BF2S Forums Toys ‘R’ Us uses H1B Foreign Workers to U.S. to Move Jobs Overseas

SuperJail Warden wrote:

The dominant influence of Chinese investors in Vancouver has finally been proven with comprehensive data.

In a recent six-month period about 70 per cent of all detached homes sold on Vancouver’s west side were purchased by Mainland China buyers, an academic case study shows.

Even more stunning, the study shows that of all self-declared occupations among owners — on homes worth an average $3.05 million — 36 per cent were housewives or students with little income.

And 18 per cent of the 172 homes purchased were not mortgaged by banks. That means roughly $100 million in questionable cash was poured into Vancouver’s west side from August 2014 to February 2015, much of it from China. Total value of all homes sold in the study period was $525 million.

David Eby, the NDP MLA for Vancouver-Point Grey, told The Vancouver Province he helped city planner and researcher Andy Yan undertake the B.C. land-title study because many of his Vancouver west side constituents have complained about hollowed-out neighbourhoods, absentee investors, property flipping, and suspicions of money laundering and unfair tax avoidance.

http://news.nationalpost.com/news/canad … ina-buyers

Can't buy a house in your hometown because Chinese are driving up the property values with their slave labor money. They are doing this in every major city in the western world. When is it going to stop? Do people have to start getting killed before anyone will take a look at this?

WITH depressing regularity, I hear about closings in the East Village of my childhood — the Odessa bar, De Robertis pastry shop, St. Marks Sounds. When my parents moved onto the neighborhood’s main street, St. Marks Place, in 1973, their rent was $225 a month. Today, the same apartment would most likely be $5,000. People who remember the good old days often say that today’s real estate prices mean that boho corners of New York like the East Village are finally — really and truly — dead. How can music, art or beauty survive when the only entity that can afford a corner lot is Chase Bank, and when young artists have to live five to an apartment on the Morgan stop of the L train? Just give up on New York, people like Patti Smith advise young artists, and move to Detroit.

I can sympathize. But I think there’s more to these “the city is dead now” complaints than money. People have pronounced St. Marks Place dead many times over the past centuries — when it became poor, and then again when it became rich, and then again when it returned to being poor, and so on. My theory is that the neighborhood hasn’t stopped being cool because it’s too expensive now; it stops being cool for each generation the second we stop feeling cool there. Any claim to objectivity is clouded by one’s former glory.

I know this well. As a teenage girl in the 1990s East Village, every door was open to me and my friends. There was no party we could not crash, no person we could not make out with and no intoxicant we would not be offered. The city was ours. In the pre-Giuliani era, a fellow East Village woman reminds me, “You could still piss on the street.” Having been a teenager in the East Village is like having been president. Whatever else you do, you can’t stop thinking about how you no longer run the world.

When I asked nostalgic people to name the street’s golden era, they cited a range of years — often falling between 1960 and 1982, but sometimes 1945, or 1958, or 2012. A Vassar student told me that St. Marks Place died with the fairly recent closing of the Starbucks at Cooper Union. “I came back from break,” he said, “and it was gone. We used to hang out there and get cups and fill them with strawberry champagne and feel glamorous. There’s no room for life to be lived there now.”

I began to notice a pattern: The years people said the city was at its best almost always coincided with when they themselves were at their hottest, typically in their late teens or early 20s. For me, too, the memories from my key teen years in the 1990s pop like a Technicolor movie alongside black-and-white snapshots.

Certainly, eras of the Village have died: AIDS ended the liberating reign of gay bath houses, the Groovy Murders ended the Summer of Love. But there is no objective death date for cities, because our criteria are so deeply personal. On St. Marks Place, I can tell you that this building is where there was a gang shootout in 1914. I can tell you that this is where all the hearses in the city were pressed into service to bury hundreds of children who died in a ship fire in 1904. I can tell you that this is where the Blondie singer Debbie Harry lived in the 1960s when she was in a folk band called the Wind in the Willows.

But what I’m thinking about all the time are my own ghosts — not the city’s, but mine: This is where I said goodbye to Brad for the last time before he died. This is where I sat waiting for Josh to ride up on his Rollerblades to pick me up from my summer job at St. Mark’s Comics. This is the apartment where, when my parents weren’t around, I fooled around at various points with Eric, Mike, Paul, Paul, John, John and Jon.

I REMEMBER what it felt like getting ready to make something exciting happen, to feel a sense of the city and time radiating out in all directions, like the spokes of a wheel, with me and that night at the center. Boomers will say that as soon as the Gap went up on the corner of Second Avenue in 1988 — that was it, the city died. But my friends and I were 12 when the Gap opened, and we marveled at the foreign colors and patterns — pastels! delicate florals! — theretofore unknown to us. It was like the first ship from the Indies had docked in Europe.

Walking along St. Marks Place now, I see young New Yorkers having their moment, living their own Technicolor years. To afford to be here in 2015, they may have trust funds or three jobs or their bedroom may be a friend’s brother’s couch in Ridgewood. Yet here they are at midnight, breaking up with their first boyfriend on the same corner where ’50s poets went to jazz concerts, ’60s radicals handed out fliers, ’70s punk rockers skulked on stoops, ’80s artists plotted their assault on the art world and ’90s skateboarders did kick-flips.

They are making art and music and movies, and having parties and doing poetry or stand-up open mikes and gathering for late shows at Joe’s Pub or Under St. Marks or the KGB Bar. They are figuring out what the next big thing is; if history is any guide, to most of us whatever that is won’t look like much at all except in retrospect.

Who understands the soul of any place? Who deserves to be here? Who is the interloper and who the interloped-upon? Who can say which drunk N.Y.U. student stumbling down St. Marks Place will wind up writing the next classic novel or making the next great album? It’s hubris to think you can tell by looking at them. The beloved artist Keith Haring, whose giant green sculpture now stands on the corner of St. Marks and Third Avenue, spray-painted “Clones Go Home” on the borders of the East Village in 1980 to try to protect it from invasion by some of the same people who now feel invaded. When he waged this campaign, he was a middle-class college student from suburban Pennsylvania who had been in New York for two years.

“I just read a story about how brunch is over,” a friend says. “One of the commenters said: ‘Brunch isn’t over. It’s over for you.’ ” Just because you stopped staying out late and sleeping in and then stumbling over to Cafe Orlin for a Bloody Mary and eggs at 2 p.m. doesn’t mean no one else is doing that now, or doing something that feels just as exciting.

If you’re complaining about the East Village, or New York in general, being dead, I think it’s worth considering the possibility that, yes, it is over — for you. But for plenty of others, the city is as full of potential and magic as it was in 1977. Or 1964. Or 1992. Or whenever you last walked down the street and felt like it belonged only to you.

Cybargs wrote:

SuperJail Warden wrote:

Air conditioner company lays off 1400 American workers in order to open a plant in Mexico
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y3ttxGMQOrY
If a immigrant can't take your job, they will just outsource it period. Such is life in a free trade open borders society.

1400 more people for Trump's army.

yes donald trump, the examplar of protecting american jobs. oh where does he buy his steel and concrete again? where are his clothes made again. top kek trump supporters.