What do we have hear? Two English-speaking gentlemen in the Sixties who have a problem. They gotta find space in Montreal to have a World’s Fair, but oh man, they don’t have room! But what if they build it on the water? Haha, how would that work? Oh, they can build an island. And they did. Happy ending.

Okay, this time out, I’m a little stumped. I mean, I do remember this Canadian Propaganda Commercial, I must have seen it in my youth enough times to absorb the information. I recognized the situation and knew the solution, but apparently my mind had managed to forget some of the details.

I didn’t remember it being black and white for example. I see no reason for it to be in black and white. I mean, is it done to evoke the era? If so, you’re kinda pushing it. 1963 still had black and white television as the standard, I believe, but I don’t think anyone associates the Sixties with B&W the way the Fifties were. And anyway, we’ve had Heritage Moments set during the black and white television era that were in color. And we’ve had ones set before that which weren’t told as books. There is simply no need for this “artistic” choice. You lose points for this, commercial. Also, the music is pretty ridiculous, but probably does fit the era for all I know.

Our gentlemen solve their problem by remembering that there are subway tunnels being built, so let us use that dirt for something, shall we? This I approve of. It is a useful synergy of resources. Well done, chaps. Two birds with one stone and all that. While it is almost certain that the conversation never took place in real life as it does here, someone had that idea and that is the point we’re trying to get across. Success there.

I don’t think either of these men is identified. The first line may say the name of one of them, but I can’t make it out. (I think it is “Hey Guy, we’re supposed to be at city hall.” But I doubt that the one guy who absolutely less French would be called Guy with that pronunciation.) A mayor is name-dropped at the end, but in all, I’ve learned basically nothing about any historical figures here. I guess I learned that Ile Notre-Dame was man-made (and that it exists), which I didn’t know. But that’s it.

Anyway, I can see Young-Me didn’t bother accurately storing this one in his brain. Not worth the effort. Two out of Six Pieces of PDR’s Reviewing System Cake.

Meanwhile, you know what we could all use more of? World’s fairs. Let’s get on that.

So, today is my thirtieth birthday. How about that?

Generally I, Patrick D Ryall, do not bother celebrating my birthday, (and today is no exception apart from this post, really) because age is just a count of how many times the Earth has gone around the Sun since I got born and that isn’t terribly relevant to me. Sure, years are a useful unit of time measurement, but they really don’t mean anything about me as a person. And yet, even with that in mind, there are some things that can be inferred by my turning thirty: The primary being that I’m no longer in my Twenties. I’m now a Real Adult, instead of a New Adult. Or something. I’m in a different category than I was just days ago, is what I’m saying. I don’t know what the categories are called.

Sure, I’ll grant you that today’s society has pushed back Real Adulthood much further than thirty. People probably say things like “Fifty is the new Thirty” so I’m supposed to rejoice that I’m not old. All the thirty-year-olds in movies are likely to be overgrown young people and many in real life seem take their cue from that. People crave their youth, for whatever reason, so they’re constantly pushing the societal definition of youth higher and higher. But not ol’ PDR. I don’t care about aging, really. Some people fret about it and can’t believe that they’re getting old. And you’d think that someone who has been as concerned with his mortality since such a young age as I was would worry, but I don’t. Getting older has more than enough benefits to make PDR okay with it.

For one thing, I have never fit in with my age group. Not when I was a kid, nor a teenager, nor any other time. I never knew the popular trends of the day. I am always late learning about what shows are popular, I never know anything about music, and I have worn the same style of clothes (t-shirts, jeans) no matter what fashion does around me. Now, obviously, my age group is still my age group. They’ve all grown up with me. So my not fitting in with them will continue. But we’ve all continued aging away from the Young People of Today and they’re the real popular culture now. That’s what is so sweet. Someone in their Twenties? They’re generally still expected to be somewhat hip. But I’m in my Thirties, now, so I’m free from that! As I said above, Thirties are still considered pretty young these days, but the difference between me and some teenagers is now so insurmountable that my never speaking to one who isn’t a cashier is perfectly fine. When I hit my Forties, I’m pretty sure, is when I’m actually allowed to be wholly alienated by youths, so I’m ahead of the game there, but I’ll take what I can get. I’ve been an old man in my head since I was around fourteen, so this is just my life is finally catching up.

