relationships analyzing numbers or managing cyber-based internet products for 9 or more hours. Stops and pauses in the routine would necessitate coffee, bagels, salads, soups, sandwiches, and/or pastries; otherwise the routines were very firm and deterministic, going from the same place to the same place, while never looking at the differences or being in the moment because the destination was never in the moment.

Sometimes Jack liked to set up over by the ferry building with a can beside his feet while he scribed poetry. “Poetry for a dollar” was the sign he would use, made by a black marker on a rectangular piece of cardboard that he leaned up against a bench, a wall, or a pole. Most people just dropped a few coins or a dollar in the can, never really caring about the poetry that might be experienced for their payment. Jack didn't really need the money, but it was cool sometimes to be able to pay for his coffee and a sandwich at the nearby Subway without having to tap into his own funds.

After the vultures jacked his rent up, Jack moved his precious possessions to a 10 by 8 foot storage area in South San Francisco. It cost him $225 a month. He could take a bus from Market that would drop him off two blocks from the building. For a period of time, sometimes he could stay overnight, especially on nights when a female black manager named Esther worked, sleeping on the sofa he kept in the storage area unit. Esther would ignore the fact that he was sleeping on the sofa during her 11pm rounds of the establishment before she left at midnight. Jack would usually leave right after or before the storage unit opened at 7 am. There was a back door that was not hooked up to the alarm system, so when Jack would leave at 5:30 am, no one ever saw or knew that he had spent the night in the storage unit. Except Esther.

When Esther changed jobs after a few months, Jack had no idea that the new employee,Cedric Myers, would call the cops when he found a man sleeping on the sofa in a storage unit. He discovered this ruefully when two police roused him from his slumber, handcuffing a 60 something year old man, putting him in the back of a police car, and processing him at the South San Francisco police station. Fortunately the charge of trespassing was dropped down to a misdemeanor, which did not require a court case or a lawyer. He was let go on his own recognizance after 6 hours, having to pay a $345 fine.

No longer able to sleep in the storage unit, Jack just let it all go to smithereens.

Fuck it, I don't need that shit anyway.

He stopped paying the monthly fee. The storage company eventually sold the contents at an auction, after the third month of non-payment and three letters to a P.O. Box that Jack made up when he initially wrote out the storage unit contract. The business never checked the veracity of the address. As long as the monthly check arrived, the relevance of the contractual information never mattered.



Monday, 3 December 2018 at 22h 57m 20s

Thinking Big

I love this woman. The USA can lead the way.



Fuck yea. You go girl.

Bernie and Van Jones at the same conference. Wow. This is the shit y'all.


Sunday, 2 December 2018 at 13h 21m 47s

The Brave New World of Global Climate Change

This is a video of a conference that discusses the self-destructive environmental path that is currently agreed upon by all honest scientists.



The ending quote: @ 17:12 or so...


"If you don't care about this, what do you care about, this is as big a deal as it gets, ... this is life on Earth, right? That's what's at stake here"




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