Too much power? We have to do better than this

The Bonneville Power Administration, which transmits three-quarters of the electricity generated in the Pacific Northwest, is saying thanks-but-no-thanks to wind-power providers in the region. Wind farms are expected to go dormant, because BPA says their power simply isn’t needed.

Why? Because of this winter’s unusually heavy snowfall. That snow is melting now, surging downhill and into the water shed, and eventually through the region’s numerous hydroelectric dams.

The dams are already producing as much electricity as BPA can sell. Wind power simply isn’t needed.

Not needed in the Pacific Northwest, at any rate. On the other side of the country our electricity is generated, for the most part, through the burning of coal. That’s a non-renewable source that’s doing catastrophic environmental damage in every stage of its production: mining, transportation and utilization.

The ten percent or so of our power not coming from coal mostly comes from nuclear-turbine plants. That’s a zero-emissions source, unless you count spent fuel rods as an emission. Those remain highly radioactive for thousands of years, and we can’t even find a way to dispose of the millions of tons of them already produced.

And the nuclear plants themselves? Totally safe. Unless there’s an earthquake. Or a terrorist attack. Or the cooling pumps break.

The insanity of idling wind-power farms can in no way be interpreted as an indictment of renewable energy. Renewable energy is still the only logical way to sustain a technological society for more than a handful of generations. To overstate the obvious: the coal (and oil, and gas) won’t always be there. But the wind will.

The real culprit is the age and insularity of our power grid. The grid is regionalized, so that even if BPA wanted to move their excess power east, they couldn’t. It’s physically impossible. And our grid is ancient, by tech standards. Its design and many of its elements date back to the late 1940s.

A new grid is not only feasible, its design has been in the works for decades. It’s called Smart Grid, and it would leverage digital technology, and nationwide integration, to gain the maximum possible efficiency in the generation, transmission and use of electricity.

It would also cost anywhere between $100 billion and $2 trillion to implement.

That sticker shock is why Smart Grid remains hypothetical. It’s why even tepid Smart Grid research and development is inevitably the first thing to go in every round of budget cuts.

That’s a lot of dough, no doubt about it. Quite a few would even argue that we simply can’t afford it. But it seems to me that with a grid as old as ours, we’re going to be replacing it anyway, sooner rather than later. We can replace it piecemeal, as disparate elements of it wear out and break down…

Or we can use the best technology we have, to create a grid that’s efficient and effective. And we can stop shutting down wind farms just because it snowed too much.

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In praise of the green fairy (from afar)

Maybe it’s the rain.

As we we enter our third or fourth week of gray, unrelenting drizzle, my mind turns introspective, nihilistic and utterly self-destructive. And since I lack the strength of will to open a vein, or even to perform a respectable emo-level slice, all I can do is write poetry.

But I’m talking poetry here. I’m talking Rimbaud, just prior to flame-out. I’m talking epically nihilistic, gut-wrenching to the point of ridiculousness. The mood is already set: I’ve got the gray skies and I’ve got the churning emotions.

All I lack is absinthe.

Rimbaud would understand. So would Hemingway and Getrude Stein, drunkenly sizing each other up in some dingy Paris salon. They would understand that if you would create art, if you would craft verse designed to reap tears, then you must first pour yourself a tall vaporous glass of the fickle green fairy.

Oh, the ritual of it all. The slotted spoon, the cube of sugar. The bitter taste of wormwood, and perhaps if you were lucky, the ghastly screaming hallucinations.

Some element of that is why they shunned the fairy, why country after country began prohibiting her manufacture and import. They feared her, or maybe they just feared Rimbaud. In any case they knew she could foster collaborations, nihilistic ones, that any self-respecting society must outlaw.

So here now a confession: I’ve never kissed that fairy. Never performed the ritual. Never chased the hallucinations nor wrote the words they induced. I’m infatuated with the green fairy, maybe even a little in love…but it’s a love quite unconsummated.

The ultimate irony is what has been learned rather recently. The hallucinations? The strange screaming spasms and the stranger words that thereafter flowed? That wasn’t really the fairy. That was just shoddy distillation. It was, truth be told, poison.

So the fairy, damn her, cleaned up her act. And then she was okayed for importation. She was taken off the shun list.

The other day, I saw a bottle of absinthe on the shelf of my local grocery store.

Sure, I was tempted. I very nearly took her home and performed that ritual so often practiced in my mind. It very well could be that a smokey green draught could be sitting here with me, taking the place of this bourbon and influencing these words.

