T minus 30 days and counting.

The closer my 30th birthday comes, the more I think to myself, “y’know, maybe I should make a big deal out of it.”

Navels I gaze into when I’m half-awake and riding the bus to work.

When we hunker down in our seats with a book or a newspaper, we erect a forcefield around our bodies, focusing all our attention on the sports section or the movie reviews.

NBA Finals, 2005: Game 7.

Duncan grabbed the offensive rebound, pump-faked, and put the ball in the hole, drawing a foul. Then — and you could see the monkeys flying off his back as he shot it — he hit the free throw.

Wipeout Pure vs. warm milk and a lullaby.

I spent an hour stumbling around in the dark, using the backlight on my iPod as a lamp while I rummaged around in the closet and tried to find my friggin’ flashlight. At least I knew where my hand-cranked radio was.

NBA Finals, 2005: Game 6.

The Spurs and the Pistons are both defensive-oriented teams, but beyond that, they have very different styles.

The devolution of a programmer.

A sizable amount of my working life has been spent processing large quantities of text: generating it, reformatting it, parsing it, displaying it. Over the years, my approach to this sort of thing has evolved.

NBA Finals, 2005: Game 5.

Game 5 of the NBA Finals was far and away the biggest, best game of Robert Horry’s long playoff career.

The Passion of My Phone.

My phone finally seemed to give up the ghost, plaintively beeping at me with a flurry of “low power” warnings, then going blank and silent.

Rush Hour.

The problem with Jackie Chan is that when he’s not interacting with a chair or a motorcycle or whatever, and instead has to act against a human being, he’s not really all that funny.

NBA Finals, 2005: Game 2.

When your team is down by 21 points and Darko Milicic is on the floor with four minutes left in the game, you know it’s over.