Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Well, here we are. The last day of voting in this election cycle, and if you believe the polls, things are looking pretty optimistic. There seems to be some momentum, some enthusiasm, and perhaps even a little light at the end of what has been a very long, very frustrating political tunnel. And I have to admit, I’m feeling cautiously optimistic about the outcome.

But there’s a problem with optimism. I’ve been here before.

Those of us who were convinced Hillary Clinton was going to win in 2016 remember how that turned out. We watched the polls, listened to the pundits, examined the predictions, and went to bed believing we knew how the evening was going to end. Then we woke up the next morning to discover that apparently somebody had forgotten to tell reality what the polls were saying.

Fast-forward to 2024. Once again, plenty of us believed Kamala Harris was going to win. The enthusiasm was there, the predictions were encouraging, and the polling suggested a much different outcome than the one we eventually got. Apparently, optimism and election forecasting have about the same reliability as a weather report written by someone looking out their kitchen window.

So forgive me if I don’t start celebrating just yet.

I want to believe the polls. I want to believe that people have finally had enough. Enough of the chaos, enough of the corruption, enough of the endless distractions, and enough of an administration that seems to believe the rules are something that apply exclusively to everybody else. I want to believe that voters are paying attention, that common sense is making a comeback, and that the electorate is ready to change direction.

But wanting something to happen and knowing it will happen are two entirely different things.

And then there’s the counting. Now, before anyone starts clutching their pearls and accusing me of suggesting that every election official is somehow participating in a grand conspiracy, let’s be clear: counting votes takes time, and legitimate election procedures exist for a reason. But after years of election denial, accusations, lawsuits, political intimidation, and people who seem perfectly comfortable questioning the integrity of an election whenever the results don’t go their way, it’s difficult not to approach the entire process with a little skepticism.

Especially when we’re dealing with a political movement that has demonstrated an extraordinary ability to bend its own principles whenever convenient.

Let’s face it, this administration and its political allies have given us plenty of reasons to keep our eyes open. We’re talking about a collection of convicted felons, alleged criminals, political opportunists, and outright thieves who have somehow managed to turn public service into something resembling a traveling circus with a very questionable accounting department.

Trust is something that has to be earned. It isn’t automatically included with a government position, a television appearance, or a campaign slogan.

So today, I’m going to remain optimistic. I’m going to hope that the polls are right, that the enthusiasm translates into actual votes, and that enough Americans have decided they would rather have a functioning democracy than another round of political theater.

But I’m also going to keep my powder dry.

I’m not ordering the champagne. I’m not writing the victory speech. And I’m certainly not assuming that a favorable polling average means we’ve already crossed the finish line. We’ve learned that lesson twice now, and I’m not particularly interested in paying for a third refresher course.

There is still time to vote. There is still time to make your voice heard. And if you haven’t cast your ballot, please do it. Don’t assume someone else will take care of it. Don’t assume the polls have already settled the outcome. Elections aren’t won by people who intend to vote, or people who agree with the polling numbers. They’re won by people who actually show up.

Maybe tomorrow we’ll have something to celebrate. Maybe we’ll discover that the polls finally got something right. Maybe we’ll see a little accountability return to Washington and a reminder that public office is supposed to be about serving the public, not enriching yourself or protecting your political friends.

I’d really like that.

For now, though, I’ll settle for being nauseously optimistic. Hopeful enough to believe change is possible, skeptical enough to know that nothing is guaranteed, and cynical enough to recognize that with this particular collection of felons and political thieves, you just never know what tomorrow might bring.

Hope for the best. Prepare for the worst. And for heaven’s sake, go vote.

Dwain Northey

Well, folks, we’ve made it through another election season. We’ve endured the endless campaign commercials, the billboards, the political attack ads, the television personalities telling us what to think, and enough political promises to fill a landfill. The good news? We only have one more day of this particular circus. The bad news? We still have one more day to get out and vote.

Today is November 2. Tomorrow is the final day of this midterm election cycle, and if you haven’t voted yet, it’s time to make a plan and exercise one of the most important rights we have as Americans. Get out there. Cast your ballot. Make your voice heard.

You have a choice. You can vote to maintain the status quo, accepting the direction things are currently going, or you can vote for a change in direction. You can decide that the current administration’s policies and priorities are where you want this country headed, or you can use your ballot to express that you believe we need a different path. That’s what elections are supposed to be about. Not television personalities, not campaign merchandise, not whoever can afford the biggest advertising budget. It’s about the people who actually have to live with the consequences of the decisions being made in Washington.