But Rimbaud speaks to me sometimes. And so do Hemingway and Stein. They creep out on gray, hazy days and peek over my shoulders to see what I write. They’ll be here any minute, I have no doubt.

Nor do I doubt what they’d say, if the fairy were here with us:

“You bought that at a grocery store?!”

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What now?

I was one of the folks who slept through the breaking news on Sunday, then awoke on Monday to a changed world.

And what I found, once I absorbed the basic facts and the who, what, when, where, how, was a sense of American jubilation, which I both observed and took part in, of the sort that’s been unfamiliar and absent lo these many years.

All for the death of one sick old man.

Yes, he was an extraordinary old man, who’d earned his place in the U.S. crosshairs, at the cost of untold suffering and immeasurable blood. And although I’m perhaps more careful than many people to call for anyone’s death, I readily recognize that there are those among us who willfully forfeit their right to draw air. And this sick old man was without doubt one of those.

But what now?

Now a myriad of questions hang unanswered, and the next days or weeks or months, even years, might bring answers. Not all of those answers will be to our liking.

Al Qaeda is not defeated. Bin Laden has been a figurehead and a rallying point, but not an operational leader, for nearly a decade now. The organization he founded was decimated long before today, with dozens or hundreds of targeted air-strikes, and likely scores of close-quarters assassinations that we’ll never hear about. But Al Qaeda learned from those events and they adapted; they dispersed and decentralized. And they spent years preparing for a day like today.

Whether or not they’re successful in a retaliation attack, whether or not the general public ever knows that such an attack was planned or initiated or thwarted, it’s simply folly to think that the SEALs ended the war on Sunday. Al Qaeda doesn’t think so, where-ever and whatever they are. Neither should we.

Not that we can’t enjoy a day or two of jubilation. The American military can celebrate that their most pressing mission has been achieved. Survivors of the horrors of 9/11 can celebrate the fact that the monster who wrecked their lives is in hell where he belongs.

And supporters of Barrack Obama can celebrate his most remarkable achievement to date. Although it’s way too long until November 2012 to assume that this was the game-changer required for the president’s re-election, we can at least enjoy the initiation of a new mantra; our right-wing friends will go on saying whatever it is they say about him, and we’ll be able to reply, “But he got Bin Laden.” It’ll feel good.

But again, what now? What does this mean for our seemingly generational wars, and our bizarre relationship with the leadership of Pakistan (who must have known where Bin Laden was hiding!)…? In these cases, maybe what happened Sunday night was a game-changer. It should be, at any rate.

No matter what those answers are, we know that we’ll rise on Tuesday, then Wednesday then Thursday…still jubilant but with that feeling increasingly tempered by the unchanging realities of economy, ecology, war and poverty. The sick old man will still be dead, and the world will be better for that…but enormous challenges will remain.

Enjoy your jubilation, America. I know I will. Just be ready, at a moment’s notice, to get your head back in this very, very grim game.

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Meditate on this…

And here we have my first non-fiction book.

Meditation, you say? How…exciting. I know. I know. When you meditate, you pretty much just sit there. Not exactly sexy.

But what you’re really doing, in a way completely invisible to outside observers, is altering your brain-wave pattern and thus altering your consciousness. Just temporarily, to be sure, but that temporary change can be life altering.

I’m not exaggerating when I say that meditation is THE key to my creativity, productivity and probably what’s left of my sanity. Meditation allows me to wake in the morning, then work-play-learn, then write in the evening. And it allows me to keep an even keel, and (usually) a sunny disposition throughout all of that.

I have also found that meditation primes the mind to problem-solve in ways that are simply unavailable through normal consciousness. And in Meditations: 30 Days to Self-Made Happiness I describe a deceptively simple way to first achieve that meditative consciousness, and then problem-solve via visualization, and concentration on specific questions or scenarios.

And because everyone tries meditation for different reasons, I’ve targeted those visualizations and scenarios toward three specific meditation goals: growth, healing and contentment. So if you’re meditating in order to make yourself a better person, or to get through some pain, or to simply enjoy life, I’ve got ya covered.

As is always true with all my Smashwords e-books, Meditations: 30 Days to Self-Made Happiness is available in all e-reader formats, including Kindle, Sony, Nook and .pdf. Free excerpts are available with the click of a mouse button.

But let me sweeten that offer (because I can, and because I want to!). Check out the free excerpt of my new book, and I’ll give you my last book, also absolutely free. Just navigate to Refrigerator Magnets, select it for purchase, then enter coupon code LM35T (not case sensitive) during check out. And it’s all yours!

