Diarrhea De Los Muertos: A Lengthy But Riveting Story of Friendship, Loss, and Redemption

On Friday night, Wringer played a basement show to a bunch of crazy, drunk, stoked college kids. It was obscenely fun. Around 4am I was tuckered out and ready to write a blog about the evening's events. When I got home, my dog was gone.

Now I am going to tell you the story of a boy and his pooch. When I was 18, I got my first credit card so I could build some credit and be an adult. With this newfound sense of responsibility, the first thing I did once I got this card was go to the mall. I walked into the pet store like a man, fell in love with a half-Beagle/half-Boston terrier puppy, and charged $700 to my new card. Then I went to work figuring out how the fuck I was going to hide him from my parents, who I was still living with at the time, because they were NOT gonna be cool with me having a dog in the house.

Did I mention I'm a grown-up? Cuz I so am.

Five years later, Brickley has become my best friend. He's on the cover of one of my EPs, I have his name tattooed on my wrist, he's been with me through several moves and a host of shitty bummer times. He's pissed on my record collection countless times and humps just about everything and everyone he sees. When I'm blue, Brickley would shit all over my sadness and bark at it until it went away. When I moved back home last year, things changed a bit. My parents' house is kinda far away from all the excitement and I wouldn't be around as often as I used to be. Like I said, my folks are not stoked on dogs. Brick would sit alone in my room and whine until I got home. Also, every time I would leave town to go visit family or play a show, I'd have to find someone to look after him while I was away.

Recently I've been out of work and without a car. It's been harder and harder to give the little guy what he needs. I've been facing the reality of maybe having to find him a new home for a while now, but it's a pretty fucking rough call. None of my friends are in a position to look after him any better than I could, and I wouldn't just dump him off at a shelter or some shit.

Anyway, the other night I got home and Brickley wasn't in my room. I woke my dad up and asked him where my dog was. My dad told me that the dog had been whining all night, so at 2am he let Brick outside without a leash... This is something I do all the time. He always finishes his business and then comes straight back inside when I call him. This time I guess he bolted out the door and into the woods.

I was ready to strangle my own dad. It was 35 degrees outside and pitch dark. He doesn't have a name tag or an address or phone number on his collar. If my dog wasn't dead, he was certainly lost and terrified. I can't even begin to explicate how fucking angry and sad I was; I was physically sick. How could I stand coming home to an empty room, no wagging nubby tail to greet me? Suddenly sleeping in my own bed felt uncomfortable. Who was I going to snuggle with?

I opted not to talk to my dad for the next couple days, and make arrangements for moving out. My friend Paul was kind enough to offer me the living room of his north-side apartment; the arrangement works out pretty well for the both of us. I'll be closer to town and be able to ride my bike everywhere, get a new job, and hopefully start saving up a bit of money. I spent yesterday and most of today getting prepped for the relocation. But all the while I was completely miserable not knowing where my dog was. Had he been hit by a car? Had some undeserving idiot found him and decided to keep him? Or was he at the animal shelter, alone, sad, awaiting that most awful fate?

Well, today I got a call from the vet. "There's a man here who says he found your dog." I was so fucking relieved. You don't even know. The vet's office gave me the fellow's name and number and I gave him a call.

Turns out this guy George found Brickley outside the gas station down the street from my house not two hours after he ran away. He made every effort to find out who the dog belonged to; put up signs all over and called the vet listed on the rabies tag. The vet didn't have my current phone number on file and refused to give this random person my address, so George and his wife looked after him all weekend, feeding him and playing with him, while they decided what to do next. They didn't want to take him to the shelter for similar reasons to mine, and they had no idea how to get in contact with Brick's rightful owner. The vet finally located my alternate phone number and that's how I was reunited with my best friend.

"I can't even begin to thank you enough," I told George. "I was so worried."

"It's no problem," he said. "He's a very nice dog, and very well-behaved. If you have time, you could bring him over to visit. Our dog really misses him now. We like him. We were prepared to keep him."

This was my dilemma, folks. On one hand, I'm so fucking glad that my dog is home and alive and well. I missed the shit out of him. On the other hand, this whole debacle really opened my eyes and made me realize that I can no longer give my dog the care and attention he deserves, especially if I'm going to be playing lots of shows out of town and otherwise living on a couch at my friend's house for the foreseeable future. Here's this random but lovely older couple who had instantly fallen in love with the little creep. It was fate. There's no other way to put it. I knew what I had to do. I asked George if he and his wife would be willing to adopt Brickley. They said yes.

So it's Halloween and I'm throwing all my plans out so I can spend one last night cuddling with my dog. I'm getting emotional typing this out. I'm just glad everything worked out for the best.

