On nuclear/radiation standards, safety, risks, etc, both scientific/professional attitudes and mythology, and general public opinion, public attitudes – public mythology –
have been inundated by disinformation, and maintained by being kept in the dark, for going on three generations.
When Chernobyl happened, with catastrophic results, the recourse was to continue the lies, cover-up, etc.
The more general culture of deception, PR, etc, the marginalization of integrity, and the ascendancy of institutional 'man', submissive widgets all, pretty well, accommodated the nuclear scam/crime scene.
And, the 'end of oil' meme, the carbon/ greenhouse meme, gave nuclear the halo of saviour, or a kind of free pass, even as its pernicious implications for physical and social health became more and more obvious to more and more people.
Sprouting everywhere roof top solar panels etc look pretty benign and sensible in comparison.
The real 'paradigm shift', the 'tipping point', comes when the mythology changes. That is the great task, as I see it, and Fukushima and Durnford and the demise life in the Pacific tidal zones of Western N America, are important bits and pieces in the demise of the psychological fundament of heretofore institutional and public loyalty to nuclear reactors.
How many rads can dance on the head of a radioactive pin is comparatively a marginal matter.
sovereigns of all the earth,
have commanded many a parade,
but they could not command humor.
When Aesop, the tramp, came visiting
the palaces of eminent personages
ensconced in sleek comfort all day,
they struck him as paupers.
In houses, where hypocrites have
left the smear of their puny feet,
there Hodja-Nasr-ed-Din, with his jests,
swept clean all meanness
like a board of chessmen!
They tried to commission humor-
but humor is not to be bought!
They tried to murder humor,
but humor thumbed his nose at them!
It’s hard to fight humor.
They executed him time and again.
His hacked-off head
was stuck on the point of a pike.
But as soon as the mummer’s pipes
began their quipping tale,
humor defiantly cried:
'I’m back, I’m here! ',
and started to foot a dance.
in an overcoat, shabby and short,
with eyes cast down and a mask of repentance,
he, a political criminal,
now under arrest, walked to his execution.
He appeared to submit in every way,
accepting the life-beyond,
but of a sudden he wriggled out of his coat,
and, waving his hand, did a bolt.
Humor was shoved into cells,
but much good that did.
Humor went straight through
prison bars and walls of stone.
Coughing from the lungs
like any man in the ranks,
he marched singing a popular ditty,
rifle in hand upon the Winter Palace.
He’s accustomed to frowning looks,
but they do him no harm;
and humor at times with humor
glances at himself…
he’ll slip through anything, through everyone.
So- glory be to humor.
He- is a valiant man.
Translated by George Reavey