Planetarium

Last week Spider finally finished moving, so she, Nikki and I went to the planetarium to celebrate. The paper said the planetarium show was going to be a new one about the origin of the universe, parallel universes and black holes. We were intrigued because we like that freaky brand of "and then we're all going to DIE HORRIBLY AS THE UNIVERSE EXPLODES AND/OR COLLAPSES" science. The guy there told us that they were "still having problems" with that show (which I really hope is science museum code for "the projector took a guy's head off"), but that they were running a show about the birth and death of stars which was equally good.

I guess the planetarium people are desperate for audience members, because that was not an accurate summary. We really should have been tipped off by all the little kids in the audience.

We sat in a row of three seats right in front of the projector. Spider really liked the projector, and we all agreed that it would be a good talking robot in a low-budget science fiction movie. We were getting a little goofy, thanks to a little-understood phenomenon I like to refer to as "girls'-night-out critical mass," but we tried our best not to giggle too much and frighten the children. It didn't help that the announcer sounded like Kermit the Frog.

The show started out with the operator dimming the lights and pointing out some constellations, then dimming them even more so it'd look like we were out in the country. I think planetarium shows are required to do this by law. Then, the prerecorded show started.


The Little Star That Could


Uh-oh.

A long, long time ago a medium-sized yellow star was formed and went around the galaxy talking to other stars, trying to learn about astronomy find out what his name was. The star was a projected yellow circle, with various line-art faces that changed as it talked. The art looked like it was from a 1970s anti-drug pamphlet.

As the yellow star traveled (playing jaunty traveling music) through the galaxy, he met other stars. The big red star had sunglasses and sideburns and bragged in an Elvis voice that he was the coolest star ever. He told the yellow star that the only way to get a name was to have a planet with life on it, and that his planets called him "Big Daddy." The twin stars were shrill little girls with bows in their hair and told the yellow star he wasn't special, and that he couldn't have any planets. The blue-white star was angry and incoherent, and the white giant told the star,

"I'm many times older than you -- and very, very hot!" In an older woman's voice. Shades of The Graduate!

The globular cluster's voice sounded like the character Edgar from the movie Men in Black, and I now finally have an impression I can perform successfully. Well, that and Vyvyan Basterd from The Young Ones.

Spider and Nikki and I were laughing and laughing, as quietly as possible. I bit down on my index finger, and Nikki seemed to be choking herself in an attempt not to anger the mothers of small children. Whenever the star went to visit other stars and the peppy walking music played we did perform hand motions and a little sitting down dance.

Then, after looking all over for planets and being told that he was an "average yellow star - nothing special," the Universe talked to the yellow star. Of course, the Universe has a British accent. Not at all surprisingly, it turned out that the average yellow star was the Sun, and just didn't notice that he had planets.

It took a very special star to have planets, particularly a planet with life on it. This cheesed me off a little, because I think these kids should be told as soon as possible that we live in a random, uncaring universe and our sector of space and our sun aren't anything special. Cosmic indifference will give 'em strength of character.

Then all the planets introduced themselves as their pictures were projected on the dome, ruining our night vision. Mercury had some weird-ass speech impediment I've never encountered before. Venus was a hussy. Uranus was very careful about pronouncing his name. Pluto's teeth chattered. The other planets weren't memorable. Earth had the old lady voice again, but this time it was in an attempt to seem maternal.

The Sun then came up with a freaky mnemonic to remember his planets. It was something like "My Video Eye May Just Show Us Nine Planets." I t seemed like its phrasing would be unfamiliar to the small children the show was targeted at. I always used the "Mother Very Easily Made a Jam Sandwich Using No Peanuts" mnemonic. That one is also superior because it mentions the asteroid belt.

I went into the planetarium that day interested in astronomy, and I came out scared of space and all the bad character actors who lurk in the inky blackness.

It was definitely worth $3.50 for entertainment value, though. We laughed into the parking lot, and I performed my globular cluster impression to great hilarity in our retellings of the experience.

Only one thing was disappointing: they didn't have the Big Bang at the end. It was in the middle, and it wasn't loud at all.

The archetypal planetarium show, to me, is conducted in a very dark planetarium - no projecting slides or animation on the dome. The sky should rotate several times, and perhaps some stars can be "zoomed in" on. Then, by the time everyone is either incredibly relaxed or asleep, the operator drones "?until the Sun explodes in a fiery ball of death," or "?ever since it all began, in the Big Bang." Then all the lights project a huge fireball special effect, ideally animated, and a HUGE explosion wakes everyone up and ideally causes cardiac arrest in two or three audience members. It's tradition.

Just like the Pink Floyd laser light shows they have on the weekends.