And let’s be realistic. Tomorrow might be the last day to cast a ballot, but it certainly won’t be the last day of the political circus. I’m the first to admit that the moment the polls close, we’re probably going to be treated to another round of accusations, legal challenges, conspiracy theories, recount demands, and whatever other obstacles Donald Trump and his political acolytes decide to throw into the process before all the votes are counted.

Apparently, accepting the results of an election has become an optional American tradition for some people. But counting every legitimate vote shouldn’t be controversial. It’s the foundation of the entire exercise.

And that’s why your vote matters. Not because one election will magically fix everything, not because one party has all the answers, and certainly not because the political commercials have suddenly become believable. Your vote matters because democracy depends on participation. It depends on ordinary people deciding that their voices deserve to be heard rather than sitting on the sidelines complaining about the direction things are going.

If you don’t vote, you’ve effectively handed that decision to somebody else.

So, take a few minutes tomorrow. Find your polling location, check the voting hours, bring whatever identification your state requires, and cast your ballot. If you’ve already voted, encourage someone else to do the same. Don’t assume your vote doesn’t matter. Don’t assume somebody else will take care of it. And don’t let the sheer exhaustion of another political season convince you that participating isn’t worth the effort.

Hopefully, when all the ballots are counted, we’ll see a blue wave strong enough to drown out the political ambitions of the orange-colored occupant of the White House and remind Washington that governing this country requires listening to the people, not simply demanding their loyalty.

But whatever the outcome, the responsibility belongs to us.

One more day. One more opportunity. One more chance to exercise a right that generations of Americans fought, marched, and sometimes died to protect.

Get out and vote. Democracy isn’t a spectator sport, and complaining about the score doesn’t count as participation.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

There is something fascinating about music. A song can remain unchanged for decades, yet somehow become an entirely different experience depending on who is singing it, how it is performed, and, perhaps most importantly, where we are in our own lives when we hear it. Sometimes a cover version doesn’t simply revisit an old song. It gives that song an entirely new identity. The words are the same, the melody may be recognizable, but the emotional message somehow reaches us in a completely different way.

A perfect example of this is The Sound of Silence.

When Simon & Garfunkel released their original version in the 1960s, it became one of the defining songs of its generation. It was a beautiful, haunting piece of music that captured something about the changing American landscape. The country was dealing with political division, social unrest, war, generational conflict, and a growing sense of disconnection. The song spoke to the loneliness of people surrounded by other people, the inability to communicate, and the uncomfortable reality that sometimes the loudest thing in a room is what nobody is saying.

There was a certain delicacy to the original. The acoustic guitar, the harmonies, and Paul Simon’s understated delivery created an almost intimate experience. It didn’t need to shout to make its point. It invited you to listen, to think, and perhaps to recognize a little of yourself in its words. It was a song that could make you uncomfortable without ever raising its voice.

And then, decades later, Disturbed came along.

In 2015, Disturbed released its interpretation of The Sound of Silence, and something remarkable happened. They took a song that had already earned its place in musical history and managed to make it feel new again. But they didn’t simply make it louder or heavier. In fact, the most striking thing about their version is how restrained it is. David Draiman’s deep, powerful voice, the gradual orchestral build, and the emotional intensity of the performance transform the song into something almost cinematic.

The original Simon & Garfunkel version feels like someone quietly observing a world that has lost its ability to communicate. The Disturbed version feels like someone standing in the middle of that same world, looking around, and desperately trying to get somebody to listen.

That’s a significant difference.

One version makes you contemplate the silence. The other makes you feel the weight of it.

And perhaps that’s why the Disturbed interpretation resonates so deeply with people who might not have connected with the original in quite the same way. The song’s meaning hasn’t necessarily changed, but the emotional delivery has. There is a gravity to Draiman’s voice that gives the lyrics an almost personal quality. It sounds less like a social observation and more like a confession, a warning, or even a plea.

It is also interesting to consider how much the world has changed between those two recordings. The original emerged in an era when television, newspapers, and political institutions largely controlled the flow of information. The Disturbed version arrived in a world where we have more ways to communicate than at any other point in human history, yet seem increasingly incapable of having meaningful conversations.

We have smartphones, social media, instant messaging, and an endless supply of information. We can communicate with someone on the other side of the planet in seconds. Yet we routinely struggle to communicate with the person sitting across the dinner table. We talk over one another, shout past one another, and increasingly surround ourselves with people who already agree with everything we believe.

