reasons for blogging

There are some differences between bloggers and, say, rock stars. This blogger dries his laundry on a rock in Forrest Park, something Keith Richards probably hasn't had to do in quite a while. Indeed, there are many reasons not to blog. A life of blogging may lead to blindness, dizziness, shortness of breath, obesity, and the ire of your fellow man. Yet in spite of these odious side effects, I keep at it. Why?

Rashida Jones.

In the past months, I've tagged every single post with Rashida's name. My brilliant plan is this: one day, incredibly bored and frustrated with looking at ruggedly handsome actors all the time, she will do a Google search on herself. My blog will pop up as the first twelve items. "Who can this mystery blogger be?" she'll think, and so begin a correspondence. With me.

This would be much easier if I was Springsteen. Maybe I can appropriate one of his songs.

Of course my wife* may not be pleased with this plan. But some things are bigger than a lifelong vow of love and partnership.
I figure, if that Julie & Julia blogger can get an entire movie made, the very least I can get is a movie actress. My sights are set high, but not Meryl Streep high.



*Sometimes bloggers get married.

historical falling rock

The entire run of Welcome to Falling Rock National Park is now available to read over on my main website. Years of toil went into the making of these comics (not to mention the website itself), so when you laugh, you're laughing along with History.

Above you'll note the very first published Falling Rock comic. Melissa and Carver's relationship has not changed much over the years, although the pen they're drawn with has.

top 40 radio killed my life

There's been a lot of talk about commercial radio going the way of the dinosaur, and I honestly couldn't care less. Unlike newspapers, a media that is still vital and hosts some great comics, radio has been completely out of touch ever since I can remember. I don't see how it could ever hope to reclaim any sort of relevance.

As a kid, I listened to Oldies. This was fine for a few years until I learned every song they played. You see, Oldies are no longer being made. They stopped being made in the early 1960's. You'd think that, even given that limitation, there would be more than enough material to keep listeners surprised. Thousands of singles were produced from 1950-1965, maybe even millions. Yet all I heard was a shuffle of Pretty Woman, Twist and Shout, and Stop! In the Name of Love. There comes a time in a young man's life when he cannot hear Pretty Woman any longer without projectile vomiting, and for me that time came around age 13.

Fortunately my friend Andy turned me on to the Beatles around that time. The Beatles, as you know, made lots of good songs that they never play on the radio. It took a while to work my way through all their albums, and by the time I was pretty familiar I had another friend who saved me by making a Bob Dylan mix tape. Bob Dylan has even more songs that are played even less than the Beatles, which is kind of strange because whenever you see a documentary about the 60's you hear either a Beatles song or a Dylan song played in the background. Go figure.

Tucson had a couple fairly decent radio stations over the years, but they always ended in tragedy. In high school, when I wasn't listening to tapes or my parents' record collection, I tuned in to The Hog, a Classic Rock station. It wasn't always great, and they did commit the cardinal sin of having a morning show with two annoying DJs, but it did play Stairway to Heaven at least once a week so I guess I can't complain.

The Hog met its fate one afternoon my senior year. I drove to school in the morning with my dial set to Hog. In the afternoon, driving home, I had the strangest feeling that something was amiss. Alternative Rock (or Alt Rock, or Green Day, however you want to classify it) was blaring from the tiny speakers in my dashboard. Then the station identification came on. It was no longer The Hog. Apparently this is how radio stations switch formats: no warning, mid-day. I made a fruitless call in to the station manager. I even took time from my Government/Current Events class to implore my classmates to call in as well, to bring back a radio station I felt ambivalent about but at least didn't actively hate.

The truth is, none of the music I listen to was discovered on commercial radio. In college, I listened to the student-run radio station. You've got to sit through a lot of garbage but occasionally you'll hear something that really moves you. Also, there were a few really cute girls who had radio shows so I listened and tried to like the music they were playing. It didn't take much convincing.

National Public Radio is, strangely, the best station to hear new music. They have a couple shows dedicated to playing stuff you'd never hear unless you are one of those people who are "cool" and just know about new bands as they are formed.

Having friends who play music also helps. They share their music with you, and you get to hear music you'd never hear on the radio. Twofer.

Even now I'm listening to my ipod while I write this post. I have a meticulously maintained itunes library which has more music than any commercial radio playlist. When I hear a song on the radio, I either like it but already have it on itunes, don't like it and don't have it on itunes, or haven't heard it but don't like it. This isn't snobbery; I really wish it wasn't this way. Would you rather listen to (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction for the billionth time or Exile on Main Street with no commercial interruptions?

