It’s 6am and I’m sitting here staring at the blinking cursor wondering what to write about. Bizarre as it may seem I was just lying in bed thinking about the Ice Cream Guy (ICG) and how my view of him has changed over the years.
Must be because I heard him driving through the neighborhood last night.
It used to amaze my mother that I could never seem to hear her pleas for me to take out the garbage but could somehow hear the ICG’s dulcet tones three or four towns away. (A talent my youngest daughter seems to have inherited)
It was creepy, actually, in a Stepford Wives kind of way.
These days the rusty truck that drives through our neighborhood goes excruciatingly slow while playing a severely out of tune version of Frank Mill’s “Music Box Dancer” with a heavy dose of total harmonic distortion thrown in for good measure.
God, I hate that song.
I think it’s just the company’s subliminal and overtly wicked way of increasing business. The crazed demonic music stops when the truck stops, get it?
E-V-I-L. That’s what that is.
Every time I hear that stupid song it makes me want to get out an AK-47 and blow the damn speaker right off the roof of the rusted-out tin can on wheels. (Oh, but what would the kids in the neighborhood think?)
Yup, I’m getting old.
The ICG’s that I see these days are nothing like the grandfatherly Norman Rockwell types of my youth.
The company seems to have traded in Dick Van Dyke for the likes of a Goth version of Tommy Lee. I guess I just don’t like a guy sporting an Insane Clown Posse t-shirt with a Black Widow spider tattoo on his face fondling my Nutty Buddies.
Sorry, pal, put my ice cream cone on the counter and step away.
And no, I have little interest in trying the new Frozen Haggis in a cup, thank you very much. Eeewww.
Sadly, the childhood innocence found in eating a frozen confection on a hot summer day has been replaced by a disturbing social scenario you’d be more likely to find smack dab in the middle of a Stephen King novel.
Not a total loss, I guess—if you like King (which I do).
Sherlock is now proceeding to consume a plant in the living room Godzilla-style . . . his subtle way of telling me he’s a bit hungry.
And God knows I need another cup of Java…