Nuclear 101 (through 238)

So: Nuclear Power. If you can pronounce it, we can talk about it (that means W, stop here).
An editorial in the Washington Post this morning discussed the reemergence of nuclear power plants throughout the world, and how this is a positive step for cleaner, more reliable energy, and how "...this thinking is eclipsing old-school anti-nuclear environmentalism."
Uh-oh.
My first reaction was, "WHAT!?" Do they know WHY environmentalism was anti-nuclear in the first place? It isn't just because melt-downs can and have caused worldwide radioactive contamination that have killed thousands over a long, slow agonizing period, or that in this age of homeland security nuclear power plants are essentially huge HIT IT HERE marks.
First and foremost, by switching more completely to nuclear power, we aren't solving anything. We are replacing one finite resource (and hazardous bi-product) with another. Historically this has occurred, with the same basic results: we run out and switch to something else. We (as a species) relied on wood for energy and heat; we began to run out of trees. So we went to blubber; we ran low on whales. Then on to coal; mined up the most available of it. Switch to petroleum; now we go to war and dig up things we've historically called 'Wildlife Refuges' to find even a tiny bit more. Nuclear power is no different--we will mine pitchblende and refine it until we run low, then this situation will arise again. At least we are consistent, no?
The biggest problem with nuclear power is that its waste isn't CO2 (as it is with wood, coal and petroleum) but rather, radioactive spent fuel rods, that have a half-life of between 6,500 and 24,000 but can be up to 4.47 billion years (yeah that's billion years. The half-life depends on the amount of P-240 and U-238 isotopes left in the rod--the more U-238, the greater the half-life). Basically that means that the fuel rods are, and will be, highly radioactive for at least that amount of time. So radioactive in fact that they cannot be handled, breathed or around organisms or water; they must be held in an lead and concrete lined, secure area. Hence the whole Yucca Mountain debate, where the US government is trying to assure us that they can build a secure facility that can hold these spent radioactive fuel rods for the next 24,000 years or so without them leaking, being dug up and used for weapons, or killing us all.
Nuclear Power Basics:
Nuclear power plants are run similarly to a coal or petroleum power plant--they create enough steam to drive massive turbines, which generate immense amounts of power. This energy is from nuclear fission, which is sorta complicated and I won't get into it, dealing with nuclei being split with neutron. Ooh big chem words. The basic "fuel" is uranium, which has three basic isotopes found naturally: U-235, U-238, and U-238 (difference: number of neutrons, but you knew that). The isotope U-235 is important because under certain conditions it can be easily split, producing immense amounts of energy, so that's the magic potion for the power plants.
Lots of science makes the U-235 eventually break down into P-240 (plutonium isotope), and when the level of U-235 in the rods is too low, the spent fuel rods are removed (an average power plant produces about 25 tonnes a year, each containing about 640lbs of plutonium). Now there is a process to recycle these rods to get the 'usable' isotopes out of those spent fuel rods, but guess which is the only country in the world that won't do it? Yup. That's US. So yeah, that's some really, really nasty shit that we get to keep as little rods that we must hang onto for 20,000 years or so.
And here's my favorite part: the SO WHAT? factor...
While nuclear power is much more efficient than any of the current generators, it is still finite, extremely hazardous and produces long-term byproducts that we are not equipped to deal with.
The solution that needs to be addressed is not just our source of power, but the ridiculous amount we use. Basically we just need to use less, which requires a greater paradigm shift than a shift in power supply allows.
Curtain.

By Grace My Sight Grows Stronger

This morning I had my mp3s on shuffle and "Philosophy of Loss" by the Indigo Girls came on. It was the secret song on their 1999 album and every time I listen to it the words slay me. In the song, Emily Sailers writes,
"Modern scribes write
In Jesus Christ everyone is free
And the doors open wide to all straight men and women
But they are not open to me..."
The first time I heard that I think I cried. I want to scream. I am a Christian, but it seems the only thing I agree with other Christians about is Christ. I am strongly convicted by certain social issues, issues that I believe are greater than the right/wrong polarity the "religious right" make them out to be. Thing is, I have to believe that Christ is greater than the gay-marriage debate, the abortion debate, the Iraq war, the red state/blue state battle. If I don't believe that---well, I don't know what would happen. My convictions or my beliefs? I don't want to simply accept that the doors should be closed for anyone, I cannot gloss over the idea that certain "sins" can be seen as ok, while others are grounds for ostracizing everyone else. I am a sinner! Kick me out! The Apostle Paul spent his life killing Christians before his conversion, yet wrote most of the New Testament. In 1 Corinthians 15:10 he says, "But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect." Why then, have we lost this ability to see everyone around us as works in progress, as beautifully imperfect? By the grace of God I am what I am--who are you to say that that grace is not without effect? Let grace be effective and the world will change.
I should say that I do not believe, to any degree, that homosexuality is a sin. At all. I am vehement in this. I considered volunteering in ministry but wavered when I read what they wanted me to sign, stating that homosexuality was a sin. I cannot--I will not--put my name on that which I am fighting against. But I look at those I love who are gay--family included--and my heart breaks at the religious rejection they face. It is a struggle to put my name into the group that can look my brother in the eye and say he is not welcome into the house of God, simply because he is himself. Why is it that what I have done is forgivable, but who he is can be unacceptable? He is my brother, and I know, with my whole heart, that he is loved by Christ.
And how dare you to tell him otherwise.