I'd love to hear free, new music every time I get in my car. But radio stations (most of them owned by one evil company) will never work this way. Don't ask me why. Ask capitalism.

Meanwhile, it turns out Roy Orbison sang hundreds of songs that aren't Pretty Woman. Many of them are fantastic. They don't get played on the radio.

friday robots

Today's Friday Robot was drawn during a conversation with my brother about moonshine whiskey. Background added later. Dinobot thrown in for good measure.

big time

A big addition to joshshalek.com today: I uploaded every single episode of Falling Rock dating back to February 1, 2008. Feast your eyes on almost two years' worth of Falling Rock. I'm particularly happy to see my entire output for a month at the merest click of a mouse. Go ahead, click on December 2008 and see everything I wrote for my blog as well as every comic I drew that month.

I'm beginning to understand how an editor at National Geographic must have felt when they released every issue of the magazine onto disc. A lot of information, and so easy to access. The quality difference is, of course, immediately apparent. But at least mine's free.

If you're not a regular reader of Falling Rock, I hope this will pique your interest. Let me know how the new site is working for you.

batman vs superman

This post is now on my website.

let it be: the album even phil spector couldn’t mess up

Let it Be was the final Beatles album released. It was not, however, the final album they recorded. Abbey Road, a superior album in almost every way, was the Beatles’ farewell to their fans. The final full song on Abbey Road is even called The End. You can’t get more explicit than that. But for reasons of apathy, the Beatles had recorded but never bothered to release the album that would be called Let it Be.

Since the Beatles didn’t want to do it themselves, and since longtime producer George Martin had never been involved (which, I think, hurt his feelings a little bit), the hours of tape were handed to Phil Spector with the hope that he would make an album out of it.

Spector, known for his Wall of Sound approach to recording, wasn’t the best choice for the album. Let it Be was supposed to be a live album: all songs recorded in one take, with no overdubs or studio trickery. Spector had become famous for doing the exact opposite. He’d record a piano playing a certain part, then have that person play the exact same piano part twenty more times so that it sounded like a piano army. The Wall of Sound was an assault to the senses at a time when records were rarely recorded using more than four tracks. Asking Phil Spector to make a stripped-down Beatles album would be like asking the WTO to please think of the poor countries in their trade agreements. They’re just going to get steamrollered.

Spector did just what he always did when making an album. He hired an orchestra and started adding bits to almost all the songs. He did show some restraint on songs like Two of Us and I’ve Got a Feeling, but on the whole the album would never be mistaken for “live.”

Strangely, he included bits of studio chatter between the songs. Normally this would add to the illusion that you’re listening to a live album, but Spector sabotaged himself with the huge orchestrations and intricate arrangements of the songs themselves. When you’re listening to Dig It, a fun jam, it sounds like the four (or five, with Billy Preston) musicians playing together in a room. Then you are jarred by the sound of dozens of musicians playing The Long and Winding Road. Are we in a studio where an entire orchestra can sneak in and set up completely unnoticed? No. We are in the middle of a Phil Spector record.

Let it Be manages to be neither a live album or a completely finished one. In spite of that, there are moments of greatness. No one, not even the Terrorists, will deny Let it Be is a great song. George’s guitar solo on that version of the song (different, I don’t know why, than the single version you hear on the radio) is his greatest solo ever. In I’ve Got a Feeling, hearing John singing his part in the right speaker while Paul’s in the left is just really cool. Two of Us and Get Back are a couple of Paul’s fantastic songs. (I still like Get Back even though it gets played to death on Tucson radio.) Across the Universe is John’s best work here, and I always enjoy George’s Blues pastiche For You Blue.

Taken as a series of singles, Let it Be works. But as an album, it suffers from lack of organization, probably because the people making it never really cared about putting it together right. Throw in one nutjob to produce it, and you’ve got a very good Beatles album instead of one of their best.

It just goes to show how good the Beatles were: even Phil Spector couldn’t totally ruin a Beatles album.

BOOMBOX

Before Superbad was a funny movie about high school, Super Bad was an awesome funky song by James Brown. (Probably not a coincidence, considering the funky score of Superbad the movie.)

I was introduced to Super Bad's awesomeness in college. Me and my friend Jason worked out in the gym at our small liberal arts college. Yes, when everyone we knew was getting stoned and reading Sappho, Jason and I spent a little time exercising. There were other students at the gym, most of them in varsity sports. That made us an anomaly - average guys lifting weights. It was a little weird to be perceived as athletic. I'm no jock, but if you stood me up next to a dozen of my History major peers I suddenly looked like the epitome of health.