And no matter what else you do, do give meditation a shot. You won’t regret it.

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They seem like nice kids

When I was 12 years old my mother, an unrepentant anglophile, woke me up at 0-dark-thirty to watch what for years I would think of as “The Royal Wedding.” That marriage, alas, did not live up to its fairy-tale beginning. But having seen it, and having seen the pomp-and-ceremony of the English monarchy at its best, I’ve never been able to shake a grudging respect, maybe even awe, for that prince, and that princess, and all their royal kin.

On April 29, 2011 I slept in. Unlike millions (billions?) of other people, I didn’t see the ceremony firsthand. As I sit here, I still haven’t even seen any clips or highlights, although that’s sure to change.

But I’m still a little in awe. Royal-struck, to coin a term. If the Heir and his bride were standing here, I’d probably curtsy, or whatever it is a commoner is supposed to do. Is that a left-over effect from 1981 pomp-exposure?

Maybe. Or maybe it’s a simple as this: they seem like nice kids. And someday, he’s going to be King.

Argue if you will that the idea of monarchy is out-dated, and a non-productive drain on the UK’s treasury. You might even have a point. I might even agree with you.

But not until tomorrow. Because today belongs to those two nice kids.

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What does “Next” mean?

This is one of those linguistic imponderables, like “could care less” versus “couldn’t care less.”

Today is Tuesday. Earlier today I was speaking with a friend. I mentioned something that would be going down “next weekend.” He sighed in that way people do when you’ve tickled their pet peeve, and asked “Do you mean the weekend that starts in 4 days, or the one that starts a week after that?”

Then ensued an unwinnable argument. His side maintained that “this weekend” starts in 4 days, “next weekend” a week after that. My side thought his side was an idiot, and tried to explain “next weekend” and “weekend after next.”

Neither side surrendered. And naturally, it wasn’t until later that I thought of the defining example:

Suppose you’re driving down the highway, and your kid in the backseat announces he was to whiz. Just then you see a sign for kid-whizzing venues, “Next Exit.”

As you breeze by the exit, explain to the kid in the backseat “Oh, that didn’t mean THIS exit. It meant the NEXT exit.!”

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Another e-book launched, thus begins an e-book empire

My 2010 collection of odd stories and even rants is now available from Smashwords.com. As always with Smashwords, if you’ve got a device for reading an e-book (pc to Kindle, iPad to smartphone) they’ve got a version of my book in your file format. All for the same low low price.

But friends of the Deconstruction (that’s you!) can cash in on some even crazier savings. Just drop me an email at pjword@pworden.com and I’ll reply back with a coupon code that’ll give you a hefty percentage off the list price. That’s your reward for just navigating to this spot and reading these words.

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The disturbing yet logical way to eat a chocolate bunny

First, eat the bunny’s ears. Eat them all gone.

This will expose the top of the bunny’s head. Eat this all gone too, right down into the bunny’s face.

Take what’s left of the bunny, and dash him repeatedly against something hard, until he’s in several pieces. Eat these at your leisure.

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The housing problem diagnosed and remedied in four short paragraphs and one long one (and a graph)

Above is illustrated capitalism in a nutshell. For every market for every product or service you can think of, the graph above describes how the price is set. The sweet X spot where demand meets supply is the market equilibrium. The “P” spot on the vertical Price axis tells you the price.

U.S. housing sales are stalled, which is another way of saying out of equilibrium. I’m sure every seller is convinced they’ve already lowered their price as much as possible. But obviously, they’re wrong. The graph demonstrates that if you lower the “P” line enough, the “D” line of Demand will rise up to meet it.

There are between 2 and 3 million homeless people in the U.S. And between 11% and 13% of our housing is standing empty.

The “Q” or quantity line, represents the number of houses that could be sold if the owners would be willing to drop them into homeless people’s price ranges. Ten dollars? Fifteen, or twenty? Sounds crazy, but the market would be stalled no longer. Sounds crazy, but if even if this were attempted by a tiny fraction of the number of banks holding worthless mortgage paper, upon most of which they’re going to take a total loss anyway, and if only a tiny percentage of those houses ended up safely sheltering people in need…

…then a few less people would be homeless, and a shitload of houses would get sold.

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A bit of, um, exposure for a friend of The Deconstruction

That was Mark Smith. Sorry ladies, he’s happily married. Check out his YouTube channel. Directors, producers, talent scouts: feel free to message him via this space.

