Oh, for heaven's sake...who cares what they call Pluto. Let's call him a bowling ball.

That bowling ball just went direct Monday. I'm no Scorpio, but I was born at Pluto station, and that bowling ball definitely let me it know it was coming back to hit me upside the head!!

after reading your quote I couldn't quite bring myself to not reply with...


The secret ot happiness involves ducking the fast flying ukelele's...

And since we know the moon isn't a planet and call it a planet anyway, what's it matter?

okay just my two cents... Granny

Memo: To Pluto

From: The Solar System

Subject: Demotion to dwarf planet status.

Dear Pluto:

Whew. This is a tough one. First, I just want you to know that we
all feel terrible about this. I think I speak for us all -- Mars, Venus, the whole gang -- when I say you've been like a sun to us. Seriously.

Look, I can't say this is fair. It isn't. Downsizing is just a fact
of life these days. It's universal. One minute you're on the "Children's Guide to the Solar System," and the next you're a black hole. Who knows how they make these calls at headquarters?

I do have to say, in all honesty, that there were some problems. A
lot of it was just image stuff. We've talked about this before. Like, what makes Mercury so hot anyhow? It is hard to fight perceptions like that.

And, to be brutally honest, you probably could have done a better job with your presentation. There were times when you were seen as distant, loof, even cold. Nobody saw you much. We ran in the same circles for ears and years, but I don't think anybody really got to know you. It wasn't just your "eccentric orbit," you know. There were plenty of whispers that you were "way out there," or "too spacey."

As for the jokes, well, I don't think there was much you could do
about that. "Hey look, isn't that Pluto? Out by Uranus?" How many times did we hear that one? No matter how many times we explained that Neptune is the planet next to you, it didn't matter. Sophomoric humor is a force that transcends astrophysics.

At the end of the day, I think we all realize that what it really
comes down to is Earth. (I know, who made them the center of the universe?) Earth, with its big, gassy atmosphere and all those peeping pointy-headed scientists with their telescopes.

They act like they created planets. Hello? Big Bang? Ten billion
years ago? Frankly, I don't get it. First they name us, then they take it away. For seventy-some years you were a planet. Now you're a "dwarf planet." What's next, changing your name to "Dopey"?

But there was a time, eh, when you were a star. Back in the 1930s, you were mysterious and theoretical. Astronomers on Earth stayed up nights thinking about you. They'd hang around the observatory, just hoping to catch a glimpse of you on a night when you were out with Neptune.

Remember the excitement when they finally saw you? There was all the
talk about what your name should be. The New York Times got involved,
suggesting Minerva, which sounds like a name for a new kitchen range. And then, an 11-year-old girl from England, Venetia Phair, suggested Pluto, and it stuck. (Personally, I'd say if anyone needed a new name it was Venetia Phair, but that's probably just solar snark.)

And all right, as it turned out, Pluto was probably not the most
awe-inspiring choice. Jupiter gets to be the giant of the skies, and you
turn out to be Mickey Mouse's dog. A bad break, no doubt about it.

Still, there was a window of opportunity there, a chance to make a
name for yourself. And I'll be honest, you didn't do much to help matters.
It seemed you were never available for photographs. And you projected a
chilly, frigid atmosphere. It wasn't inviting, frankly.

The more they got to know you, the more there were doubts. They said
you lacked "gravitas." The whisper campaign began. You were smaller than seven moons in the solar system, even -- and this was a killer -- Earth's moon.

I don't have to tell you how it all unraveled from there. There was
sniping about your "oblong orbit." (Hey, we all accept the orbit we're
given. It's a universal law.) A low point had to be when that big ball of
ice, UB313, was put up for planethood in 2003. Hey, it's a solar system, not a Little League team. Not everybody gets to play, OK?

Yanking your planet status is a blow, no doubt about it. More than
anything, I suppose, it is embarrassing. But you'll get over it. The sun
will come up again in another 162 hours, just like always.

The good news is, you still have a chance to shine. Earth scientists
say they are going ahead with the $700 million New Horizons spacecraft
flyby. It is expected to pass you on July 14, 2015.

We're all pulling for you when that happens. We know that when they
see you up close and in person they will understand that you are not some
dwarf, or a "minor planet," but a key part of the solar system. We'd just
say that you should always remember who you are and what we think of you.

You rock.



(http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/object/ar ... 6/08/27/IN\
G2AKPFQ81.DTL&o=0)