The majority of people in the gym at any given time were townies, which suited us just fine. Everyone kind of did their own thing. Well, everyone except the Boombox Guy.

The Boombox Guy was an African American fellow who wore a headband and wristbands. His workout clothes stand out in my mind because they came straight out of the Seventies. I only wish he had a goatee or sweet moustache, but my memory has him clean shaven. Of course, he never entered the gym without his Boombox.

The gym didn't have its own sound system, so normally you'd just hear the sounds of people lifting weights up and setting weights down. When the Boombox Guy was there, you got to hear James Brown.

I'm pretty sure it was a Greatest Hits tape because the same handful of songs played over and over. It was great. Soul, or funk, or whatever you want to call it, was absolutely perfect for the gym. And when Super Bad came on, James was right there, pushing me toward greater feats of strength. "Uplifting" doesn't even begin to describe the feeling. I was Superman. A scrawny, redheaded, nearsighted Superman. Yeah.

For some reason they never play the right music in any gym I've been since college. I can't figure out why. Play Motown. Play Stax. Play James Freaking Brown, for chrissakes. Or go the other way and play AC/DC. It isn't quantum mechanics, it's workout music. It should make you feel good.

My thanks go out to that guy in Ohio for bringing his boombox. He's got the feelin'.

friday robots

I think of these guys as cave painting robots. Neolithic robots. When early humans went out to hunt deer, they'd run into these primitive Friday Robots. Then they'd get back home and, over dinner or whatever, they'd say "Hey, that was a pretty cool robot we saw today. We should ask the artist to paint them next time he's in a cave."

30,000 years later, here they are online.

listening to the beatles remasters

I bought the world’s biggest, most inefficient ipod.
Just kidding!

The Beatles remasters are out on CD, and this blogger has been listening intently for the past week.

Everybody knows the band: Liam Gallagher on vocals and rhythm guitar, Noel Gallagher on vocals and bass, Liam Gallagher on lead guitar, and Noel Gallagher on the drums. Everybody also (should) know the songs. But what this blogger, and millions of people my age and younger, don’t know is how the Beatles themselves wanted the music to sound.

You see, I’m 29. 22 years ago, the Beatles released their albums on CD. Before that, they were on records and cassette tapes. In order to listen to an album, I had the choice of hearing my parents’ records, a cassette, or the tinny, terribly mastered CDs. Records sounded good but they had been played for the past 30 years or so and sounded a bit worn. Also, you couldn’t play them in the car. Cassettes played just fine in my Dodge Aries but they never sounded good, even in the best of circumstances. And the CDs, like I said, were rushed to market and sounded like it. But no worries, right? Every band was re-releasing their albums in the 90’s. Except, of course, the only band that really matters.

So for my entire life, I’ve never heard the sound the Beatles intended. I heard either worn records (not too bad, but also not portable), cassettes, or the hastily-produced CDs. Mainly it was the CDs.

And so it was with much anticipation that I put on the newly remastered White Album to hear While My Guitar Gently Weeps. Just for comparison, I first put on the version with which I was familiar. Then I popped in the new CD and was amazed, amazed I say, at the clarity of this 40-year-old recording.

I suddenly heard the Beatles themselves. I heard musicians playing the instruments. I could feel the presence of Ringo at the drums, rather than just a drum-sound. I heard the sound of Paul catching his breath in Paperback Writer. I heard John (at least I think that’s John) coughing in a quiet section of Norwegian Wood. Sometimes I can hear them putting down their instruments at the end of a song. The Beatles are closer now, the songs I’ve heard thousands of times more exuberant, more human, and more dear.

The sound quality really makes a difference. Dear Prudence really sounds like the band playing in a room together. It made me wish they could have performed it live. When they sing harmonies I can actually make out the separate voices. The bass is more present, as are the drums, but not overwhelmingly so. The comparative levels of the songs haven’t changed, it’s all more clear. The Beatles no longer play in a room full of gauze. There’s air there.

My earlier trepidation has been removed. The Beatles CDs finally sound as good as the music recorded onto them. Now I’ll get back to my Beatles ipod.

john day fossil beds

seriously, moths?

A few months ago I made a deal with the spiders in my apartment. I felt it was an honest, fair agreement worthy of Jimmy Carter. With one notable exception (when I had to Unleash The Fury), spiders haven't caused a ruckus since the deal went public.

With moths, it is a different story.

I can see the usefulness of spiders. But a moth? What is your purpose? Let me answer for you: nothing. You have no purpose. You are superfluous. Seeing you in my apartment makes me question the very existence of God. What all-seeing, all-knowing creator would make such a worthless bug?

