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Things are going to be quiet around here for a couple weeks. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll have some things to talk about when I return. But, then again, probably not.

In today’s news, people can’t seem to keep their mouth shut. We have Jimmy Kimmel cracking a joke about Detroit in this corner. We have Larry Bird talking about race in basketball in the other. I’m not going to touch Bill Parcell’s comments, other than to say the “Pearl Harbor plays” might be a much better name.

Let’s start with Jimmy. My problem with the outrage caused by his comments about Detroit’s flair for celebrations is that I found them pretty funny.

C’mon. It is. Isn’t it?

I’m not a fan of the man — an interview he did on my local radio station a while back didn’t sit well with me — but you have to give someone credit when they rip off a good one. It’s not like the joke isn’t based on fact. It is inappropriate and it is a little off color but that’s comedy for you. If all humor were prim and proper we wouldn’t have blond jokes. How could we survive without blond jokes?

Mr. Kimmel shouldn’t be surprised about the backlash caused by his comments – a Detroit affiliate yanked him off the air. That’s what happens when you pooch your chances at a national spotlight. That said, there are places outside of Michigan where a joke can be funny. His apology proves some of them may be from his home town of L.A.

Mr. Bird, it’s your turn. Let’s chat about race.

Magic Johnson, I should mention, didn’t shy away from basically agreeing as well.

Bird did, of course, catch some flak about this. But, in this case at least, people seem to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s a legitimate star and earned the right to speak his mind, particularly when he takes great pains to balance his comments about race. Oh, and he’s right.

Well, he’s right to a point. As Phil Taylor of Sports Illustrated points out, members of an underrepresented group can make quite a splash in unfamiliar territory. Think Tiger Woods. Think Eminem.

I’m of the opinion that an important part of being a fan is the ability to fantasize about being on the court, field, or rink. I could do that better. I would have caught that ball. I would have made that basket. There are other factors, mind you, but race is a significant one.

Where Bird’s reasoning falls short is in the current game of basketball itself. If I want to see someone shoot less than 50%, I’ll pick up a ball myself. If I want to watch an 18 year old learn the game of basketball, I’ll go visit my local high school. The game is plodding at best and full of interruptions at worst. The pro game needs to match college game in terms of excitement and I haven’t even mentioned what it really lacks: stars.

I can’t say that a white Michael Jordon wouldn’t make me more interested in basketball. I’d bet it would. But I can say that the game needs some legitimate stars that rise above the others. Greatness has its own way of generating excitement about a sport, no matter the color, race, or creed.

A couple of scientists recently pointed out that the dirty bomb supposedly planned by a terrorist suspect would have been a complete failure. They then mention what he could have done to correct his mistakes. My response is typical. Shhhh. Let’s not read the how-to guides to them, gents.

A couple months ago, I spent the entire day gaming. When I say the entire day, I mean it. I started at about 9:00 am and finished up around 11:00 pm. I took short breaks for lunch and dinner but nearly every minute of my day was spent staring at my computer monitor. Thankfully, I wasn’t the only one; about twelve guys stationed to all around me did the very same thing. See, I was invited to my very first lan party. My activities were encouraged.

While LAN gaming surely isn’t the necessity it once was — broadband access can make it seem like thousands are right there in your living room (hey no crumbs on the couch, please) — it’s still a worthy exercise. The camaraderie of close quarters provides an experience that the solitude of my office desk cannot reproduce. Something can be said about hearing the cries of your victims from across the room.

What surprised me about the event (outside of the absolutely incredible setup the host of the party possessed — network cables and power wires seem to lurch from every crevice of his basement) was how several moments of the day have become solidified memories. I’ll attempt to describe a couple here. If you can imagine a room lit only by the glow of computer monitors, the sounds of running computer fans, and occasional scream of anguish while you read below, so much the better.