I’m also lucky that there won’t be any “Holy Crap, I’m Thirty Now” shock for me. I’ve thought of myself as a thirty-year-old since I was twenty-eight. Why? Bad memory, I guess. But in any case, I’ve been calling myself thirty for years in my head (and occasionally out loud when people ask me my age and I don’t want to do math or remember what year it is) so I’ve already moved on to being, like, thirty-three mentally. If, at any point, I genuinely am caught off guard when my age occurs to me, it’s because I’m actually younger than I am.

Naturally, round-numbered ages are a good time to take stock of your life and see how you’re doing. And it’s times like this I notice that I am nowhere near getting married, having kids, buying a house, and winning a position of great social status and material wealth. But I wasn’t aiming for that stuff anyway. There’s some stuff in that list that I’d be down with, but for the most part these goals are just things we’re peer pressured into thinking are important. I’ve not deigned to base my life around achieving any of them. The unfortunate flip-side of this, however, is that I’m also not achieving much in the way of PDR-mandated goals. I’ve not done nearly so much travelling as I’d like, my writing output is improving but is still less than ideal, and I’ve not overthrown the currency-worshipping culture we live in. Perhaps the most alarming thing I do get out of turning thirty is when I remember that I started working my current job when I was twenty-one. I’ve wanted to quit for at least eight years, but I haven’t because I can’t think of another way to not be homeless.

But in the end, I can take that sense of failure as I turn thirty, because I had that same sense of failure when I was twenty-nine and before that. But now I can more liberally use phrases like “When you get to be my age…,” “Back when I was young…,” and “Kids these days…” I mean, sure, I used all of those already, but now it is slightly more justified. And in the end, that’s what aging is about: It’s a license to be as cantankerous and ornery as you want.

Well, once again the apocalypse has let me down. Now I’m gonna have to pay rent and all that stuff again. Thanks for nothing, End of the World.

Haiku!

Unknowable frog.
You have confounded us all.
How you jump so high?

In other news, I just bought a box of Crayola crayons. Is it my imagination or do they not smell the same as they did when I was younger. I suppose the possibility exists that it has been so long since I’ve bothered to smell crayons that they have changed and I was left unaware. It is also possible that my own body reacts differently to smells than it used to. It is sad that I can’t tell if crayons have changed or if my memory is imperfect or what. Stupid reality being essentially unknowable.

I have noted in the past that my blood seemed to taste better than it does now. The smell of crayons and the taste of my own blood. Is nothing from my childhood sacred?

This last weekend I had to go into work for the first aid course they make me take every three years. Usually I’d take it with a bunch of other people, but though my good luck and other people’s illnesses, I was the only one in the course this time. It was much better that way. The instructor catering specifically to me instead of a group made it much easier to actually learn stuff. One specific thing I learned: I get annoyed by having to take breaks.

Back before my work ethic was doused by my distaste for my job I used to work right through all the breaks we would get in a day. The smokers always need to get out there and do their smoking, but PDR would rather keep on working so as to get it all done sooner. I remember back in high school when they took away our lunch breaks to keep us from fighting and we used to finish our school day at like two in the afternoon or something! That was a sweet deal! And this attitude has grown into my work life apparently. I figure that if I can get the work done quickly, I get a longer period of not-work, and that’s way better than a break during work. Granted, that really only works for jobs where you get to go home when the work is done and not jobs where you’re there for a set number of hours… I suppose that breaks improve those kind of jobs…

But anyway, why do we need so many breaks? I propose that all schools do like my school used to do. Get the kids out of there early so that they can have better afternoons. Heck, while we’re at it we could take away their Summer breaks and they’d be finished the whole schooling process years earlier! Surely when I explain it them the kids will be okay with that.

Okay, I am serious when I say I prefer not taking breaks during a workday, but if I could get Summer breaks again like in school? I would be a happy person.

That guy up there? That’s Dog-Thing. I created him for an art project in Junior High, but I no longer have that project. The only thing I remember about it was that his arch enemy was the Technicolor Spoon.

Since only one uncolored sketch of the character remained, I have only the vaguest memory of what color he was. But working with that memory I whipped up this picture. But every Dog-Thing has his day. And that day is today as I let bring him to the Book of PDR.

I also don’t remember if there was an origin for Dog-Thing, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I never bothered to explain what he was or where he came from.