Moths, you cannot eat my clothes any more. I’m sick of pulling out a sweater at the beginning of winter only to find it riddled with holes, as if the sweater was engaged in heavy battle while I was busy wearing t-shirts.

My favorite winter cap, a present from my uncle, is also besmirched by your tiny moth mouths. Worse still, the cap is synthetic. There was absolutely no nutritional value to that cap. Why did you eat it?? I hate you, moths.

I’m also sick of this “fluttering around any light” you guys do. I’m trying to read after a long productive day. Little moths keep landing on my book and on me, only to take off, do a couple loop-de-loops, and land again. This has nothing to do with biological imperative. You are maniacal.

Like Israel and Egypt, spiders and I have an alliance. We have made peace where there was once war. Moths, you and I are more like the United States and Terrorism. (Or, Drugs.) There will never be peace because you hate me for being me. And you know what? I hate you, too. I will never negotiate with you, you little winged devils. I will write mean Country Western songs about you. I will draw comics that depict you as impotent, conniving, and petty. I will make fun of everything you hold dear, right to your inscrutable little faces.

You’ve made the mistake of angering a blogger, moths. That is a mistake you will long regret.

comic strip superstar

Since the beginning of American Idol, cartoonists across this great country of ours have been pining away at our drawing tables for a similar contest to come along. Why couldn't there be an American Cartoonist? Aren't we "hip" to the "jive"?*

We wanted the chance to go on live television and draw funny pictures in little boxes.

Finally, we got this chance.** Comic Strip Superstar is a contest put on by Andrews McMeel Publishing and Amazon.com. In it, you create a totally new comic strip, draw 10 dailies and two Sundays, and send it through a series of tubes to the good people at Universal Press Syndicate. The overworked, malnourished Universal Press Syndicate editors, as well as a panel of All-Star judges, will read all submissions and narrow them down to the top ten. Those ten will be posted on Amazon.com and the ultimate winner will be chosen by reader vote. Jimmy Carter will be on hand to make sure the election is fair and untainted.

As winner, you'll be crowned Comic Strip Superstar and given gobs of money, a book deal, and a chance to draw comics for the rest of your natural life. I think you also get to meet Garfield.

Naturally, I entered the contest. Who knows, right now some Universal editor could be pouring over my scribbles and thinking "the kid has talent!"

My submission is called "Blavin and Blobbes," about a young girl and her best friend, a living blob of nuclear waste. Together they start a club: Boys Are Really aFul (BARF). It is both original and fun for the whole family; I am certain I've got a winner.

Seriously, I can't reveal my real submission because I don't want to get disqualified. But I will keep you updated with any news or information I glean in the next couple months. If I'm one of the lucky ten, you can be sure to read about it here. If I'm dumped after the first round, you can bet I'll be bitter until the end of my days, drinking myself to death while muttering obscenities under the Hawthorne Bridge. Maybe I'll meet some other cartoonists down there!

Kid Shay out.


*No.
**Sort of.

Friday Robots

joshshalek.com

You'll notice a difference in my main website. With the help of an Irishman named Kevin, I've successfully updated it to a WordPress site. Now you can subscribe to my comic via an RSS feed. Eventually I'll add older comics to the Archive; right now there is the last couple weeks' worth.

The biggest change comes with the integration of my blog to the website. All my blog posts will now appear directly below the daily comic. For now I'll continue posting here and there, but eventually I'll move everything over there.

I hope you enjoy my writing enough to check out my comics, and vice versa. It's a brave new world for Falling Rock. Friday Robots are definitely pleased at this high level of technology.

today you can hear john lennon sneeze

Beatles remasters came out today.
I'm not sure who picked the date (9.9.09) to release these, but I do know John really liked the number 9. Songs he wrote: One After 909, Revolution #9, #9 Dream. Was this release date a coincidence or exceptionally good marketing? Only the Sun King knows.

There are lots of reviews floating around the internet, but probably my favorite is the one done by Bob Boilen at All Songs Considered. He and his show producer listen and comment on the remastered Sgt. Pepper.

For the record, I'm more of a White Album guy. It's sprawling and sure, I rarely listen to Revolution #9, but there's a lot to be discovered on that double album. I've been wondering for weeks which song or album I should listen to first. I might take Bob's advice and listen to Sgt. Pepper.

10 years of Sambora

This month our household celebrates a very special anniversary. 10 years ago this month, A. adopted our cat, Sambora.
Sambora (seen here in a file photo) has lived with my wife longer than I have, making me the interloper. Yet somehow I have been welcomed into the household, mostly by the cat but also, to a slightly lesser extent, by my wife.

