I HAVE RETURNED...

BUT ONLY IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING.

See that handsome lad above? That's my nephew, Joshua.

See the short snowman he's with? That's me, after returning from Outer Space and the Orion Nebula.

In my last dispatch, I explained that earth's gravity and some sad circumstances had weighed my Orionesque form down to nothing more than about eight inches tall. I could barely move, much less function.

I was summoned by my planet's leaders to return for de-gravitization, a process that usually takes one earth year. But my treatments were cut short, so to speak.

My boss back here on Earth sent a text message saying he needed me here to cover an event that features rocks with handles on them, ice (of course...what else in February?) and brooms in a sport that rhymes with hurling and begins with the letter "c."

I immediately launched my spaceship back to this planet, only to return to -48C temperatures with the windchill. My body, especially in its highly gravitized state, could not handle the transition.

The result is what you see above.

But I promised a postcard or two of my travels, so here they are.

This is me using the hypertronic defibulator to blast through an oncoming meteor, thereby saving the Earth while you were all asleep.

My mother spaceship, flying into a sun.



Me in my little rover spaceship

OK, that's it. I was going to do a Valentine's Day post, but I have no time and I'm quickly melting, so I must hurry.

I'm on the road to Brandon Thursday morning for a weekend of the thing that rhymes with hurling but starts with the letter "c."

Be well. And Happy Valentine's Day.

GRAVITY

EARTH'S GRAVITY TENDS TO HAVE A CUMULATIVE EFFECT ON US ALIENS.

AT THE MOMENT, GRAVITY IS WEIGHING ME DOWN.

SO I NEED TO BLAST OFF BACK TO THE ORION NEBULA FOR A WHILE TO GET A TUNEUP. IT'S COVERED BY THE INTERPLANETARY WARRANTY.

I haven't been getting to many blogs lately, even as some of you have been visiting me. And I apologize. It's just the way it is when gravity's forces do their thing.


I'll send a postcard.

And a smile.

To each and every one of you who come here.

Mitt's a Moron

AND NOW, FRESH OFF THE PRESSES OF MY BULLSHIT METER, THIS JUST IN:

I could look this up in Wikipedia or something, but I won't. I assume Mitt is short for Mittenwald or something. Or Mittskrieg, which rhymes with blitzkrieg.

Or maybe it's some form of the word myopic. Or moronic.

Actually, I now HAVE looked it up. Mitt is short for Milton. Mitt was named after a Chicago Bears' quarterback.

It's important to note here that Mitt was the head guy for the 2002 Salt Lake Olympics, which were plagued by scandal involving payoffs and neat stuff like that. I was actually there and covered those Games.

Never met Mitt though.

We digress.


Woe is the U.S. Republican and religious right as far as the U.S. presidential race goes.


Mitt Romney finally gave up the ghost on Thursday. Not because he's a larger-than-life Donny Osmond lookalike with his coiffed hair and billions of dollars or because America didn't actually support him, mind you.


But only because he didn't want to help the Democrats win and therefore result in the U.S. losing the Republicans' fabricated war on terror.


Here's a few grafs from one story I found. And keep in mind, whenever a politician uses the word "frankly" not once, but twice, in the same paragraph, he's totally bullshitting.


"Romney said he had taken the decision because continuing his battle with McCain would weaken his party, increasing the chances of a Democrat victory which would mean a "surrender to terror."


In what was the most passionate speech of Romney's campaign, he said he was making the sacrifice for the common good.


"If I fight on all the way to convention, I forestall the launch of a national campaign and, frankly, I would be making it easier for Senator Clinton or Obama to win," he said. "Frankly, in this time of war, I simply cannot let my campaign be a part of aiding a surrender to terror."


The Super Tuesday primaries had left him with 270 delegates to Mr McCain's 680. The multi-millionaire had said he needed a minimum of 400 to stay in the race.


Romney told a conservative conference in Washington: "Conservative principles are needed now more than ever. Soon, the face of liberalism in America will have a new name. Whether it is Barack or Hillary, the result will be the same."


