I don't think before I type's Posts

This is what unemployment looks like.

I initially wrote this and sent it to the McSweeney's folks to be considered for their Open Letters section. I did so a while ago when I first thought I was losing my unemployment, but then they gave me another extension (yay!). Now that I'm slowly making a better and better living as a freelance writer, I believe my time with unemployment will very soon be over. And since this letter is too long--and probably not GOOD ENOUGH--to be posted on McSweeney's website, the Almy gets my leftovers.

Long live freeloading!

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Dear Unemployment,

You probably wouldn't know it to look at how close we are now, but I was quite frightened of you at first. I had just been wrongfully ejected from one of the highest-paying day jobs I'd ever landed, and despite the praise and recommendations of my fellow 20-somethings, I wasn't convinced you'd be able to adequately replace the fast-paced and exciting world of retail inventory management. You were a foreign and confusing entity of which I knew little about. Even those close to you could not properly explain your mysterious intricacies. Now, at the close of our time together, I feel it necessary to apologize for my gross underestimation of your ability to make my life perfect.

I blame the fact that I was terminated a mere three days before Christmas for our getting off on the wrong foot. It was a hard time for both of us. I was getting ready for an excruciating trip to celebrate the holidays with my parents, a journey in which I'd no doubt have to explain the issue of being recently unemployed numerous times to many equally disappointed individuals, and you were most likely getting ready for the large amount of work you had ahead of you in the New Year. Let's face it; the economy wasn't doing us any favors.

But it was sometime after receiving my first check in the mail that all of that turned. You see, Unemployment, I was so scared that I wouldn't be hearing from you ever again after I had missed my phone interview with one of your co-workers up in Sacramento. The brochures you'd sent me said the interview was of utmost importance, and could make or break my chances of recieving your help. However, once your letter arrived at my apartment in spite of my negligence and ever-present forgetfulness, I knew we were going to have a great time together.

I'll keep my gushing short, Unemployment, since I know you have many people to attend to, but I have much to thank you for. Foremost, I wouldn't have been privy to the endless amount of free time which helped uncover my love for writing, nor my ability to earn money doing so, were it not for you.

It was because of you that I was able to live my ideal life of staying home all day in sweatpants and slippers--leaving only for sustenance and to send you those letters reminding you that, yes, I was still in need of your aid--for over a year and a half. You also helped me catch up on a lot of great television series (that month we spent with the first five seasons of LOST was particularly enriching), and learn of the true healing powers of marijuana. But, as flowers blossom amidst compost and manure, the opportunity to retreat into the inner recesses of my mind--brought on by a lack of any work readily available on Craigslist or within a four-block radius of my apartment--revealed to me the power of the written word and my desire to harness it.

Unemployment, you were like a supportive college professor or, better yet, some sort of anonymous, Dickensian benefactor who saw potential in me though we had never met. And now, your impending withdraw from my life weighs on me. I feel like a baby bird destined to plummet to the earth upon being nudged from the nest of your consistent checks and multiple benefit extensions. Yet despite all of my fears of inadequacy and failure, I'm happy to leave your embrace. I will always miss you, Unemployment (pasta dinners, embarrassing moments with new acquaintances, confusing paperwork, and all), and you should know that I could not have found my life's true path without you.

Thankfully Employed,
Patric Fallon

Sometimes art cars just come straight from your patriotic-ass, peace-makin', Clinton-supportin', dog-lovin', old-school thug-ass heart, and it doesn't matter that you've only got four colors of paint. Why? Because you love America, and Tupac rules. (via carinabot)

Coalesce, looking so reunited.

Get this: after years of obsessing over their two classic albums of brain-shredding heavy music, dealing with their subsequent break-up, and having their new album of brutal genius bestowed upon me last year, I finally get to let those motherfuckers in the band Coalesce blow my mind live and in person. Needless to say, I'm stoked to be seeing--for the first fucking time--one of my all time favorite heavy bands since my teen years this Saturday at Slim's. The upcoming show brings a thought to mind: Coalesce is just one of many '90s-born bands that have recently convened its disparate parts to reunite, and, for lack of a better word, capitalize on the element of nostalgia that so many music lovers (read: people) quite easily succumb to.

Sunny Day Real Estate, looking so early-'90s.

In the past months, the bands Far, Sunny Day Real Estate, and The Get Up Kids, to name a few, have all settled whatever differences there were, and hit the touring circuit to cash in on the elderly (read: 30+) and the young folks, not unlike myself, who hunger for another taste of what they once loved. Now, before I get to my shit talking, I'll say this: I saw Far twice--once in Sacramento and once in SF--and SDRE the one night they played The Fillmore. I did not see The Get Up Kids, but I probably would have were I suffering from a severely monstrous surplus of money. However, I draw the line here: Cap'n Jazz.

Cap'n Jazz, looking so seminal.

You may be saying, "What the H, Patric? Aren't you one of those dudes that does that emo thing at Pop's? Aren't you more or less required by scene law to attend the reunion of the harbingers of the now-dead genre you propagate on a monthly basis? What the H gives?!"

And you'd be right, but then I'd say, "Well, dude, here's the thing. I grew up listening to those other bands, waiting for their new albums to come out, wishing my parents would let me go see them play live, and bumming out super hard when I found out I missed my chance because they'd broken up. Sunny Day Real Estate and The Get Up Kids were fucking huge when they were around, and any self-respecting kid in the scene would've given their coolest pin and a super-rare colored-vinyl 7" to go see them perform. But guess what, you never even heard of Cap'n Jazz until at least three years after they stopped being a band that no one cared about, unless you went to highschool in the fucking greater Chicago area in the early-'90s, and you probably wouldn't have ever had the chance to hear their songs if the members hadn't gone on to immediately join two legitimate bands that people did actually care about."

At this point, I'd take a sip of a beer (though not PBR, sorry), then continue, "By the way, those guys were fucking children when they made that band. Do really expect a bunch of cynical dudes who are revered by many to be 'gods' of whatever they do, and have aged nearly 20 years since they started the band, to still have the same naive angst and frustration they did when they were teenage virgins? That was what made their music actually worthwhile! Not to mention, have you seen the clips of them on YouTube? They were terrible live! Any band nowadays trying to pull that shit at Bimbo's on a Friday night would get the shit beat out of them. Or at least booed offstage."

After a brief pause--allowing my words a chance to sink in--I'd conclude my long-winded diatribe, "And don't you remember Owls? That fucking band was labeled as a goddamn 'reforming' of Cap'n Jazz too, but at least they wrote new fucking songs! Now, those guys are just being lazy, and ripping off your 20 bucks for some rehashed shit I'd just as soon listen to every third Tuesday of the month at Pop's." (<-- so legit)

You may then respond, saying, "Well, shit, Patric. I see what you're saying, but I got this extra ticket that I can't seem to pawn off. You still wanna come with me?"

To which I would say, "Oh. Yeah. Totally, man."