What is a meme, you ask. I suppose it's one mind resonating, causing another to resonate. Favourite device of Aaron Braaten at http://www.grandinite.com ...Fart smucker, what? I didn't know half the things he knews at 27. Anyway, here's what he's laid out in his meme. I will try to provide some answers, as invited to.
1. If money were no object, what would you be doing with your life?
Nothing. I've already had money.
2. Money is just that - an object, so why aren’t you doing it?
I'd do an object? I'd do a totem pole? I'd do a chicken? Foul.
3. What’s better: horses or cows?
Not too fond of rural pursuits. "Hi there, Mr. Cow!" I do know a guy in Queensville who writes Valentines to Daisy and I've always been intrigued by the name of an old Hollywood actor, Forrest Tucker.
4. What do you think the secret to happiness is?
5. When was the last time you had a dream that you either remember well or did not want to awake from? Can you share a bit?
I am not like those four guys from California who watch a guy replacing a lightbulb so they can "share" the experience, but I'll lay a nightmare on you. I am, awake or asleep, pursued by The Hat People, the subject of a novel I have up on my web. The Hat People represent officialdom.
I guess I'm still one more asshole from Toronto who thinks he's Franz Kafka.
6. When you were a little kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?
Pilot. Damm near made it too. Went solo. Nothing like it.
Took the damn thing up all by myself with old Hank Snow
(I swear) through my earphones:
That big eight- wheeler rolling down the track
Means your true-lovin' daddy ain't comin' back
I'm rolling on
But I ended up just getting the Polish scholarship.
They found out I was born in the U.S.S.R. during a cold war.
7. Complete this statement: Love is . . .
Pierre Pettigrew says, as a representative of his government, that there is nothing wrong with that. It's accepted.
Love is a pain in the ass?
8. Can you tell a good story? (write one!)
You're not supposed to, as an artist, a cultivated person, write anything ugly, but here goes anyway:
My tapeworm left me this morning.
Now I'll have to walk alone.
The parting was far from amicable, downright traumatic, as the silvery nematode undulated somewhat gracefully this way and that in his bowl, the squarish head, light sensor on each side, seeming to say, "All right, wise guy, it was bad
enough not getting any mustard on that last dog, but now you';ve really pissed me off."
I knew something was wrong for weeks. The little bastard liked to roam around a lot at night, and sometimes he'd forget the way home and end up sleeping on my scrotum. Then, before I could say, "gotcha, you little bastard", he'd disapear faster than you can say "Tally ho! The Fox!."
The fox hunt went on for quite some time until, as an old Air Force guy, I thought of Agent Orange and where it could be gotten. Sure enough, down at Camp Petawawa, I saw some denuded trees (along with at least one denuded Warrant Officer). I plucked forth the nearest branch, rotten apple and all. I can't believe I ate the whole thing.
That was the night before I gave the eviction notice to my
tapeworm. He ignored it to his peril.
There he is, splashing around in his bowl. Aggressive bastard, really. Didn't realize tapeworms were fully equipped with scuba gear. They are aquatic. And they like to roam around at night sometimes. Creepy, what?
"This is hurting me more than you. Parasites are supposed to clean out the intestines. Too much bowel cancer around."
"Fuck off," said the tapeworm.
9. Can you remember your last daydream? What was it about?
I had a hardcover copy of a novel about the same size as John Updike's Borzoi book, with my name on the cover.
Damn it, I will yet write like John Updike even if I become Ivan Prokopchuk, author of Roger's Version.
10. If you were to thank someone today, who would you thank?
Goodnight, Mrs. Kalabash, wherever you are.