The other day, TWAMSIAM, (This Will All Make Sense in a Minute), had a chance to sit down with the former planet, now reclassified “dwarf planet,” Pluto.
We met at Marix Playa, a trendy Santa Monica eatery, just a short drive from his beach retreat in Malibu.
Despite his recent troubles, the Orb was all smiles.
“Heyyyy…there you are!!! Listen, you gotta try the Amarillo scramble—eggs, smoked cranberry turkey sausage, fusilli pasta tomatoes, basil and a little cilantro.”
Dapper in his ascot, smoking jacket, protective gel wrap, and classic Wayfarers, P ordered for the table.
“Gee, another writer. I wonder what you want to talk about.”
“Has it been crazy?”
“I will say this—you guys are so focused on Mars and Martians and Mars candy bars, it’s always a shock when I hear from Earth. But now the attention is overwhelming.”
“And how has that been for you? You’re not considered a very—“
“Yeah, I have a reputation for being cold.”
“And with the media hounding you..?”
“I finally caved. For years Neptune has been telling me to hire a publicist. So PMK handles most of it now.”
“Have you seen the coverage?”
“People are gonna write what they’re gonna write. Entertainment Weekly says I’m cavorting with “X-71v3k,” which isn’t even an asteroid. X-71v3k couldn’t climb its way out of one of my craters, but supposedly we’re a couple. Right. Meanwhile, US Weekly says I’m too small because I’m anorexic."
“But, in fact, you have been removed from the list of planets in our solar system.”
“And why? Because of my physical size? Ridiculous! How about other criteria? I know—why not pick the planets with the largest orbits, huh? See how Mercury likes that one!
“Look—this isn’t the kind of thing you debate. You spend a few million years going around with eight other planets, you build a relationship. Sure, I’ve always been a loner. But in my secret heart, it felt good to be in a family.
“We were a great solar system. I know I didn’t make every meeting, and I’d go off in my own direction—a middle school teacher in Dayton, OH, a Mr. Gritzinger, talks about “Pluto’s wacky orbit.” That’s fine. The kids love me. But you have to understand—that Yellow Fireball is so far away, sends me very little light or warmth, and still controls every move I make.”
“So, you have issues.”
“It’s hard. Especially since the weigh-in was unfair. Five, ten orbits ago, I was much bigger. But you know how it is—you miss a few meals, you take off your overcoat, play some ball, go for a shvitz, and all of a sudden, they’re measuring you when you’re down a few tons. And they’re measuring you all the time. No advance warning. Geez-- I’m not a cyclist, y’know.”
“Okay, Plu, so what do you do now?”
“Relax, pal. I’m gonna do what I do. You think because some peanut-sized guys on some fat sloshy planet—no offense—change your rank, you think that changes anything? I’m Pluto, man. I’ll do my thing—rotate, orbit, or I’ll just chill. And you know what? Those astronomers are still gonna want me; they’re still taking my picture every chance they get. I don’t need a little dog in my lap or a music video to make that happen. People still love the Pluto.”