How strange that you, of all of us, would prove to be the most hopeful.

Back in the Annual Report, I committed to, among the other resolutions, “do something memorable on my birthday”.

Thursday, May 22

In lieu of sleeping in, I get up and get dressed to go eat breakfast with Luna, my dad, and my brother’s family. (My dad called my older younger brother the previous night to invite the four of them to go to breakfast with us. They agree after moving our mealtime up two hours and changing the restaurant. Ah, parents of young children. I will have thoughts on the Baby Exemption in the near future.)

We all arrive at the Original Pancake House for breakfast. I have weighed my progress in Project Famine against today being my birthday, and decided to allow myself steak and eggs. (Minus toast and potatoes. I figure for ten or fifteen years I ate like every day was my birthday, so I can sacrifice a few of the real ones.) The Original Pancake House does not have steak and eggs. I have a truly horrible veggie omelet, no cheese, no pancakes, the ordering of which launches a long familial inquisition on the dietary limitations of Project Famine, my least favorite topic of conversation ever. The omelet arrives, accompanied by pancakes. The conversation ranges from outrages committed by preschool staffers to my father’s upcoming hip replacement to expressions of surprise that I would not return to high school if given the choice. Blessedly, no one sings “Happy Birthday” in the restaurant.

My mother gave me a gift certificate to take a Segway tour of Chicago. This was more fun, not least because Luna was incapable of riding the Segway without making a face that looked like Queen Elizabeth trying not to laugh after Charles farts in a kilt. Segways are pretty cool. We sorta watched a safety video, then put on our helmets and bright green reflecto-vests and went out to Grant Park to learn how to ride. It’s very, very strange. Riding a Segway is what I always thought riding a skateboard would be like. Not the handle — the smooth acceleration and the intuitive turns. My Segway was okay. The tourist models have a governor on them that top them out at 6mph. But I got to try the tour guide’s model, which is a normal Segway. It goes 12mph, and suddenly the idea Kamen had, that cities would someday be built around this thing, didn’t seem so bizarrely grandiose. We went from the Art Institute to Soldier Field to the Bean and back to the Art Institute and I am going to start saving immediately.

Next we met my Mom for a cup of coffee. We started out planning to go have an hour to sit and hang and would up — vintage Mom — running four other errands she’d been meaning to get to for a while. Still, she hooked us up with the Segway tour. And she did leave work at 330. And I got a latte out of it. (Actually, I got three lattes — I went to get the coffees while Mom & Luna went to the bead shop and some sort of glass-art shop.)

We came home, ate some Mexican-flavored Purina human chow I had made a large batch of earlier that week, and headed off to see the new Indiana Jones movie, which I liked very much. Not as much as I liked Rocky Balboa, but certainly above average for my usual level of movie enjoyment. I am developing a theory. Things have not gone well for the heroes of my youngest days. Walter Payton died, abruptly and young. Hulk Hogan walks like he’s ninety-five years old, and seems like he might be kind of a dick, too. Mike Tyson went bad crazy, then scary crazy, then sad crazy, and is now old and weird. I don’t care if they’re fictional — I just want a noble sendoff for somebody.

Next year my birthday’s on a Friday, and I will be 35. That might warrant a weekend-long party.

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