Monthly Archives: January 2007

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In Which I Have My Cake

And I was wandering the Interweb and tripped across this particular post from the blog Freelance Genius. I forget what I was looking for, but the irony (and motivation for this writing) is that I was listening to Cake at the time.

Now, to cut to the chase, I disagree with the author’s premise, which is a sarcastic send up that sums to Cake sucks and always sounds the same. Taking a sample from different albums, can that really be said about “Comfort Eagle,” “Jolene,” “Stickshifts and Safetybelts,” “Pretty Pink Ribbon,” and “Sheep Go To Heaven”? Oh, wait, your perception came from what is played on commercial radio? I’m sorry, but I refuse to take that seriously.

There is a development that happens across the albums from Cake, from first to last. Is there repetition? Just enough to make up what is a voice, not a tired shrill gnash like the rest of the Freelance Genius blog is. We all have that characteristic trait, or constellation of traits, that gives identity. That alone does not make for regurgitative nonsense, unlike the critic in question. There is enough to give comfort and familiarity, and more than enough playful diversity to give a refreshing awakening to the music.

Personally, I happen to like Cake. There is a question of personal memories which I associate with that music. I remember Number One in the On-Air Studio doing a show and dedicating “Comfort Eagle” to me, this being an inside joke on us both overusing the word dude. There is Number Two playing “Sheep Go To Heaven” over and over in the living room after we picked up that particular album at a Goodwill store shopping for clothes. And I even remember getting the first album, having it played in the car and me playing Name That Tune, or at least Guess The Artist, with songs that I had never heard until “The Distance” was played.

So I like Cake. Freelance Genius does not. And that difference is what makes the world go around.

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Morning Commute Pt. 2

After a while, though, we noticed cars in the oncoming lane across the median started pulling over ahead of us. This was unusual. My gunner leaned down slightly to yell over the noise into the cabin. “We got a convoy coming up on us in the opposite lane.” I turned around as best I could in the cramped space with all my gear wedging me in solid. There was nothing I could tell from the rear windows. “KBR or military?” I yelled back.

“I think Iraqi.” Just then, the convoy was starting to pass us. “What?” I asked, of myself as much as anybody.

A pickup and suburban configured to be gun trucks were racing up the opposite lane. In the bed of the pickup, two Iraqi soldiers stood up waving at the traffic ahead of them to pull over. It was a high speed game of chicken, only with machine guns.

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Morning Commute Pt. 1

The sun was starting to come up over the horizon, promising another day of heat, the morning already beginning to warm. Sleep cut into my eyes, the hum of promised dreamless sleep hovering on the periphery of my consciousness.

Trucks crushed loose gravel as they rolled out. Team Four was hitting the roads, pulling a convoy back, trying to get out the gate before the window for movement south closed now that the roads were no longer red. Team Six was behind them, waiting to roll. We would follow all of them back, not having to pull a convoy, bringing up the rear. They could proof the lane and if something happened, maybe we could respond.

The sky was a solid blue now, dust filling up the air lethargically. I poured another cup of coffee from the Thermos trying to knock back the edge of drowsiness. Team Six started shuffling to the gate for its departure. We would be rolling soon enough; the heat of the cabin of the truck and the long ride with the monotonous hum of the tires would be enough to bring on the monster of sleep. I needed to be alert.

And then we were suiting up, throwing on armor, rolling for the gate, me bringing up the rear of the patrol, hitting the gate, weapon hot, right hand turn, on into morning. Onto the roads, heading south for home, longing for bed. Passing underneath the Blue Boobies. Over the bridge, onto the Tikrit bypass. The pale colorless sand of the desert visible in the daylight. The hum of the tires and the drone of the engine.

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