The Cut

As per request, here is the haircut. This photo makes my forehead look big. This is me getting the necessary shot after said cut.

Life/Hair

First and foremost: Yes I changed the name of my blog. Not that you noticed, but now that I said it go ahead and look. Fresh start and all, and the old one was just too long. This is probably the 4th or 5th name change said blog has had in the two and a half years of its existence. It morphs, get over it.
Blame it on the fact that I never had a goldfish as a kid.
So yesterday I chopped my hair off.
It was 8 or 9 inches of hair just gone, lobbed off in the name of thousands of thoughts and reasons, and a rather serious hatred of the pony tail.
Why do we women make hair changes out to be life changing moments?
I definitely do--I can remember what happened before or after I had big hair changes, how they sort of narrate the seasons, relationships, hopes, fears, trips, trials. I've been wanting to cut my hair since before graduation, and somehow haven't been able to muster the courage to do so. I had this strange conviction that when I did it would be symbolic--of what I haven't been able to fully note, and therein lies its mystery. Strange how something as seemingly minor as a hair cut could signify an actual shift in something greater.
Afterward, my friend and I went straight to the bar next door for a double shot. The bartender looked at us and said, "What are you two ladies doing in here at 3pm on a Wednesday?" and I told her that I'd just had 8 inches of hair chopped off and she smiled and understood.
It's the closest I may ever come to starting clean slated.

Just Call Me Angela Basset

Lately I've been really obsessed with questions about reality and generations and future and politics and emotional turmoil and thankfully today I was freed a bit from my thinking. The sun's glorious warmth and busting out my cropped pants for the first time all year added to the ease of the mind. It's amazing how a little bit of a wardrobe change can solidify the shift. Today was supposed to get to 80 and did not disappoint, though yes there still is a snowpile out side the work windows. This is a weird, weird place, this state.
My friend called to see what time I got off work, and I met Liz and Paul at my apartment, changed quickly and took the forested trail to Linear Park (which, for some reason, I can't stop calling Learner, b/c I can't seem to 'learn' the correct name--get it?? bah.). I got way too excited about the creek that wound beside the path, as I am a recovering kayaker who is unable to stop the planning of vicarious paddling routes of any and all bodies of moving water. This creek would have been KILLER if I was half my size. I would probably paddle it now just to make myself feel better about my skills, but as I haven't paddling in a long time it would probably work me anyway. Dammit. Anyway, so we find a nice grassy area and Paul proceeds to set up a rather wide croquet golf course, and the games commence. Down the hill, under the picnic table, deflect off the trash can, move those dang sticks, etc. It was a rousing game and a beautiful time to do it.
Back to the apt in time for the new Gilmore Girls (Lorelai Gilmore is my TV BFF. don't judge me) while Paul cooked for us (WOOHOO!). And if you add in the Yancy's Fancy cheese with triscuits and green apples it's like heaven!
Basically, everything about this afternoon/evening clicked. It flowed and it was, it simply was and what a refreshing thing simply being can be, when being is so relentlessly complicated. I can exhale into the spring, and feel myself gain life again. I waited to exhale, and I finally can.
(Hence the Angela Basset comment..."Waiting to Exhale"? Oh nevermind.)

Memo to: Spooner:
The Rhetorical Question Society called. They said you went way over your limit in that last post. This is a warning. You should up your rhetorical question limit if you plan to use that many again in a post, b/c those overages are a bitch.
Also, readers hate rhetorical questions, you sniveling intellectual wannabe.
With love,
-Your wiser half

You and Me and a Man with a Gun

Last night I talked to an old friend from high school and found out a kid I've known since I was five shot himself last week*. I am struck by suicide; how stark it is. In this strange land of maybes it is, at the very least, a definitive yes or no. I cannot discern between what I feel and what is real. Real is real regardless of the whims and limits of my feeling. I feel hollow, but what of actuality? Is it a product of my place in life as an awkward 20-something, or is it indicative of something far more sinister?