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Calling all psychics…

Keeping with the paranormal theme of my last post – but maybe treating the subject a bit more seriously – I’d like to explore the cultural implications of psychics and psychic phenomena.

It’s a subject close to my heart. Although I claim no psychic ability for myself (with a bit of qualification, explored below…) I wrote a novel, and am working on its sequel, with a central theme of psychic powers. I’ve been told by more than one self-proclaimed psychic that I got many salient points correct, such as the many challenges of living with those abilities. Many more readers seem to accept my premise at face value. They’re true believers, and to them the extraordinary powers of the mind are a reality.

Does that make it so? Certainly – a popular consensus isn’t the same as scientific certainty. But failing that certainty, does our collective anecdotal evidence add up to an agreement that some folks can do the seemingly impossible? And it seems that’s the best we’ll get; scientific certainty isn’t forthcoming. This subject is ignored by most academicians; the few studies actually performed are perennially discredited or are inconclusive.

So how about it? Let’s hear those anecdotes. If there are any psychics in the audience, we’d love to hear your stories in the comment section. Did your old aunt Sally read tea leaves? Do tell. Your girlfriend had a supernatural way of seeing through your lies? Please share.

I mentioned above that I don’t consider myself psychic…but occasionally I am startled by my own intuition. Years ago there was a great website, it’s sadly now extinct, but it had an elegantly simple way of testing mind-power. On one screen you would enter a block of text, describing the image that you were about to see. Once you were done, a random picture (from among millions) would display; later both the image and your prescient description would be posted for feedback from others. Both you and they could objectively evaluate your abilities.

For a time I was quite addicted to that site. Ninety-nine percent of the time my guesses (for that’s all the were) were way, way wide of the mark. Occasionally I’d get a bit lucky. On a few rare, memorable occasions I got pretty close. Once or twice the popular feedback confirmed what I suspected: something extraordinary had happened.

Coincidence? Probably.

The alternative explanation, for my own experiences and indeed for all those Aunt-Sally-anecdotes, is that we simply don’t understand everything our minds are capable of. I’d like to think that’s true.

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What a vampire ought to be

Vampires, as a cultural phenomenon, are something like a mirror for society; every age constructs them according to the world they see around them.

Their origin, remember, is that of a nightime bloodsucker, to be feared by the villagers and peasants of centuries past. The wampyr and nosferatu were invented as explanations for cholera and plague, and maybe even random murder and senseless death. But in any case they were accordingly horrible, horrifying and certainly unembraceable.

Then came the Victorians, who created them anew; still terrifying, but suddenly embued with the allure of forbidden sex. That the sex was always deadly was to be expected; but oh, they suggested, the foreplay made it worth it and the bite wasn’t all that bad. Bram Stoker’s Dracula certainly upheld that ideal, to an iconic level in fact; but Stoker saluted tradition by creating his eponymous Count as disgusting to look upon, even going so far as to give him stomach-wrenching halitosis…and yet, his bite was irresistable. It was sex itself.

Lesser known, but still emblematically Victorian, was Le Fanu’s Carmilla, written 25 years earlier. In this case the titular vampire was female, beautiful, and in an unspoken way, a lesbian. Clearly, the Victorians  anticipated our modern day tastes, by using vampires as surrogates for pornography…even if they were obliged to be a bit more subtle about it.

Which lead us inevitably to the present. We’ve taken the sex-appeal of vampires to a strange extreme. Today’s most popular vampires are sparkly and lovable, they help young girls find their way, and heaven help us, they even abstain from murder. What the hell is going on?

Again I say, vampires are a mirror. They tell us much about society. Today’s vampires speak of market forces and the buying power of teenage girls. Twilight‘s Edward is on the scene because a market exists for him. His buying public want a vampire, sure, but mostly they want a boyfriend. And if they’re to be bitten, it’s to be under their terms. They want a vampire who understands that No means No.

But one of the beautiful things about vampires is their infinite reinventability. They are not only remade anew by every culture and every age, but also by every writer, producer and actor. This means that purists like me can always find the vampire we’re looking for. I can sneer at Edward, or I can redirect that energy toward digging a bit through the ephemera of modern vampire culture (which is huge) to find the vampire I want.

Which, I think, reinforces my theory that vampires are a mirror. After all, what better defines our age than that of extreme customization. I can custom order almost anything – why not vampires?