Moving up, moving on, moving out. I love you, Brickley!

-Anthony

Bedtime Ruminations Of A Useless Butt Plug

I don't know why, but I was just thinking about this.

Ever think about how many people you've known? We all have our circles of friends, acquaintances, people we bump into every day or make it a point to catch up with every week. These people are going in and coming out of a revolving door, though. Very few of them remain in your life for more than a phase. Usually you remember your real friends and think about them from time to time, but what about all those other people, the ones you never really got CLOSE to?

Every kid I ate lunch with in high school, but never hung out with on the weekends; all those crazy punks from West Lafayette my band used to fuck shit up with that one year, before we fell out of touch with 'em; every dude in every shitty band I've ever spent an evening with; friends of friends, friends of girlfriends, etc. These are people that used to be recurring characters and guest stars in various episodes of the TV show that is my life; episodes that ended seasons ago. People I never even think about now... it's almost like they don't exist any more.

But they DO still exist. Every now and then I'll see a photo of someone online, or I'll see one of them in person and have one of those "HOLY SHIT... THAT GUY!" moments, and think back to the time when our lives intersected. All those people, they're still here, living their lives. Some of them got jobs, some of them got married, a lot of them moved away. But they're all out there, somewhere, doing something right now. I wonder if any of them ever think of me the same way?

Actually some of them are probably dead. Whoa.

That shit is weird to think about.

-Anthony

Let Me NTurntain U

The first time I ever played a solo show, it was for all of about 10 people, most of whom I was dying to impress in some way for some reason. Friends whose opinions I valued, musicians whose work I admired, girls who I wanted to smooch. I'd been playing and writing songs on electric guitar every day since I was 12 years old, and all through high school my friends and I would play shows, but at this point it had been years since I had played guitar or sang in front of people, let alone all by my lonesome.

I don't care what anybody says, acoustic guitar is not the same as electric guitar. I'm an electric guitarist. I don't know how to play acoustic guitar and make it sound good. Naturally, on this evening, I had decided to play all my songs on an acoustic guitar. To top it all off, some of those few in attendance were (unbeknownst to them, even to this day) the subjects of a handful of those songs.

Needless to say, I was stressed as fuck. Not just beforehand, but all the way through my set. I was literally shaking. My nerves were so bad I was in physical pain. At some point, it started to set in that my nightmare was coming true: as a result of anxiousness, I was making an ass out of myself in front of all these people. It was like a horrible cycle of fear. After 10 or so lousy songs, I thanked everyone for letting me waste their time and went outside to sit in my car for half an hour. I felt like I'd just taken a swift kick in the goddamn balls. It was awful.

My friend Sandy came up to me afterwards. I had known Sandy for a long time, and she had been a part of some really great conversations and momentous occasions in my life. She was older than me by a few years, so as it happens, she was one of those people in high school I would look to as an example of "true punk." As a result, she was one of those people who helped shape me into the grimy pile of awesome that I am today. In spite of this, I wouldn't say Sandy and I were "close" friends. I knew Sandy was capable of being rather blunt with her opinions. She was into loud, fast, pissed-off punk rock, and I had just played a bunch of slow, whiny, acousticky bullshit (poorly... I can not over-stress this point, it sounded bad), so I was also pretty sure from the get-go that she wasn't going to be into my songs. I honestly wasn't all that stoked on hearing what she had to say about whatever atrocity against music I had just committed.

Sandy then went on to tell me that she's always liked my bands, she thought I was extremely talented, and it was about time someone started playing that type of music around town. When I told her how horrible I felt about it, she didn't even show concern. She was acting like I was fishing for complements or something. She assured me that it was good and that I should keep going. To this day, I don't really know if she was being sincere or if she was just trying to cheer me up. It almost doesn't matter. I just knew I wanted to live up to her encouraging words.

I've done almost 40 solo shows since then, in front of various audiences, in various cities and states, and I've honestly had a blast every time. None of those solo-jitters, even when the show was a train wreck. At most shows I would play in Bloomington since that first one, I would see Sandy in attendance, and just seeing her there would give me a big boost of confidence. That spirit would often carry over to the times when she wasn't even there.

In fact, the only time I've experienced anything close to that feeling I had at that first show was on Saturday night when Wringer played in Ft. Wayne. The thing about Wringer is that we're always thinking a few steps ahead of the present. We're an ambitious group of dudes and we tend to set lots of goals for ourselves. In Ft. Wayne, I was off thinking about all kinds of other shit. I just wasn't focused on playing well and having a good time, and once I realized we were bombing, I couldn't recover, because I didn't know how. I should have been thinking about Sandy. Right now I am.

I think tonight will be fun.