A friend asked me which comes first, the hollow feeling or the self-obsession that spawns from it, like the more empty one feels the more time they spend staring at the space, wondering how it got there and how it grows. I get why people go over the edge--if only just to feel something. And it's not self-obsession about what we can do--what we might accomplish or achieve--it's a strange narcissim that says we should focus on us because we exist. Like that is enough. Has over stimulation caused us to be dead to it all? Has the science and rules of 'life' cause the very idea of intimacy and concrete relationships to be fearing and foreign? The MTV/Nintendo generation has grown up--an army of retailers and the retailed, the over-marketed, over-stimulated and underwhelmed, blankly staring and feeling nothing. Is that all we are? Do we have any hope, any ideas of the future or is that hollow as well? This hollow body syndrome truncates the outside--people, environments, causes, emotions, anything--it becomes an organism that is fixed on instincts and thinks not, unless it is of itself.
Like an ameoba and certain types of coral.
That is truth, that is sad.
It's beyond sad, it's devastating.
Are we the hollow generation, programmed to touch and buy and sell and kill without expression, zeal or dismay? What is our hope (and if you comment on this and say it is Jesus, I will hit you. I am beyond the canned answers now)?
Or to sum it up nicely: WTF, mate?
* After I published this post I found out there is some dispute whether his death was intentional or accidental. I pray it was accidental and my heart goes out to his family.

Land of Maybe

With a lethal combination of technology and thin skin, we've become cursed with maybe. Why is it so damn difficult to plan things? "Well I might come" or "Maybe I'd do that" like we are retarded to the idea of committing to the future in any regard. I realized how stricken I am with this syndrome last year while making plans with Jen Cash, possibly the last person in the lower 48 without a cell phone. It was strangely a relief to have such viscous plans. I wouldn't be so vociferous about it if it weren't so rampant today. Its like we have to poll public opinion before we make a move toward anything. So much so that it is almost refreshing when one acts spontaneously out of desire frustration or both and actually says or does something. My favorite kissed story is an example. I was working at Adventure Links and, when one lives in a tent village, one gets very close to ones neighbors and coworkers. I had a feeling Mario liked me, but little had been said and even less had actually been done. One night I was sitting on the floor of my platform tent, playing solitaire by lantern light (it's a tent village--there's not a lot of night life. don't judge me). Mario came in and sat in the chair in the corner like he always did and we chatted for a bit then he bid me good night, got up and walked out. Not two minutes later he came back in and squatted beside me. He looked me in the eye and said, "I've wanted to do this for a long time," and just kissed me. Needless to say, I was floored. Then he said, "Thank you. Goodnight," got up and walked out. WHOA! SPEECHLESS! It took another two minutes before my breathing was restored.
The man has got guts. I didn't want to date him but after that I'd totally consider it. To this day, mad props are given to Mario.
Thing is, there is something insatiably desirable about definitive action.
We live in a world where indecision and inaction are becoming norm.
I'd like to stop having to check with everyone before I commit, and I'd like to commit w/o fear that as soon as I do, something "better might come along" whatever the hell that means.

Grown Up

Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight? -E.St.V.M

Smug Little Blessed

I thought I was going to write about nuclear power plants, spent fuel rods, the pitchblende mining lobby, national security and Yucca Mountain but alas something else took my thoughts. Don't act so relieved.
On my way to work this morning I passed a tractor-trailer cab that said, "I'm Blessed!" in large block letters across its back. I was struck with how ostentatious he was with it, how joyous it sounded on the tongue.
I never say I'm blessed.
I am a born-again pessimist so I don't normally think that way, but I was convicted by this trucker's blatant statement. Thus the thoughts began as I sped between the rumble strips of I-90. Of course what cd should I be listening to but "I'm blessed as the poor/still I judge success by how I'm dressing..." I hate it when everything seems to fall together like that. Weird. I sat there in my 2001 Subaru, driving on cruise control with the stereo blasting, in my Gap jacket and J.Crew shoes--me the materialistic whore I've become. Damn comfort. I'm moving back into my tent and showering once a week. Life was more simple and I was happier.
But I am blessed.
I stress about money, and jobs, and futures, but I am blessed. I am secure. I have way more than the basics. I have food. I am going places (someday). I have a family that loves me in their own, dysfunctional way and friends in all four corners who are mysterious and fun and wise and intelligent and hilarious and learned and beautiful and loyal and kind. No one is trying to kill me. I am a smug little blessed American.
I need to say that more. "I am blessed."
But what part do limits play in the world of the blessed? Just because we have, is it our duty to use?
A G.K. Chesterton quote to sum it all up neatly in some skewed way:

