This post, however, is about something else from childhood that didn’t begin to scare me until adulthood, but which disturbs me far worse than clowns, and, I believe, for more and better reasons: the ice cream truck. Am I alone in this, I wonder? Here are some of my reasons:

• The vans, innocuous to children but recognizable to adults, especially those of my age or older, as colorfully decked-out and refrigerated versions of the vans we girls were told to avoid, and that held (less often than imagined but more often than is societally healthy) all-surface shag carpeting and a large mattress in the back when driven by mustachioed, hairy-chested, medallion-wearing disco man-whores (or their progeny).
• The horrible music, so warped that it couldn’t have been long after it started life as a sprightly, music box rendition of “the Entertainer” or “Turkey in the Straw” before it was somehow melted in the fires of hell into a wilted, minor-key version of its former self, a tune that somehow suggests ice cream to children and everything bitter and evil and corrupt to adults.
• The pictures of all the treats on the sides of the van, none of which could ever taste as good as they look, even at their most faded. Perhaps, viewed in a charitable light, this is a lesson taught early about the disappointments inherent in an inescapable adult life of cubicles and roach-coaches, but isn’t that a bit cruel? I mean, that’s like sitting at the food court above the ice rink and yelling at the young Olympic hopefuls having lessons below, “I hope you like doing triple-lutzes while wearing a Minnie costume!” (Perhaps they shouldn’t serve beer at the food court…)
• The incredible pull the damn ice cream truck has on children! They come running from everywhere at the sound of the truck’s ghostly tune, and with such demented fervor that I can only imagine them following it into the ocean if it went there, all of them slowly going under in a parade of screams and warm, clutched quarters, and melting Rocket Pops and a final dirge of that awful music…
• And, if that all were not enough, now there is this:
  
  Can you see it? Oh, the horror!!!

On this blog, I have a list of songs that make me want to pee faster when I hear them when I am in the restroom at work. (Someone thought it a fine idea to put a radio in our bathroom, ostensibly to give us a soundtrack to do girls’ room things to.) For some reason, occasionally a song will be playing that disturbs me measurably more than simply having a soundtrack does, and I add it to the list.

Today, however, I had a different reaction to what was playing while I peed: Come Sail Away by Styx is a longer-than-average song, and I couldn’t help but think that — at least back before pre-recorded blocks of song — it would have been used to give the DJ the chance to relieve his bladder. In effect, I felt a kind of kinship at the thought of peeing while someone else, briefly escaping from their booth (which, in my head will always look like the studio at WKRP), also peed. I look forward, now, to hearing any of these or these songs and once again bonding with my (childhood memory of a) local DJ.

I love the rain, but I do wish it would soak in. And, as long as I am wishing, more ducks, please!

Gabe has a better handle on the thing. I will add his to the album after I get his permission. At any rate, neat app. :)

A patterned or bright solid cardstock can serve as a decorative, match-book-like holder for the sheets. You could even recycle some file folders, magazine covers or other similarly sturdy paper goods. I needn’t tell you crafters this: you are creative. Here comes the brilliant part, tho: the little sheets inside are, from what I have noted by playing with one I rec’d from a friend, the exact consistency and weight as the toilet bowl covers found in most public restrooms! Yes, I mean the white, bible-page-weight ass-gaskets dispensed from boxes labeled “Provided by the Management for your Protection.” Head out to the local 7–11 or office park and appropriate a bunch. Cut them to fit your previously-made holders and staple about 20 sheets in each. If you want, you could hold them above some incense to add a scent, but be careful not to set them on fire — potty tissues burn FAST. Fold the booklet closed, in keeping with the matchbook model and, presto! You could even come up with a neato brand icon of your own to make them seem more hoity-toity (emphasis, of course, on the toity).

There it is. Have fun, and let me know how many people you de-shine with this thoughtful gift: nothing says “I love you” like face de-greasers… am I right? If Barnes & Noble found it wise (and they did! I worked in hell that year) pimp the South Beach Diet books with signs that read “Great Christmas Gift”, I can’t be far from off in my gift-giving logic. Now I am away to find some bibles and prayer-books earmarked for recycling to see if their pages would work in a similar fashion, because those would make a great gift for removing unsightly sweat halos! :)

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