Name That Moon

Quoted from the International Star Registry website:

“Name a Star, that's right, an actual star! International Star Registry is your star naming resource! What do you get for the person who has everything? For $54, plus shipping and handling, you can name a star.”

Wow! $54.00 to name a star anything you want! Not bad. On a clear, moonless night, you can see roughly 100,000 stars with a small telescope. Any chance one of those stars are up for grabs? Probably not. Donald Trump undoubtedly bought up half the Milky Way the moment the stars first went public. So who knows where your star might be. Chances are, it’s just a scrap of static picked up on a radio telescope, completely invisible to the most sensitive optical equipment. But it’s there, and it’s got your name on it for a paltry 54 bucks.

What I want to know is, how much does a black hole go for? That would be cool, wouldn’t it? When the guy down the street buys his wife the star formerly known as HR 4276 (now called Trixie’s Deelite), you can say, “Yeah, well I’ve got the black hole formerly known as Sagittarius A*. I’ve renamed it Jaws and it works for me now. Anything you need to say to Trixie’s Deelite, I suggest you say it soon.”

Naming astronomical objects is a pretty arbitrary business, but let’s face it, naming is one of the tasks we humans do best. Wasn’t that the first job assigned to Adam and Eve, to name the things in the Garden of Eden? And who do you suppose did most of the naming? Come on, there’s no need to guess:

“Honeybunch, let’s call this thing Evil Tube.”

“Too late, Adam. I’ve already named him Snake.”

“Huh. Snake. Cool.”

But here’s something I don’t understand. With this human compulsion to name everything in sight, why hasn’t anyone given the moon a name? It’s just ‘the moon.’ The planet we live on is called the Earth, and the star that holds us in orbit and grants us life is called the Sun. But the moon is just the moon. Who was in charge of that? Tarzan? It’s like naming my children Girl 1 and Girl 2. It just doesn’t seem like a whole lot of thought went into it.

Consider Jupiter. The largest planet in our solar system might have some 60 or more moons — they’re still discovering them, so we don’t know how many for sure. But look at the names: Metis, Adrastea, Amalthea, Thebe, Io, Europa, Ganymede (the biggest), Callisto (the second biggest), Leda (the smallest), Himalia, Lysithea, Elara, Ananke, Carme, Pasiphae and Sinope, with more on the way. See? That’s how you name moons! So what happened here at home? Why hasn’t anyone named our moon?

I want everyone to consider this frightening scenario: Earth has been contacted by intelligent life from outside our solar system. A spaceship lands on the National Mall, just like the one in The Day the Earth Stood Still. We are greeted by an alien diplomatic team eager to establish friendly relations with our planet. The leaders of all the nations gather to one spot where a magnificent state dinner is held with the aliens as their honored guests. At the center of the head table the U.S. president sits, flanked by the Zoranthian Consul General on one side and his translator on the other. Everything is going well, the right words are said, no one trips over the consul’s tentacles, and miraculously no spinach gets stuck in the president’s teeth. At one point, the Zoranthian translator passes along a compliment paid by his superior. “Mr. President, the Consul General noticed your moon last night and thought it quite lovely. What name do you call it?” An awkward pause. Should the president lie, make up something on the spot? No, no, that would be sure to backfire. Better go with the truth. “Actually, we simply call it ‘the moon,’” he says apologetically. Another awkward pause.”Um . . . should I tell him that?” the translator finally asks. And right then, the president thinks, “We are so invaded…”

Folks, if I had Donald Trump money, I’d go after the naming rights to the moon. I would open up my wallet and make a little history. Maybe I’d have to sell off some assets and leverage a small country, but I’d find a way. And then I’d name it anything I want. I’d give it a name I like, maybe one I wish I had. Hmm. You know, maybe I’d name it . . . Kevin.

Brad and Kyle are pretty good, and Todd is OK, but Kevin . . . it’s got a nice ring, don’t you think? Try it on for size: “Watch out — it’s a full Kevin tonight.” “Only once in a blue Kevin.” “You want Kevin, Mary? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it!” “When Kevin hits your eye like a big pizza pie…”

Of course, there are a lot of people who think naming the moon requires a little more deliberation than this. Poets, no doubt, will want to get in on the act. “We offer you Selene, the Greek moon goddess!” they’ll announce dramatically. And then the scientists will step in and vociferously state, “We must take into account that the moon regulates the oceans!” Point well taken. So let’s call it Squirt then. Or Tide Boy. “In theory, the moon was once part of the Earth!” Great! How about Spawn? “The moon is a satellite!” Sputnik. “It’s surface is cratered!” Pocky. “It’s got two sides!” Schizo. “It has many phases!” Sibyll.

You know, maybe there was a reason no one named the moon. Everyone will have their own idea and the debate will go on forever. For instance, I’m willing to guess right now that all two or three of the people reading this post think Kevin is a terrible name. Am I right? Am I? Well, can you do better? Ha! Let’s hear ’em then!