(Eds note: Bullshit meter goes off the scale)

"The opponents of American culture will push the throttle."

---

This is a guy who's a Mormon, who wants to ban gay marriages, who talks about Europe's economic problems as being "the inevitable product of weakened faith in the Creator, failed families, disrespect for the sanctity of human life and eroded morality."


And now he's done.

So all the Far Right has left is Huckabee, who had been in third place before Mitt magically disappeared. All I can say is, John McCain, I like you. You're the only Republican candidate, but you're going to lose anyway.

This is poetic justice. Isn't it? Mitt the twit takes the hit. What a sacrifice. What a farce.

Baseball...and my son's average

The baseball bat above, which is laying on my bed tonight, has an inscription on the back.

It says, "Thank you. The '99 Waverley Warriors."

This was a bat given to me by the girls' baseball team I coached that year. My daughter, now 19, was on that team and was only 10 or so at the time.

It was given to me at a season windup barbecue, and it is special to me, so I keep it.

My son? I tried desperately to get him into sports. He just isn't athletic, as I always was as a kid, and he never really liked hockey, baseball, tae kwon do, or any of the other sports I tried to get him into.

So after a while, I stopped trying to make him be like me. I stopped the lectures about how sports made me so much of what I am today.

Not that I'm super athletic today at my age. But as a young boy and as a teenager and as a young man, sport gave me power. It made me nimble, fast, aggressive, strong. It gave me confidence.

Sport gave me power and desire to do better. Hockey, baseball, football, basketball, volleyball, Blackjack.

You name it.

Sports gave me a sense of competitiveness. I could compete. I could hit people, which I loved doing. Knocking people down, legally (most of the time). I could score. And I was a demon on defence.

I wasn't a star, but I was an important part of whatever team I played on.

My body was a finely-tuned machine that gave me a feeling of invulnerability, one that allowed me to do incredible things.

I loved skipping across rocks at the lake and not falling once because my agility allowed me to do that.

I wanted my son to have that same sense of confidence and power in his body and mind, which I've carried through my life. But no. Physicality is just not his thing. Athletics and sports just aren't what he's into.

I had great disappointment at one time. Not because I wished he would be a clone of me, but just because I think sports have given me so much in my life and helped define, to a large extent, who I am.

I can remember, after more or less forcing him to play baseball at age 7 or so, how he was out of his league in a baseball game. I was coaching his team too. But I needed to challenge him. My thing was all kids play all positions.

Everybody plays the same amount, star or not. Everybody has the same challenge, more or less and within reason, and everybody is an equal part of the team.

At that age, the coaches are out on the field of play trying to teach the kids where to stand, etc.

He was looking at me as the biggest kid on the opposing team came up to bat. The kid hit a line drive to third base...and hit my Evan right in the side of the head as he was looking at me, wondering where he should stand.

I almost died right then and there.

I wanted to just love him and be his dad and hold him as he cried and make sure he was OK. But I was also his coach. I had to be both at the same time.

I felt like I had to protect him from embarrassment but also not embarrass him.

We got through it, past it.

But he never played baseball again. I so wish he had, but he didn't. He's just not into sports.

Fast-forward to now.

He's 16. He's having a hard time in school, so that's a big focus. He's a lovely kid with a huge heart and hormones. He has a girlfriend seven hours away, everything is electronic, there are no sports in his life. For him, it's magic.

But for whatever reason, he has attached himself to that baseball bat.

Every time he's over here by himself, in between a spare at high school or just because he wants to raid my fridge, I see the bat has been picked up, by him, and played with or held or whatever.

The picture above is an indication of where he left it today -- on my bed -- which is where my computer is, in my bedroom. He's a product of the electronic age, but for whatever reason, he latches on to this bat.

And he leaves it lying around wherever he goes, so I have to keep returning it to where I usually leave it. But I always leave it where he can see it and touch it or do whatever he needs with it, if he wants to.

And he always seems to want to just hold it or whatever.

I don't get that, really. But somehow, I like it.