RIP

-Anthony

This Sounds Like Rock and/or Roll

I don't really feel like writing a blog right now, but I'm going to anyway, because I know if I don't, I'll fall out of the habit immediately.

Jake and I gave a copy of our EP to a guy for "review" in a college newspaper today and shortly thereafter realized that he might totally fucking hate it. We kinda stressed about this for a bit. We live in a society whose cornerstone is voicing your opinions on just about everything, loudly, to anyone within earshot. Subtlety is not American, and it's definitely not punk rock.

I've been making music as long as I can remember, but it's been something I've kept pretty closely guarded for my entire adult life, up until very recently. When you hear my music, you are essentially learning something extremely personal about me. Imagine a page from your private journal being ripped out and posted for everyone to read. Now imagine being able to hear what everyone else has to say about those inner-most thoughts. Their most merciless judgment.

It's pretty easy to let that kind of stuff get to you, no matter how thick your skin is. When you learn what other people think about you, it can shape the way you continue to put yourself out there. When you're in a band and people are critiquing you, you get caught up in things you could do better to please those people.

But why? Who gives two shits what they have to say? I didn't get into music to please those idiots or to react to other peoples' presumptions. I do this to express things that I'd otherwise be internalizing, views and opinions that are so strong it hurts to contain them. I am not concerned with people whose job it is to sit behind a computer and indifferently assess these things, which have fuck-all to do with them anyway.

Besides, they're just reacting to something you said or did in the first place... to react to their reaction would be pointless. Keep moving forward. You can't let peoples' perceptions of you influence how you conduct yourself.

I'm a trailblazer, you sons-of-bitches. I lead, you follow; not the other way around.

Anyway, they say any publicity is good publicity, so I guess it's cool these people want to help us get our band name out there. Whether this review is good or bad, I'm not going to let it concern me. I know exactly how my own farts smell, thank you very much.

-Anthony

ps - Comments on this blog are encouraged. APPRECIATE THE IRONY THAT THIS IMPLIES.

Slingin' Back Bloodies And Singin' With Buddies -or- No Post On Sundays, My Ass!

Hello, the computer. Just got back from Ft. Wayne a short time ago. Show was fun. It's the first time Wringer has played outside of Bloomington. To be honest, we played like shit. I can't speak for the other guys in Wringer, but I get mad nerves every time I perform. There are a couple different ways of dealing with those nerves, but usually, Jim Beam is my go-to guy. Unfortunately, I forgot to invite ol' Jim to the show last night.

On the flip side of that, all the folks we met in Ft. Wayne were all hecka sweet after we played and stoked on our band and our CDs and shirts and shit. They were awesome. Gutshot is a good band and a bunch of nice dudes. They and their friends made our night.

As for the bar we played in... That shit was weird. O'Sullivan's is an "Irish-Italian pub". Now, I don't know about you guys, but I've seen Boardwalk Empire, and although the Irish and the Italians may have a similar penchant for bootlegging liquor and murdering Greeks, everyone knows they're just too different to ever really get along. In spite of this, we washed down our pizza with Killian's, and it was pretty alright. As for Greeks, well, there were some frat boys in attendance, so go figure.

Also, if you ever find yourself in Ft. Wayne (for some stupid fucking reason) and have a hankering for a decent Bloody Mary, go to O'Sullivan's and ask for Pam. Seriously.

Some crazy shit may be on the horizon, but for now I just need to focus on the immediate... Getting these jams tight like a b-hole, playing a bunch of shows this week, and then the hunt is on for a job, maybe an apartment with a spare room, and, as always, a wife. Okay, not a wife. But definitely a mistress.

-Anthony

W.I.L.F. -or- Save The Whales For Anthony

What's up, computer.

I have a feeling my life is gonna start getting real fuckin' exciting, computer. My band, Wringer, has some interesting and wacky plans for the future. We all know dudes in bands are worldly and wise; their lives are full of too-crazy-to-be-true-but-still-they're-totally-true tales. So I thought maybe starting up this blog (again [for reals this time {seriously, I mean it}]) would be prudent.

For example, tonight we have a show in Ft. Wayne, Indiana. We all know what Ft. Wayne is like. A.K.A. Sin city. The big apple. The city that never sleeps. Who knows what could happen?? Maybe we'll get robbed at gunpoint! Maybe Jake will sleep with a stripper! Maybe Jared will punch a guy! In the face! And then we'll find out the guy Jared punch-in-the-faced was a famous actor! Maybe 500 people will show up to watch us perform, and some record exec will want to sign us and we'll make a million dollars!

Or maybe we'll play a shitty, sloppy show to 20 kids and then drink beer and eat pizza and then pass out on some floor. Wouldn't that be crazy?!

-Anthony