Thirteen

If I could have one wish, it would be to be able to go back in time to visit young George Andrew Fish, circa 12 years old, and implore him to keep writing in his Journal. My second wish would probably be to have infinity packs of Gushers. Followed closely by a cake room. And not just any cake room, mind you. An infinity cake room. A room in which there is a continuous, ever replenishing, constantly changing flow of cake. And having used the word flow, now that I think about it, an actual flow of cake is precisely what I would want. Like a river of cake, slowly meandering through the middle of the room. And when I saw a particular flow that suited my fancy, I would simply lay on my belly and bury my head in it. Or maybe just dig out a chunk with a shovel designated specifically for that purpose. A midget would live in the room, on standby at all times, just waiting to clean that shovel off in between cake scoopings. And to scratch my back, if I asked. But never with the shovel.

But I guess mostly, I just wish I had been a better journal writer.

As I was digging through sundry personal affects in my storage box in my parent's super shed today (I say super shed because this ain't no corrugated metal/plastic piece of crap shed; nothing but bricks and mortar bitches!) I came across my old journal. I also found my old rubber naked mole rat, with which I had a rather weird obsession during my last year of high school. What's wrong with me? If you don't think naked mole rats are fascinating creatures, I don't know what's wrong with you. Also, a 2 dollar bill that I was convinced throughout my entire adolescence was special, and would be worth a far greater sum than 2 dollars some day. I left it in there, just in case. Also, a bunch of crap that I brought home from Argentina. I guess at one point in my life I was convinced that a wine bottle with a severed cow hoof attached to the bottom, wrapped with said hoof-less cow's own shin skin would be a cool thing to have around the house. 20 year old boys are stupid.

The journal was definitely a quality find. A small excerpt, from the mind of 13 year old Fish: "I just got a guitar about a week ago. Me and my friend want to start a band. He plays bass guitar I have a couple of names we could call are selvs. Jive Puppet, Poetic Jive Head, Poetic Meat Head, Poetic Meat Head Jam. Just ideas. Well, my hands are getting tired so I'm going to quit now. Farewell."

Apparently, I was attempting to create a super hybrid band, drawn from the likes of the Meat Puppets, Pearl Jam, and Radiohead. A poetic, meaty band, if you will.

It would appear from a subsequent entry that my band mate Chris Allman wasn't too excited about poetically jamming our heads with meat, and therefore our band was called "Ming Dynasty." I believe Ming Dynasty ultimately had just one song, pitifully recorded to a cassette tape. I found the lyrics in that same entry: "For the time we are the living, but we cannot take what were seeing, we see the world through jaded eyes, its hard to see through all the lies, we see the world through eyes of sorrow, some wont make it till tommarow. We were mont made for this, should we all just die like this? This is no hope for us, we are lost in our lust, in all are greedyness there is no happyness no happyness..."

Personally, I think it was an emo hit waiting to happen. Unfortunately, Chris eventually decided our band was lame and quit. And the name was sooo inferior to my other names. It also didn't help that he lived 30 minutes away, and so we could only practice about one a month. I guess Poetic Meat Head Jam was just never meant to be poetic, or jam.