August 24, 2006 will forever go down in history as The Day A Planet Died. No, nothing in the heavens exploded in firey doom, but millions of hearts around Earth disintegrated like so much cosmic dust nonetheless.

Today, the International Astronomical Union proclaimed that Pluto- that eternal underdog of orbiting bodies, that chunk of ice with a diameter of less than two-thirds the width of the United States, that final destination of history's longest roadtrip: NASA's New Horizons nine and a half year journey- is no longer a planet.

I, and millions of others since 1930 who hastily stuck styrofoam balls on bent coat hangers to make last minute science fair projects, feel as if someone just told me Taft was no longer considered a president: slightly confused. Not so much as I would be if I was told, say, Lincoln was never a president, but forlorn even so. The scrappy guy who is remembered for only something unflattering (Taft was so big he got stuck in a bathtub, Pluto is so small it got stuck in other planets' orbits) but soldiered on to make a tiny mark, is being forever snuffed from history.

For nostalgia sake, can not Pluto be "grandfathered" in to our solar system? Why must it be so unceremoniously stripped of its dignity? It's only a wee place, it never hurt anybody- can't we just let it hang out with the other planets to boost its ego? Next thing we know, Pluto is going to be wearing all black, writing bad poetry, and shopping at Hot Topic like the rest of the dejected Nouveau Salingers of today. I'm betting the price of a prescription for Prozac is mighty high for a planet. Do we want its suicide on our collective conscience?

Finally, I ask you this: WHAT exactly is my very educated mother just going to show us? WHAT? It is a question that will be eternally shrouded in mystery for future generations. They deserve the truth.

Think of the children. Make Pluto a planet again.