Perhaps the silence has never been about the absence of noise. Perhaps it has always been about the absence of listening.

And that brings me to something I find particularly interesting about music in general. We often attach memories, experiences, and emotions to particular songs. A song that meant one thing when we were teenagers can mean something entirely different when we’re approaching sixty. The lyrics haven’t changed, but we have. Our experiences have given those words a different context. We hear things now that we might not have understood when we first heard them.

Sometimes a cover version can accelerate that experience. It can take something familiar and present it in a way that forces us to reconsider what we thought we already understood.

I don’t necessarily believe Disturbed’s version is better than Simon & Garfunkel’s. That’s probably an unfair comparison anyway. They are two very different interpretations of the same remarkable piece of songwriting. The original captured the spirit of its time with a simplicity and beauty that helped make it timeless. The remake took that same foundation and gave it a different emotional dimension.

But I will say this: there is something about the Disturbed version that reaches a different part of me. It carries a weight that is difficult to explain. When Draiman sings those familiar words, it feels as though he isn’t simply performing a song. It feels as though he is experiencing it, and inviting the listener to experience it alongside him.

Maybe that’s the real magic of music. It doesn’t always matter who wrote the song, when it was written, or how many times we’ve heard it. Sometimes all it takes is a different voice, a different arrangement, or a different moment in our lives to make us hear something we somehow missed the first time.

Simon & Garfunkel gave us a song about the sound of silence.

Disturbed reminded us just how deafening that silence can become.

And perhaps the most unsettling part is that, more than half a century after the original was written, we still haven’t learned how to listen.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

There are musical collaborations that make sense on paper, and then there are collaborations that make you stop for a moment and appreciate just how unusual they really are. Take What You Want by Post Malone, featuring Ozzy Osbourne and Travis Scott, is one of those songs. It is an interesting collision of musical generations, styles, and voices that, under ordinary circumstances, probably wouldn’t have occupied the same musical neighborhood.

And somehow, it works.

What makes this song particularly interesting to me is the contrast between Ozzy Osbourne’s unmistakable voice and Post Malone’s modern approach to music. Ozzy has one of those voices that you recognize almost immediately. It’s distinctive, haunting, slightly tortured, and carries decades of rock-and-roll history in every note. There is something almost otherworldly about hearing him sing. His voice doesn’t just deliver a melody; it carries an attitude, an identity, and a history that can’t really be duplicated.

Then you have Post Malone, representing an entirely different musical generation. His combination of rap, melodic vocals, electronic production, and the heavy use of Auto-Tune is representative of where popular music has traveled over the last couple of decades. It’s a very different musical language from the one Ozzy helped establish with Black Sabbath and his subsequent solo career.

Yet somehow, these two very different musical identities find common ground.

And that’s what makes the collaboration so interesting. It isn’t simply an older rock musician lending his name to a younger artist’s recording. Ozzy is actually part of the musical identity of the song. His voice provides a darkness and emotional weight that complements the modern production. Post Malone brings an entirely different texture, and rather than competing with one another, the two styles create something that neither artist would likely have produced independently.

I also find Ozzy’s willingness to embrace this kind of collaboration remarkable. Here’s a man whose musical career helped define heavy metal, someone who spent decades operating in a musical universe that was almost completely removed from today’s heavily processed, digitally produced sound. And rather than dismissing the modern music scene as something younger generations can have all to themselves, he stepped into it.

That takes a certain amount of artistic confidence.

Ozzy didn’t need to prove anything to anybody. His place in music history was already established. He could have continued doing what he had always done, surrounded by the familiar sounds and musicians who helped build his reputation. Instead, he agreed to step outside that comfort zone and work with an artist whose musical vocabulary was almost entirely different from his own.

There is something admirable about that.

We sometimes get caught up in the idea that music belongs to generations. Rock belongs to one generation, rap to another, country to somebody else, and whatever is currently topping the streaming charts belongs to the kids. We develop our musical preferences, establish our loyalties, and then spend the rest of our lives explaining why music was better when we were younger.

But every once in a while, something comes along that reminds us music doesn’t really care about those boundaries.

Take What You Want is a good example. It’s not necessarily a song that would have made sense in the 1970s, the 1980s, or even the 1990s. It belongs to its own moment, borrowing from different eras and putting them together in a way that creates something new.

And perhaps that’s the real legacy of Ozzy Osbourne. Not simply that he helped create a genre of music, but that he remained willing to participate in music as it continued to evolve. His voice was just as recognizable in a modern recording alongside Post Malone as it was decades earlier standing onstage with Black Sabbath.