So at long last, who is my ideal vampire? I’ll tell you, but first I’ll point out that this is a purely personal choice, based on my tastes and my idea of what a vampire ought to be. Even though a vampire-boyfriend (or even a vampire-lesbian-threesome) isn’t what I’m looking for, that doesn’t mean it’s not right for you.

Embrace your own ideal vampire, is what I’m saying.

For me, a vampire needs to be terrifying, powerful, evil, and nearly unstoppable. The closest I’ve seen to that is Herrick, from the BBC’s Being Human. He’s a cop, which gives him a remarkable degree of temporal power to begin with…but he’s also cold, calculating, pitiless, and when the occasion calls for it, rather funny. He’d kill you and your family without thinking twice, but he’d also probably crack a pretty witty quip while doing so. And if Herrick decides that the time of Vampire Ascendant has arrived, and that you and I are to serve as nothing more than cattle, there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it.

And that, my friends, is what a vampire ought to be.

Disclaimer: all of the above was written with the assumption that vampires are a purely cultural construct, and do not actually exist. If I’m wrong about that, and if any vampires are reading this, please forgive my impertinence and please don’t kill me. If you need a Renfield, I’m your guy.

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Mind.Net now available as E-book

cover, "Mind.Net"

Just a quick follow up from a post from a few days ago…my 2009 novel, Mind.Net has been revised and re-released in multiple E-book formats by Smashwords.com. Document formats include .mobi, .pdf, Epub, JavaScript and more. Readers are cheerfully invited to sample the first 20% of Mind.Net free;  full text download costs only $2.99 USD.

Mind.Net tells the story of Sara Kincade, a young psychic of extraordinary abilities who finds herself battling a massive conspiracy. I make no claim about psychic ability of my own (my guesses are occassionally lucky, but that’s about it), however a few true psychics have told me I’ve captured much that is real about the personal challenges one faces when one’s mind and abilities are markedly different from most other folk. I was gratified, truly so, to hear that.

I’m currently at work on the first of several Mind.Net sequels, all of which will be distributed via Smashwords.

Meanwhile, to all interested readers, please don’t hesitate to engage me in conversation (in this forum or via my email address pjword@pworden.com) to discuss the Mind.Net universe in particular, or psychic phenomena in general, or anything else that tickles your fancy. I do so like to gab!

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Nice smile you got there, lady

Well this is somewhat horrifying. Researchers in Florence, Italy are all set to dig up the bones of Lisa Gherardini, died 1542, with the goal of reconstructing her face to see if maybe, just maybe, she might have been Leonardo’s model for the rather famous portrait you see here.

And then what? Congratulate themselves?

I’m having a hard time seeing what purpose is served by this desecration (sorry! no other word for it!). This isn’t a reputable act of art history, archeology or anthropology. It’s more akin to the bored gentry who used to take pickaxes and spades to burial mounds, just to see what was in there. It’s destructive curiosity.

But maybe there’s a cautionary tale for the wealthy women of our time. Want your portrait painted? Go ahead. But be sure to commission only mediocre talent. Hire a genius and you just might lose any shot your old bones had for eternal rest.

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I don’t want to write about you, Charlie Sheen

Oh, how I’ve tried to avoid writing this post.

But Charlie Sheen has relentlessly imposed himself on American culture and its consciousness. Probably on a temporary basis, but who knows? Maybe his brand of crazy truly has staying power.

I doubt it, and I also doubt he’s as crazy as advertised. Oh, he’s clearly full of hubris, which sure seems to be misguided and misplaced. And he’s presenting himself as a frenetic, nonsensical, bouncing-off-the-walls parody of a cokehead and dry-drunk, both of which he probably is.

But I still think he’s acting.

If so, then he’s getting what he wants. We’re all tuned into the Charlies Sheen show now, unable to tear our eyes away from his choreographed, slow-mo train wreck. If that’s what he wanted, then he couldn’t be performing better.

But doesn’t he realize he’s locked in now? He’s typecasted himself – not just in terms of roles he must play, but of the life he must live. He got a preview of this new reality, when he took his uncategorizable road show and public-therapy session to Detroit, for its opening act. He was booed, and he bombed. Why? Not crazy enough. The masses got a taste of Crazy-Charlie, and now they demand the full buffet.

So if this is intentional, I say good job Charlie, and good luck. Can’t wait until the “sheen” (hyuck) of this weird new career of yours wears off, because I don’t want to write about it again. Because that’s the role I’m supposed to play, in the Sheen reality show, and I didn’t sign up for it.

So one post, Charlie Sheen, that’s all you get from me. Go be crazy on someone else’s time.

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