The blogger is in

By now, some of you might have started wondering if anything had happened to the author of this sporadically updated sports blog.
I didn't join the FBI Witness Protection Program. I didn't join the Merchant Marines. I didn't get traded to another newspaper for a sports columnist to be named later.
Just got back from a much-needed vacation. Took an ultra-relaxing four-day cruise to the Bahamas and tooled around Florida afterward. It was blissful. A synopsis: My wife and I swam with dolphins at a training facility in Freeport and took a tour of Nassau. No, we didn't check out Anna Nicole's digs. We did see the courthouse where CNN and every other news outlet in the world camped out to bring us all the gory details of her death and the ensuing paternity/custody issues.
One tattoo parlor there continues to try to capitalize on all the tawdriness. It has a sign board with Anna Nicole's picture on it, declaring that the former TrimSpa spokesmodel went under the needle in their establishment.
Lovely.
While the Anna Nicole saga acts as a powerful appetite supressant, we summoned enough intestinal fortitude to sample ''cracked conch,'' one of the local Bahamian delicacies. We also drank surprisingly powerful beverages with little paper umbrellas in them. They were so strong, in fact, that I started eating the little paper umbrellas after about the third re-fill.
The best part of being on a cruise is that you really lose touch with the world. There's satellite TV on the ship, complete with CNN, but nobody is there to watch it because they're too busy gambling, swimming with dolphins, playing shuffleboard on the Lido deck or ordering another daquiri.
I'd thought some news stories would have run their course in my week of absence.
Doesn't work that way.
I get home and Paris Hilton is still complaining that she doesn't deserve to go to jail, that she signs whatever is put in front of her, that she's the most gullible person on the planet and that she's afraid Big Shirley, her possible future cellmate, might shank her just for giggles.
Then there’s Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick, who just can't stay out of the news. Police in Virginia raided an estate he owned but did not live in and find evidence of animal abuse and illegal dog fighting activities. Vick claims he had no idea what activities were taking place on the property even though he'd set his cousin up with the big, expensive house. Sure, it sounds silly to give a mansion to a 20-something with questionable judgment and not, you know, check in to make sure he hasn't built a meth lab, put piranhas in the swimming pool or set the kitchen on fire.
All I know is I'm gone for a week and the story still hasn't died. Vick puts the property on the market to distance himself from the situation and it sells maybe 10 minutes letter for nearly 60 percent less than its market value.
I know obvious similarities between Vick and Hilton aren't apparent, but bear with me here.
They seem to be kindred spirits in the sense that they (A) can't stay out of the news and (B) blame their problems on publicists or members of their respective posses.
I just know that I'm tired of reading about both of them.
Is it too early to schedule another cruise?