I don’t know whether we’ll see another collaboration quite like this, or whether another artist from Ozzy’s generation will manage to make such a convincing leap into an entirely different musical era. But I appreciate that he did.

Because sometimes the most interesting thing an artist can do isn’t repeat what made them successful in the first place. Sometimes it’s being willing to step into somebody else’s world and discover that there is still something new to create.

Two generations. Two very different musical languages. One song.

And a reminder that great music doesn’t necessarily have an expiration date.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

It’s Sunday morning, or at least it feels like it should be. For some reason, I find myself thinking about religion again. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been noticing more churches, more people wearing crosses around their necks, and more outward displays of Christianity. Maybe it happens all week long, but on Sundays, it seems more noticeable. Or perhaps I’m just paying closer attention.

Either way, it got me wondering about something that has bothered me for a while: What exactly are we witnessing when we see people flocking to churches to worship a man whose teachings they seem perfectly willing to ignore the other six days of the week?

Now, I’m not suggesting that everyone who attends church is a hypocrite. Far from it. There are genuinely good people who find comfort, community, and a sense of purpose in their faith. Some churches do extraordinary work feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, and helping people who have nowhere else to turn. Those efforts deserve recognition.

But there is a difference between believing in the teachings of Christianity and simply identifying as a Christian. One requires effort, compassion, and a willingness to examine your own behavior. The other requires little more than showing up, wearing the appropriate symbols, and occasionally reminding everyone else that you have God on your side.

And that is where my questions begin.

A Church on Every Corner

Something else I’ve noticed is the number of churches being built. I see new Christian churches appearing in communities, shopping centers, and neighborhoods. I don’t seem to notice the same growth in temples, synagogues, or mosques, although that is an observation from my own surroundings rather than a statistical accounting of religious construction.

Historically, particularly in the American frontier, the church was often among the first institutions established in a new settlement. You built homes, opened a general store, established a school when you could, and built a church. People needed something to hold onto when they were separated from familiar surroundings, established communities, and the institutions that gave their lives structure.

The church was more than a place of worship. It was a gathering place, a social network, a source of assistance, and a place where people could find some reassurance that their lives had meaning beyond the struggle to survive.

And I understand that. When the world is unpredictable, people naturally look for something stable. When life becomes frightening, faith can offer comfort. When people feel powerless, religion can give them the impression that someone, somewhere, is still in control.

So I wonder whether we are returning to that mentality.

Look around. We have political division, economic insecurity, housing costs that make homeownership feel like a fairy tale, and people working full-time jobs who still struggle to pay their bills. We have wars, environmental uncertainty, and a seemingly endless parade of people telling us that civilization is about to collapse unless we buy into their particular version of the truth.

Perhaps people are flocking to churches because they need reassurance that something in their lives remains dependable.

I can understand that impulse. What I question is whether the institution providing that reassurance is always worthy of the trust being placed in it.

The Price of Getting Into Heaven

Here is the part that really bothers me.

You have people who can barely afford groceries, who are struggling to pay rent, who are choosing between prescription medications and keeping the electricity turned on, and yet they feel obligated to give ten or fifteen percent of their income to their church.

Ten or fifteen percent.

Let that sink in for a moment.

If someone is struggling to make ends meet, that percentage can mean the difference between keeping a roof over their head and falling behind on their bills. Yet some congregations teach tithing as a religious obligation, sometimes attaching spiritual consequences to the decision not to give.

And what happens to that money?

Sometimes it goes toward feeding the hungry, helping struggling families, maintaining shelters, and supporting worthwhile community programs. Wonderful. That is exactly the sort of thing a religious organization ought to be doing.

But sometimes the people making the appeals for sacrifice are living considerably more comfortably than the people making those sacrifices.

You have parishioners counting pennies while their pastors drive luxury vehicles. Congregants worrying about their next mortgage payment while church leadership enjoys a lifestyle that seems strangely disconnected from the financial hardships of the flock.

It’s reminiscent of the old stereotype about someone receiving government assistance while driving a Cadillac. That stereotype was never a fair representation of people receiving welfare, but somehow, when the luxury vehicle belongs to a religious leader supported by donations from struggling believers, the questions become a little less fashionable.

Apparently, we are supposed to question the poor person’s possessions but not the prosperity of the person promising them spiritual salvation.

Funny how that works.

And before anyone starts shouting that pastors deserve to be paid, let me be clear: of course they do. Religious leaders have bills, families, and responsibilities like everyone else. There is nothing inherently wrong with earning a reasonable living while serving a congregation.

