I’m in Cancun right now slothing around with Nick Van Exel in yet another don’t-wake-me-yet NBA off-season. And so amid all the Gauguin-colored floral tiki drinks Nick keeps bringing me, I can’t quite muster up the energy (or interest) in rousting around dusty old record books. And yet in what once I might have called “memory,” I have the foggy recollection that in Adam’s own summer sabbaticals, there’d sometimes be even more than 5,154 (and counting) marks gnawed into some old temple already subsumed back into the forest again.
And so in a vain attempt to preserve what I imagine drowsily to myself as a lost temple’s hieroglyphic “record,” I hereby inaugurate a new post.