Ice Cream Trucks

Allow me, please, to once again find my perch atop my all-too-new old man soapbox, for some terrible carousel tune from afar reminded me the other day of the growing difference between generations, primarily the ever-widening gap between what was once never questioned and is now questionable at best.

For my generation, the ice cream trucks (which actually haven't been trucks for decades but rather retired Dodge church vans with a demented clown's face tattooed on the side) were the trustworthy godsends to summer break afternoons. They drove in like the Messiah on His white horse, redeeming all dollar-bill wavers from the tyrannical grip of the sweltering summer heat. They arrived in style, belting friendly chimes and donning tasty colors that matched the frozen treats they delivered. Like clockwork, the trucks came ringing with sugary refreshments at the most opportune moments, as if their drivers were watching us kids play neighborhood tackle football and sounded the alarm when they saw the game conclude. (Here's to hoping that wasn't actually the case.)

I can only imagine how much better it was for the generations before me, when milkmen and non-suicidal mailmen also visited the neighborhoods.

Now... eh, not so much.

The ice cream truck situation is just creepy today. For several reasons, really. The recent times that I've seen a truck ding-donging around are closer to bedtime than snack time. What are they doing driving around selling Klondike bars after 9 PM? Suppers have been supped. Desserts have been supped. Leave our streets alone now. And these "trucks" are deteriorating by the week; perhaps this is because a sign of success for the ice cream truck business is lasting longer than the first vehicle, so the drivers try to give the impression of success to their fellow ice cream truck-driving comrades by wearing the crap out of that first vehicle. Just a thought.

Those drivers are starting to mirror the roughness of their trucks, too, aren't they? I'm not saying I'd invite any of the ice cream men to play backyard Wiffle ball with us back in my childhood days, but I never felt unsafe around them. Now, I don't doubt a bit it's largely in part due to the rampant pedophiliac turn the news has taken in the past decade, but the idea of a stranger driving a vehicle stocked full with children's chocolaty delights around, targeting this innocent, uninformed demographic, nowadays is a shade unsettling. I mean, the ice cream man is driving a tackle box of bait for eager, helpless children. And it's hard for a parent or otherwise superior to be expected to supervise each extracurricular neighborhood activity, so what shinier opportunity could there be for a child-loving lunatic?

It's really too bad that the ice cream truck deal has lost nearly all of its allure. They were pretty cool, pun inten--

Wait, is that "The Farmer in the Dell" on a xylophone I hear outside?

I gotta go, I'm sorry...

B-sides, vol. 4

Yes, that's right, still more various "Takes on Life" quickies not worthy of a full version:

• I think we tend to give too much culinary credit to the people in our lives whom we call "the best cook I know" because usually they're making the same foods we make ourselves, only they're merely substituting the main, typical ingredient for something incredibly obscure (e.g. fish enchiladas, chicken burgers, pasta with a red wine sauce rather than a marinara sauce, etc.) or just using double the butter and cooking everything bland but nutritious out of the food. It's not that these people are unbelievable cooks but rather regular cooks who make a particular dish uniquely. You're unbelievable when you throw a bunch of items in a bowl I would have never dreamt up combining and create something entirely original and its taste makes me feel like I'm going down a slip-n-slide naked into a pool of Jell-O cubes.


• The inventor of those laser pointer pens should be thrown in jail for crafting a device that resulted in at least 10 annoying situations for every 1 functional situation. Who didn't see the laser pointers going in that direction? You can't give the public free rein with a pocket-size device that shoots a red dot and expect them to not hide in crowds while aiming it on people's eyes and crotches.


• Sometimes my only motivation for completing my gym workout is the thought of rewarding myself with a pizza for dinner, essentially negating all wholesome deeds I just performed for an hour and a half. I'll actually catch myself trying to cut deals with myself, like, "Look, Claude, if you do 10 more reps, we'll celebrate over a large Hawaiian pizza tonight, cool?"


• Trying to describe my level of disdain for a person who is too lazy and disrespectful to not pee on a toilet seat AND not flush afterwards is like trying to play a word in Scrabble when I have 'J,' 'Q,' 'X,' and 'Z' tiles and no vowels: I'd really, really like to -- believe me -- but unfortunately it just doesn't seem possible.


• I don't care how many songs of theirs you can play on your guitar, lyrics of theirs you can sing from memory, or T-shirts with their logo you own -- don't say you're a real fan of the band if you spell their name "Led Zeplin." Or "Led Zeppilin." Or "Led Zepellin." Or "Lead Zepelin."


• Whenever a news station shows a video clip of a plane dumping that red powder on a blazing forest fire, I find myself suddenly yearning for a pack of Fun Dip powder candy with one of those chalky, white lick sticks.


• You may hear someone described as a "miser," a "cheapskate," a "penny-pencher," or a "cheap bastard," but you’ll never again in your life hear or read anyone described as a "niggard." That word is officially done, man. I almost felt guilty halfway through typing it.