The problem is the disconnect between the message of humility and the reality of extravagant living. The problem is financial opacity, manipulation, and the suggestion that people who are already struggling must give more while leadership provides little accountability for how those contributions are spent.

In the United States, churches that qualify under the relevant tax rules generally receive significant tax advantages, including exemption from federal income tax on qualifying church income. That can allow religious institutions to direct more of their resources toward their missions. But it also raises a reasonable question: if an organization benefits from special tax treatment because of its religious and charitable purposes, shouldn’t we expect it to demonstrate that those purposes are being served?

I am not suggesting that every church is exploiting its congregation. I am suggesting that religious status should not make an organization immune from scrutiny.

If anything, a claim to moral authority should invite greater scrutiny, not less.

The Man They Say They Follow

And this brings me back to Jesus.

Whatever someone believes about his divinity, the virgin birth, the resurrection, or the other theological claims surrounding Christianity, the figure presented in the Gospels repeatedly emphasizes humility, mercy, generosity, and care for the poor.

In Matthew 25, the familiar passage about feeding the hungry, welcoming strangers, clothing the naked, and visiting the sick and imprisoned makes compassion toward vulnerable people a central measure of one’s relationship with God.

In Matthew 19, Jesus tells a wealthy man to sell his possessions, give to the poor, and follow him. In Matthew 6, he warns against practicing righteousness for public recognition. And in Matthew 21, he overturns the tables of the money changers in the temple.

Now, I realize that biblical passages can be interpreted in different ways, and Christians disagree about theology, salvation, and how these teachings should be applied. But the general themes are difficult to miss.

Where, exactly, did the message of humility and care for the poor become compatible with religious celebrity, political grandstanding, and personal enrichment at the expense of the faithful?

When did Christianity become, for some people, less about following the teachings attributed to Jesus and more about displaying the symbols associated with him?

A cross around your neck is not a substitute for compassion. A bumper sticker proclaiming your faith does not make you a better person. Attending church every Sunday does not automatically excuse the way you treat people on Monday.

And voting for someone because they claim to represent Christian values does not magically make their policies Christian, either.

If you profess to follow a teacher who tells you to love your neighbor, care for the stranger, and show mercy, then perhaps the more important question is not whether you attend church. It is whether the people around you experience those teachings through your actions.

Because if your religion makes you feel morally superior to others while giving you permission to disregard their suffering, something has gone terribly wrong.

Faith in a Time of Uncertainty

Perhaps the growth of churches really is a reflection of the times. Perhaps people are searching for community, certainty, and a sense of belonging in a world that increasingly seems to offer none of those things.

I don’t begrudge anyone that search. If faith helps someone get through a difficult day, gives them hope when they have none, or inspires them to be kinder to the people around them, I see no reason to object.

What I question is the business that can grow around that need.

There is a difference between offering people hope and selling them the promise of hope. There is a difference between encouraging generosity and convincing financially desperate people that their last few dollars are a test of their faith. And there is a difference between leading a congregation and building a personal empire on the backs of people who believe that giving more money will bring them closer to God.

If your congregation is struggling, perhaps the first question should be whether the church can do more to help its members rather than whether its members can do more to finance the church.

If your neighbors are hungry, perhaps the priority should be feeding them rather than building another elaborate sanctuary.

And if your pastor is preaching the virtues of humility from the driver’s seat of a luxury car, perhaps someone should ask whether the vehicle is serving the mission or whether the mission is serving the vehicle.

Just a thought.

The Wandering Preacher

The image that stays with me is that of Jesus as the wandering preacher, traveling from place to place, teaching, healing, and speaking to ordinary people. Whatever one’s religious beliefs, that image stands in stark contrast to the modern spectacle of expensive church buildings, carefully cultivated religious celebrities, and congregations asked to finance lifestyles they could never afford themselves.

Maybe that contrast is unfair in some cases. Buildings require maintenance, congregations need organization, and religious communities can do good work on a large scale. I understand all of that.

But the contrast is worth considering.

If the man at the center of Christianity could walk among the poor, the sick, the outcast, and the people society had dismissed, why do some of the institutions built in his name seem so preoccupied with their own wealth, influence, and political power?

Perhaps the problem isn’t faith itself. Perhaps it is what happens when human beings discover that faith can be turned into authority, authority into influence, and influence into money.