"I felt it in my bones, first that this world does not explain itself...Second, I came to feel as if magic must have a meaning, and meaning must have some one to mean it. There was something personal in the world, as in a work of art...Third, I thought this purpose beautiful in its old design, in spite of its defects, such as dragons. Fourth, that the proper form of thanks to it is some form of humility and restraint: we should thank God for beer and Burgundy by not drinking too much of them...And last, and strangest, there had come into my mind a vague and vast impression that in some way all good was a remnant to be stored and held sacred out of some primordial ruin. Man had saved his good as Crusoe saved his goods: he had saved them from a wreck."

Put it on my TAB

The night before Easter and it's time for TAB pong (yes TAB, that disgusting diet cola circa 1984. And Fresca. Seriously). Here are Liz, Carey & I with "Short" Paul. He hates it when we all get together, b/c he's scared.... Check out Carey's "DO NOT ENTER" chastity belt.

Resume the Resume

I've started three different posts and about 2/3 of the way through them I realize that they are total crap and even I don't want to go back and read what I just vomited onto the screen.
Today's task:
My writing resume.
I have to do it for a job possibility (pleeeze oh pleeeze) and for some reason I am drawing a total blank as to what the hell I should put into my writing resume. It's rather strange to pour time and effort into the production of a paper about how awesome you are.
Goals: To write for a living. Preferably with you paying me to write for a living. Preferably writing something interesting, and in English. And you paying me to do so.
Skills: I can write. Occasionally, I can write well. Or poorly if you done need that. I can write with lots of expression!!!!!!! Or not. I like commas (,) semi-colons (;) and dashes (--) which probably have a technical name but I don't remember what it is right now. Also, rhetorical questions (?) . Step B: Hate instruction manuals.
References: (Spooner, p.43)
My personal ad if I ever should need one: SWF seeks SM for grammatically correct convos, witty puns and pop culture sarcasm...and obligatory long walks on the beach. Pessimism of all things right-wing a must. Also, hate Yankees, love playing outside, BBQ stuff, go Skins. Fine with feminism but like Zeppelin. Also, no gelled, spikey high-five hair.
I hate high-five hair.

Letdown

The disparity between the loftiness of expectation and the weight of reality.
I guess letdown is gravity in a way--the process of bringing one's feet back to the grit of day to day.
Letdown--investments that hit the bear market of hearts and heads. Relationships, friendships, jobs, applications--hopes that don't live up to the time, energy and emotion that is exerted, ending before expected.
Knowing there could be, and probably will be a letdown, how are we not to despair our way into hermitude?
If there is optimism in letdown?
Where is optimism in letdown?
I guess it's in the boof.
When kayaking a waterfall, a paddler has to get up enough speed and power to launch herself off the falls, traveling faster than the current beneath her. If done properly, she will travel out into the air and land away from the bottom of the falls. This is called "boofing" for the sound the boat makes when it hits the water.
If not enough speed/power is attained, the paddler will fall with the water over the lip, probably being turned upside-down in mid-air, landing on her head and getting pummeled by the falls, leading to serious injury, death or just embarrassment.
Optimism is those few extra strokes that separate the boof from the douche--both ways a letdown, two different ways to run it.

The Tidbits

Just for kicks the DJ hooked her I-pod up and just hit shuffle for the 10 song set this morning.
Not gonna lie, Neil Diamond to Tone Loc to Marvin Gaye was pretty sweet, but there's a reason you don't hear "Wild Thing" on the radio much anymore.
Also, does this mean we can outsource our DJ jobs to I-pods, and if so, do we still get those annoying I-pods that just love to listen to themselves shuffle? Can you teach an I-pod to interview Ashlee Simpson? Is Ashlee Simpson an I-pod with a wig? In a battle of wits between Ashlee Simpson and the I-pod with an Ashlee Simpson wig, would Ryan Cabarra care?
Has anyone ever listened to the words of Tone Loc's "Wild Thing?" Thank God rap has evolved, b/c that crap was annoying.
If someone asks what is in a gin and tonic, what is one to say?
Is Boone gonna die on "Lost" b/c I was actually starting to like that annoying twit.
Anyone know of any jobs in NoVA, b/c I'm gonna need a new one come May.
I wish I had an I-pod.