My most prized moment of the morning sprung from a match of the Battlefield 1942 mod, Desert Combat. After some intense battles on the Weapon Bunkers map, our team was falling on hard luck. Two of the map objectives, which involved blowing up bunkers of weapons, had been destroyed, leaving only the last objective, a third bunker, left standing. The problem was that our tickets — and tickets are what determines the winner and loser of the match — were rapidly approaching zero. I raced to the third bunker, with very little hope that anything could be done. Upon arrival, I rapidly laid explosives, noting that the bunker was already smoking and heavily damaged. My immediate problem was that much of my team had been wiped out by staunch defenses and I could see the enemy approaching from all sides. I would never make it down from the bunker alive to flip the switch and time was very nearly up. I made a snap decision and pulled the plunger, sending both the bunker and myself sky high. We won the match by a single ticket.

Another Desert Combat map left me with memories of a furious tank battle. Throughout the match, two of teammates and I fought to keep control of one of the map’s two capture points. It was a long battle and the hectic activity required to raise a proper defense gave me a sniff of that “in the bunker” feeling. The three of us shouted locations of mined entrances at each other. One of us was always directing the others towards the direction of the latest attack.

At one point we were all ousted nearly simultaneously, leaving the base in the enemy’s hands and the three of us respawning in front of pretty new tanks back at our home base. Those three tanks left the base at full speed in an effort to reclaim our lost prize. The result was a glorious exchange of gunfire as all three tanks rolled into and then recaptured the lost base. The only missing was the music from the “Ride of the Valkeries”.

Unreal Tournament’s Leviathan provided the parting shot of the party, at least from my perspective. This vehicle seats about 5 and is pretty powerful even when used for a leisurely drive around the battlefield. Its main weapon — which must be deployed in a special sequence, leaving it immobilized, is something to behold. I wasn’t prepared for the massive explosion that could erupt from this lumbering beast. Neither was the other team.

All in all, the event was a blast and something I very much hope I get a chance to repeat. If there was any doubt, gaming is better as a community experience, especially without the convenience that the internet provides. It’s even better when you control the Leviathan.

While sitting by the campfire at Cherrystone Campground in Cheriton,Virginia (found along the Eastern Shore, on that little piece of Virginia found to the East of the Chesapeake Bay), I got the distinct feeling that I wasn’t camping, really. There was a fire at my feet and an empty beer by my side but something was amiss. The campground was too alive, particularly after the sun had long ago settled behind the bay.

The occasional engine of a monster truck sounded off a few rows over. The family across the road from us had no clue how to work their car alarm, leaving its serenade for all to hear over and over and over). The campsites were tightly packed, with few patches of land and few trees to separate one neighbor from the next. It didn’t feel particularly private and it didn’t feel much like camping.

A closer look at the pamphlet might have revealed the problem. The word “Resort” is prominently displayed and resort might be a much more fitting description. After all, there were four pools. A pool for kids (incredibly cold), two pools for everyone (incredibly crowded), and pool for adults (closed at 6:00 pm, incredibly early) were scattered about the campground. The camp store was the size of Walmart (without Walmart’s prices, of course) and sported beer (this was actually a good thing). There were boats to rent and a fish-cleaning pavilion to bring your catch. The pavilion wasn’t hard to locate; simply follow the smell carried by the morning wind.

The positive parts of the trip were brought with me. In order, that would be my family, my friends, and my DVD player. From what I understand, A Mighty Wind is just as entertaining under trees as it is in my living room. Good company can make up for a lot and, in this case, it was needed.

I should mention that the trip home was pretty entertaining. We would spend the morning and afternoon navigating Memorial Day traffic north to Baltimore and over the Bay Bridge. A traffic jam in Easton was solved by my lovely wife. A 50 mph trip around Easton is a whole lot better than a 5 mph trip through Easton. A second detour around traffic led us a community lake, complete with ducks for my son to chase. The two portable potties served their purpose after a long drive. It’s odd to say I enjoyed the trip home. My son was an absolute angel strapped down in his car seat and the detours we took not only solved our traffic problems, they provided welcome diversions to a long, 5 hour trip home.

It shouldn’t be surprising that the wife and I didn’t think much of the Cherrystone Family Camping Resort. Every thought of Cherrystone brings sounds of car alarms to our ears. My gracious offer to teach our neighbors exactly how to use their alarm was ignored, leaving a ringing first impression that serves as an unwelcome warning against a return visit.

For the record, the wife and I spotted two cicadas on our house earlier this week. This officially marks the end of my cicada-free lifestyle but, apparently, it also seems to mark the end of them.