That is hardly a new story. Organized religion has produced extraordinary acts of kindness throughout history, but it has also been used to justify greed, exclusion, conquest, and the abuse of power. The existence of the good does not erase the bad, and the existence of the bad does not invalidate every sincere believer.

Which brings me back to Sunday morning.

I don’t know what is in the hearts of the people walking through those church doors. Some are there because they believe. Some are there because they are lonely. Some are frightened. Some are grateful. Some are searching for answers. And some may simply be following a routine passed down through generations.

I can respect that.

But I will continue to question the people who claim to speak for a humble, wandering teacher while accumulating wealth from people who can barely afford to live. I will question those who preach compassion but practice contempt, who preach generosity but demand it disproportionately from the poor, and who insist that the rest of us follow their moral example while refusing to examine their own.

Because if Christianity is supposed to be about following the teachings of Jesus, then perhaps we should spend less time counting the crosses around our necks and more time counting the people we have helped.

And perhaps the most important measure of faith isn’t how often we enter a church, how much money we put in the collection plate, or how loudly we proclaim our beliefs.

Perhaps it is whether we have made life a little less difficult for someone else.

After all, if the person you claim to follow spent his time among the poor, the hungry, and the forgotten, shouldn’t that be where you look for him?

Not in the size of the church.

Not in the price of the pastor’s car.

And certainly not in the balance of the collection plate.

Maybe the real question for Sunday morning isn’t Do you believe?

Maybe it’s this:

If you believe, does anyone else benefit from it?

Dwain Northey

The Self-Sufficient Data Center: An Idea From a Non-Engineer

Let me preface this by saying I’m not an engineer, an architect, or someone who designs data centers for a living. I’m just a guy looking at the growing controversy surrounding data centers, particularly their enormous consumption of electricity and water, and wondering why we seem to be approaching the problem as though these facilities have to operate at the expense of the communities surrounding them.

We keep hearing about data centers being built across the country, the enormous amounts of electricity they consume, the strain they put on local power grids, and the water required to keep all those servers from overheating. Communities are increasingly being asked to shoulder the burden of these facilities while the companies building them reap the benefits.

And I keep coming back to a relatively simple question: Why aren’t we designing these facilities to be more self-sufficient?

I have a couple of ideas. They may not be technically practical in exactly the form I’m imagining, and I’m sure an engineer could explain a dozen things I haven’t considered. But sometimes looking at a problem without being invested in the existing way of doing things allows you to ask a different question.

First, let’s deal with the water.

One of the biggest complaints about data centers, particularly in places like Arizona and other water-stressed regions, is how much water they require for cooling. We’re talking about facilities that can place an additional burden on communities already struggling to manage a limited water supply.

My thought would be to design the facility around a calculated water-storage and recirculation system. Essentially, build the necessary storage tanks on the property, fill them with the initial volume of water required for cooling, and continuously circulate that water through a closed-loop cooling system.

Rather than constantly drawing fresh water from municipal supplies, the facility would recycle and reuse its cooling water on the premises. Think of it as a large-scale gray-water system designed specifically for industrial cooling.

There would inevitably be some water loss through evaporation, maintenance, and system requirements. Perhaps the tanks would need periodic replenishment every 30 or 60 days, depending on the system’s actual consumption. But the objective would be to make those replenishments relatively small compared with the facility’s overall cooling requirements.

The important distinction is that the water would be a stored resource being reused rather than a continuously consumed resource being taken away from the surrounding community.

Obviously, water quality, filtration, mineral buildup, and treatment would have to be engineered into the system. But those are engineering problems to solve, not necessarily reasons to abandon the concept.

Second, let’s talk about electricity.

If we’re going to build enormous facilities that consume enormous amounts of electricity, why shouldn’t we require them to generate a substantial portion of their own power?

My idea would be to require enough property around the facility to accommodate two or three football-field-sized solar installations. Not a token collection of panels on the roof intended to make the company look environmentally responsible in its annual sustainability report, but an actual solar-generation field designed to contribute meaningfully to the facility’s electrical requirements.

The facility could incorporate battery storage to capture excess daytime generation and provide electricity when sunlight isn’t available. It could remain connected to the electrical grid for supplemental power and reliability, but the goal would be to reduce its dependence on the local electrical infrastructure.

If a company is profitable enough to build a multibillion-dollar data center, it should be capable of investing in the infrastructure necessary to support its own operation.

Third, let’s address the noise.

Anyone who has lived near industrial facilities knows that noise isn’t an insignificant consideration. Data centers require substantial cooling infrastructure, and those enormous ventilation and cooling systems can create a constant mechanical hum.

