I threw up this morning. I woke up, had a Mountain Dew, a few cigarettes, a cup of Turkish coffee, then got all sick. I was having some wonderful dream--it was a great dream, the best in a long time--when I was awoken by a call from my father reminding me about lunch, and I forgot the whole dream. I have no idea what it was--but it was great, I know it. "There's a momentous occasion coming up," my father said, and I had a guilty feeling that something was my fault. "Your 30th birthday. Why don't we have a party? Invite Brian and his wife, your stepsister and her daughter." "No," I said. "You can think about it," he said. I do not want a party. That's the last thing I want. I got a call from Brian on his way in to work (it's Saturday, but he often works weekends). He let me go as soon as he got downtown and parked. "I won't be one of those goofballs talking on a cell phone while walking through downtown," he said. "You are one of those goofballs," I said: "you're one of those Gen-X, Starbucks-going, cell-phone-talking goofballs saying, 'Yes, I'll do a grande latte with room for sugar.' " "I thought Gen-Xers were slackers," he said.