Yesterday I dropped off a pile of newspapers and cardboard boxes at the local recycling container. The containers are maintained by the regional Recovery And Landfill Facility. I know this, because painted on the side of each container are big black letters spelling out:
RALF.
After taking a whiff if the fetid stink of composting lawn cuttings, molding milk cartons, and decomposing wet cardboard, I realized that no name on earth could be more appropriate.
Didja know that scientists found a tenth planet in our solar system on July 29? I know, I know, this is nearly month-old news, but I live in South Dakota, okay? Come August, if it ain’t about Sturgis or motorcycles, folks here ain’t done want nuthin’ to do with it. For example, when Iran recently engaged in a potentially catastrophic NUCLEAR SHOWDOWN with the United Nations, the story only made it to page A-8 of the Rapid City Journal, below the fold, and next to an article about a water-skiing orangutan. But I digress.
Apparently astronomers at the Palomar Observatory in San Diego (yay, Palomar!) discovered a tenth planet orbiting Sol way, way out past Pluto. Though initial data suggests Planet 10 has an abundance of rock and ice and pretty much nothing else, no definitive proof yet exists that it is not home to armies of Red Lectroids bent on stealing our oscillating overthrusters and attacking us through the eighth dimension. Peter Weller, we need you!
According to NASA, the scientists have already suggested a name for Planet 10 to the International Astronomical Union. There is a rumor that the name suggested by discoverer Mike Brown and his team is Xena, as in the warrior princess. No, really. I find this appalling, partly because no planet should ever be named after cheese-ball syndicated TV shows (even the ones about badass gravity-defying lesbian-warlords), but mostly because any geek worth his salt already knows that the planet’s name is Rupert.
Then again, even Xena is better than its current name, which is TNO:2003-UB313. Apparently our new-fangled telescopes are sharp enough to read the bar codes on planets now.
However, the whole “I hereby name thee Rupert of the system Sol” ceremony is being put on hold until scientists can agree on whether Rupert actually is a planet or not. Supporters say there’s no argument: “Rupert is a helluva lot larger than that rinky-dinky Pluto thingy, and, dude, Pluto is a planet, so there.” Detractors, conversely, argue that Rupert should NOT be a planet, because (a) it is extraordinarily far from the sun relative to the other planets, (b) has an extremely elliptical orbit outside the orbital plane of the other planets, and (c) it would totally fuck up the My very educated mother just sent us nine pizzas mnemonic they spent all of seventh grade memorizing. “But,” counter the supporters, “Pluto has these same problems too. Hence, if Rupert can’t be a planet, neither can Pluto, so stuff that in your fanch-shmancy mnemonic and smoke it.”
In an attempt to bring these two camps together, I humbly suggest that TNO:2003-UB313 should be considered a planet, since
And if we name it Rupert, we can placate the discontents by only slightly altering the planet mnemonic into My very educated mother just showed us new Planet Rupert. This is actually an improvement over the current mnemonic, as it not only helps cement the planet’s name in the minds of the general public, but also actually demonstrates the mother’s supposed intellectual ability, since discussing the existence of newly discovered celestial bodies clearly requires a bit more book-learnin’ than ordering an excessive number of pizzas from Domino’s.
Yeah, I know: I’m a uniter, not a divider. But I digress. Again.
The International Astronomical Union is putting together a body to determine TNO:2003-UB313’s planetary status, thereby giving an official definition for what constitutes “a planet.” One that, quite possibly, Pluto might actaully fail to live up to. Now that’s gotta be a pretty cool gig for a scientist. It’s not everyday that you are granted dispensation to bestow or revoke planethood from something. How far does such power go? Is it possible that such a group could, say, redefine the Asteroid Belt to be the “chewy nuget center of the solar system?” And if so, how might we convince them to do that, ’cause that’d be sweet?
Anyways, I’m rooting for Rupert or Planet 10 or TNO:2003-UB313 or whatever it’ll be called. The seemingly arbitrary nature of its planetness reminds me of the Simpson’s episode where Mr. Burns is shot: “TNO:2003-UB313 was taken to an international astronomical coalition, where it was pronounced comet. It was then taken to a better international astronomical coalition, where its condition was upgraded to a planet.”
So stay strong, TNO:2003-UB313!
And remember, whatever happens, at least your name won’t be Uranus.
Okay, okay… it’s been over a month since I promised to tell you my excuses for komplexify’s lack of updates. What can I say? Life becomes extraordinarily busy when you buy a new home.
That’s right; I am now officially a homeowner! Check out my new digs:
This is an example of a “split-foyer home,” a housing style that is maddeningly popular in our neighborhood despite the complete lack of utility of its design. The single defining feature of the split-foyer home is, paradoxically enough, the utter lack of any foyer: the main entrance to the abode opens not into an antechamber but into a staircase caught in the act of twisting 180 degrees between the two levels of the home. It’s rather like walking into Escher’s Relativity, except it’s significantly less spacious and there is a noticeable lack of other people strolling about on the walls.
And it has a hot tub! Mmmmmm, hot tub.
Odd entryway aside, it is a very nice house. The Queen B likes it because it has vaulted ceilings and central air-conditioning, a large yard with a shade tree and a deck for entertaining, multiple bathrooms, and a laundry room. She likes it because it is located on a quiet street in a nice neighborhood, a nice place in which to raise a daughter. She likes that it is located conveniently close to the hospital, the fire department, a public park, a public pool, a golf course, while being sufficiently far from the flood plains. She likes it because, while it is currently in excellent condition, she sees the potential for adding details and designs to make the home hers.
I like it because it has a hot tub. Mmmmmm, hot tub.
Actually, I like that it has a hot tub and a new garage. Have you ever smelled a new garage? Everyone loves that new car small, but that comes nowhere near the olfactory nirvana that is the smell of a brand new, sparkling clean, two-car garage. You might think it would smell of fresh lumber, concrete, and a hint of tire rubber — and, to be honest, it does — but mostly it smells of possibilities! Tools! A workbench! Bikes hanging from the rafters! A shelf for hot tub supplies!
In any case, buying the house was a rather engaging process. By “engaging,” I mean, “consuming every waking moment of my life, oh dear God, I did I get myself into?” There was the mortgage, a pleasantly French word for “home loan” that actually translates to the slightly less pleasant “make payments until you are dead.” There was the inspection and the appraisal and the closing and the thousand little other events that mostly involved the Queen B and I signing our names on brightly colored sheets of paper and cutting very large checks to people in nice suits. There was the actual moving of furniture, an already difficult process made damn near impossible what with the topologically challenging entryway discussed above. There was the repainting and recarpeting and retiling and relaminating and boxing and unboxing and all manner of plagues and pestilences.
And yet, at the end of it, we have a home! All the trials and tribulations of the previous month suddenly seem insignificant when I come home, sit on the couch with my wife, turn on the TV, and realize that this is all ours! This is our home! And it has a hot tub!
Mmmmmm, hot tub.