My thought would be to place the cooling fans and associated mechanical equipment inside partially or fully earth-covered sound-dampening structures. Imagine bunkered enclosures with two or three feet of engineered sound insulation, covered with earth and planted with native vegetation.

Essentially, rather than having enormous mechanical equipment sitting exposed around the perimeter of a building, you incorporate it into the landscape.

The vegetation and earth-covered structures would provide additional sound mitigation, improve the appearance of the property, and create a more natural buffer between the facility and neighboring communities.

Obviously, engineers would have to account for airflow, heat rejection, maintenance access, fire safety, and equipment ventilation. You can’t simply bury a giant cooling fan and expect it to work. But the concept of enclosing noisy mechanical equipment in engineered, sound-dampened structures seems worth exploring.

And in Arizona, using native desert vegetation rather than some decorative grass lawn would make considerably more sense.

Put all three ideas together, and you have a different approach to building a data center.

A facility with its own substantial water-storage and recycling system. Its own solar-generation infrastructure and battery storage. And cooling equipment designed to minimize noise and environmental disruption.

Would it eliminate every demand on municipal infrastructure? Probably not. Would solar panels covering two or three football fields provide all the electricity a massive modern data center requires? Almost certainly not. The actual energy requirements would have to determine the size of the installation, and additional renewable generation or other sources might be necessary.

But that’s precisely the point. These facilities should be designed around reducing their impact on the communities where they’re built, not simply connecting to whatever public resources happen to be available.

We seem to have developed an interesting business model in this country. Private corporations build enormous facilities, consume public resources, negotiate favorable utility arrangements, and then expect local communities to accommodate the consequences. When residents complain about water shortages, rising electricity costs, or industrial noise, we’re told that these facilities represent progress and economic development.

Apparently, progress means everybody else gets to pay for the infrastructure.

I’m not suggesting that data centers shouldn’t exist. Quite the opposite. We are becoming increasingly dependent on them, and artificial intelligence, cloud computing, and digital infrastructure aren’t going away. But if these companies are going to become essential components of our economy, perhaps we should start treating their infrastructure requirements as part of the cost of doing business.

Build the water system. Generate the electricity. Contain the noise. Use the land intelligently. Incorporate native vegetation. Reduce the burden on the people who already live there.

And perhaps most importantly, make self-sufficiency a requirement rather than an optional environmental talking point.

Again, I’m not an engineer. Maybe there are technical limitations that make some of these ideas impractical, or perhaps there are better ways to accomplish the same objectives. I’m perfectly willing to let the people who understand the engineering work out the details.

But I don’t think it’s unreasonable to suggest that a company capable of building a facility that processes billions of pieces of information every second should also be capable of figuring out how to recycle its water, generate more of its own electricity, and keep its neighbors from listening to its cooling equipment around the clock.

We managed to put a man on the moon. Surely we can figure out how to build a data center that doesn’t need to borrow the neighborhood’s water, electricity, and peace and quiet just to keep its computers running.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Let me preface this by saying I’m not an engineer, an architect, or someone who designs data centers for a living. I’m just a guy looking at the growing controversy surrounding data centers, particularly their enormous consumption of electricity and water, and wondering why we seem to be approaching the problem as though these facilities have to operate at the expense of the communities surrounding them.

We keep hearing about data centers being built across the country, the enormous amounts of electricity they consume, the strain they put on local power grids, and the water required to keep all those servers from overheating. Communities are increasingly being asked to shoulder the burden of these facilities while the companies building them reap the benefits.

And I keep coming back to a relatively simple question: Why aren’t we designing these facilities to be more self-sufficient?

I have a couple of ideas. They may not be technically practical in exactly the form I’m imagining, and I’m sure an engineer could explain a dozen things I haven’t considered. But sometimes looking at a problem without being invested in the existing way of doing things allows you to ask a different question.

First, let’s deal with the water.

One of the biggest complaints about data centers, particularly in places like Arizona and other water-stressed regions, is how much water they require for cooling. We’re talking about facilities that can place an additional burden on communities already struggling to manage a limited water supply.

My thought would be to design the facility around a calculated water-storage and recirculation system. Essentially, build the necessary storage tanks on the property, fill them with the initial volume of water required for cooling, and continuously circulate that water through a closed-loop cooling system.

Rather than constantly drawing fresh water from municipal supplies, the facility would recycle and reuse its cooling water on the premises. Think of it as a large-scale gray-water system designed specifically for industrial cooling.