There have been a number of milestones in Sambora’s life with A. A few of them, for your reading pleasure:

When A. first adopted Sambora, the cat came down with a little cold. This required A. to give Sambora medicine. Have you ever given a cat medicine? You have to sit on the cat, wrench its mouth open, jam a dropper into the cat’s mouth and dispense a few drops of liquid. This, according to the vet, will make the cat feel better. For better or worse, A. has said this was the time in which she first bonded with the cat.

Sambora used to live in an apartment with a balcony. There was a little cat door so she could sit outside on the balcony. This balcony twice became the scene to grisly bird murders. We’re not saying who the murderer was, but once A. came home to find part of a bird carcass inserted into the VHS player (presumably for safekeeping). Is it possible for a murderer to return to the scene of the crime if she never really left it?

The Ballad of Amazing Larry. This occurred when I was living with A. and Sambora.

Most recently, of course, was the journey Sambora (along with the two of us) made from the high desert of Colorado to the low wetlands of Oregon. Sambora, to her credit, did most of the driving, all hopped up on organic espresso and amphetamine sulphate. She was our Neal Cassady.

These days Sambora can usually be found in the big window overlooking the neighborhood street or curled up asleep on the bed. Don’t be fooled by this bucolic setting, however; Sambora lives life hard and fast. As another Neil once said: “Hey hey my my, rock and roll can never die.” He was singing about Sambora the cat.

Happy 10th, Sammy.

Wilco (the album): a belated review

What is Wilco? Wilco is Jeff Tweedy, the bass player, John Stirratt, and a revolving door of other musicians. Since each album has a slightly different lineup of players, Jeff and John’s job is to keep a consistency going. They’ve managed to do this partly because Jeff is a great songwriter. It is his lyrics that are the through line for Wilco. I venture to say Jeff Tweedy is the greatest living songwriter who is not Bob Dylan.

Wilco can be sonically adventurous. At their best, they take the same path that the Beatles took four decades ago: their love of playing and experimenting shows through on each track, making the albums as much fun to hear the fiftieth time as they were the first.

Which is why I was excited to hear the band’s seventh album, Wilco (the album).

Now that I’ve completely sabotaged any credibility by comparing Wilco to the Beatles, I’m going to make another comparison. Wilco (the album) is a late-period self-titled album in the same way that The White Album (The Beatles) was for the Beatles. Unlike The White Album, The Album is a more focused, joyful affair. The White Album did indeed have its happy songs, but overall the tone was much more somber. The white cover stood for emptiness rather than light, and while the Beatles were not nihilistic, they took that sprawling double album to question the meaning of just about every musical genre and in the process, life itself.

The Album, in contrast, has a camel on the cover. On the back, the band throws that camel a birthday party.

If I graphed the album, it would look something like this:


Like Sky Blue Sky before it, The Album doesn’t mess around with sound effects or eerie interludes. It just sounds like a band playing together. The layered sound of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and A Ghost is Born is not evident here. This is music meant to be played live.

The Album is also not a return to anybody’s roots. This is not Uncle Tupelo. If anything, Jeff Tweedy the folk singer asserts himself, while Wilco the studio band takes a backseat.
Wilco (the song) kicks things off, justifying the earnest silliness of the birthday camel on the cover.
Deeper Down is one of Jeff’s signature songs about music and the music business. One of his recurring themes in songwriting is the strange dichotomy of making art and selling art. Of course he’s for making a living; he doesn’t see the point in making something nobody wants to hear. But he also wants to say something, to be meaningful. Why those two things rarely overlap is a question for another post, but if you want Jeff’s answer you should listen to this, and to The Late Greats from A Ghost is Born, and to What Light from Sky Blue Sky.

You and I is a straightforward love song, a duet sung with Feist. It’s got some neat lyrics. I like it because it’s cute and I’m a sucker for that stuff.

You Never Know is, right now, my favorite song on the album. Upbeat and full of Tweedy witticisms. It doesn’t get better than this in a four minute song.

Solitaire sounds like it belongs in the quiet middle section of A Ghost is Born - right between the song about bees and the other song about trucks, or whatever. Yeah, Jeff is definitely clean now.

I could go on about The Album, but this is probably enough. It’s always great to have another Wilco album in the world, and even better when that album is a good one. The Album is one of the good ones. Go listen.

birds are birds IN COLOR

Thanks to my favorite cousin, the drawing in this post now has COLOR.


Those birds have never looked better.

Friday Robots

This guy controls the power of the wind. Don't cross him. Wind is the cause of 98.4% of the world's heartache.

the family monster: a panel from the vaults

This post can now be viewed on my website.