There would inevitably be some water loss through evaporation, maintenance, and system requirements. Perhaps the tanks would need periodic replenishment every 30 or 60 days, depending on the system’s actual consumption. But the objective would be to make those replenishments relatively small compared with the facility’s overall cooling requirements.

The important distinction is that the water would be a stored resource being reused rather than a continuously consumed resource being taken away from the surrounding community.

Obviously, water quality, filtration, mineral buildup, and treatment would have to be engineered into the system. But those are engineering problems to solve, not necessarily reasons to abandon the concept.

Second, let’s talk about electricity.

If we’re going to build enormous facilities that consume enormous amounts of electricity, why shouldn’t we require them to generate a substantial portion of their own power?

My idea would be to require enough property around the facility to accommodate two or three football-field-sized solar installations. Not a token collection of panels on the roof intended to make the company look environmentally responsible in its annual sustainability report, but an actual solar-generation field designed to contribute meaningfully to the facility’s electrical requirements.

The facility could incorporate battery storage to capture excess daytime generation and provide electricity when sunlight isn’t available. It could remain connected to the electrical grid for supplemental power and reliability, but the goal would be to reduce its dependence on the local electrical infrastructure.

If a company is profitable enough to build a multibillion-dollar data center, it should be capable of investing in the infrastructure necessary to support its own operation.

Third, let’s address the noise.

Anyone who has lived near industrial facilities knows that noise isn’t an insignificant consideration. Data centers require substantial cooling infrastructure, and those enormous ventilation and cooling systems can create a constant mechanical hum.

My thought would be to place the cooling fans and associated mechanical equipment inside partially or fully earth-covered sound-dampening structures. Imagine bunkered enclosures with two or three feet of engineered sound insulation, covered with earth and planted with native vegetation.

Essentially, rather than having enormous mechanical equipment sitting exposed around the perimeter of a building, you incorporate it into the landscape.

The vegetation and earth-covered structures would provide additional sound mitigation, improve the appearance of the property, and create a more natural buffer between the facility and neighboring communities.

Obviously, engineers would have to account for airflow, heat rejection, maintenance access, fire safety, and equipment ventilation. You can’t simply bury a giant cooling fan and expect it to work. But the concept of enclosing noisy mechanical equipment in engineered, sound-dampened structures seems worth exploring.

And in Arizona, using native desert vegetation rather than some decorative grass lawn would make considerably more sense.

Put all three ideas together, and you have a different approach to building a data center.

A facility with its own substantial water-storage and recycling system. Its own solar-generation infrastructure and battery storage. And cooling equipment designed to minimize noise and environmental disruption.

Would it eliminate every demand on municipal infrastructure? Probably not. Would solar panels covering two or three football fields provide all the electricity a massive modern data center requires? Almost certainly not. The actual energy requirements would have to determine the size of the installation, and additional renewable generation or other sources might be necessary.

But that’s precisely the point. These facilities should be designed around reducing their impact on the communities where they’re built, not simply connecting to whatever public resources happen to be available.

We seem to have developed an interesting business model in this country. Private corporations build enormous facilities, consume public resources, negotiate favorable utility arrangements, and then expect local communities to accommodate the consequences. When residents complain about water shortages, rising electricity costs, or industrial noise, we’re told that these facilities represent progress and economic development.

Apparently, progress means everybody else gets to pay for the infrastructure.

I’m not suggesting that data centers shouldn’t exist. Quite the opposite. We are becoming increasingly dependent on them, and artificial intelligence, cloud computing, and digital infrastructure aren’t going away. But if these companies are going to become essential components of our economy, perhaps we should start treating their infrastructure requirements as part of the cost of doing business.

Build the water system. Generate the electricity. Contain the noise. Use the land intelligently. Incorporate native vegetation. Reduce the burden on the people who already live there.

And perhaps most importantly, make self-sufficiency a requirement rather than an optional environmental talking point.

Again, I’m not an engineer. Maybe there are technical limitations that make some of these ideas impractical, or perhaps there are better ways to accomplish the same objectives. I’m perfectly willing to let the people who understand the engineering work out the details.

But I don’t think it’s unreasonable to suggest that a company capable of building a facility that processes billions of pieces of information every second should also be capable of figuring out how to recycle its water, generate more of its own electricity, and keep its neighbors from listening to its cooling equipment around the clock.

We managed to put a man on the moon. Surely we can figure out how to build a data center that doesn’t need to borrow the neighborhood’s water, electricity, and peace and quiet just to keep its computers running.