car of the night: i'm your ice cream man
by Michele Christopher
It's that time again, folks.
We asked you. You told us. We listen to your needs. See that's we do here. We want to have fun, so if you contact us with an idea, chances are if it's nothing like "shut the fuck up" we will do it. Cause that would be kinda hard to do. Shutting up is hard for us. We talk in our sleep. That would be asking a lot from us.
Tonight's idea comes from mr b and w. And thank you for the idea. Sometimes I wonder where these ideas come from and why some of you are hell bent on giving us the hardest things to review. I'm mean jeez guys, now we have to do a Meatmen review, the most offensive song list, and an Ice Cream truck in one week? Give us a little space here, ok?
In all reality and honesty.
We asked and you replied. Thank you for all your input. We can work off anything. So if you have an idea, email us. Cause you guys having fun is what makes us smile. This one is for mr. b and w. Have fun reading it and keep sending us ideas. Tonights car/truck.......
An ice cream truck!
Here we go!
We were asked to what? Ice cream trucks?
Well, let me just tell you. I haven't had that many pleasant real life experiences with ice cream trucks. I was never a kid who ran down the street chasing after them and begging money off dad to get a "Whateverthefuck Cone." That's just not my style. I don't work like that. Ice cream is only for sad people who need to be cheered up. I was too busy watching Little House to be sad.
Don't get me wrong. The concept was cool. Ice cream. In front of your house. Right there. In front of you. Playing a little song. That song was kiddie cocaine. My friends would bolt out of the door like they just fucked the neighbor's wife and her husband came home. Crawling out windows and doors just to get to the van.
But really, where I grew up, not many would come by. The closest I got to it was a little old guy with an ancient push cart that would ring his bell as he walked through your street. It was one of those things with an umbrella. He looked so tired, you could see he really didn't want to be doing this. But rather, he had to be doing this. It was kinda sad. But for the kids, even sadder to see what he was selling.
Not ice cream. Oh no. This was the barrio. Ice cream was weak. We didn't need that. Or, at least I didn't. I never got the concept of ice cream. But then again I chomp down Chik-O-Stixs daily, so you can tell my priorties are kinda screwy.
But, I ran out there! Fast as I could! Everytime I heard his bell. And got me a hot tamale. Cause that's life. Fresh cooked tamales. Sitting in the shade just enjoying it. The corn and the flavor. Heaven.
Keep in mind this was before I started smoking. All food turned into blandless, grey material that needed to be covered in hot sauce so I could taste something.
Oh. I quit smoking by the way. Now I can tell how shitty Taco Bell tastes. Don't let me get started on Del Taco.
Wait. Wait. I'm getting off track here. I can feel it.
This is about cars. Not turtle and tamales. I must be hungry. Let's get back to the story.
THE greatest ice cream truck of all time!
Cheech and Chongs ride in "Nice Dreams". Oh my god. What a concept. What an amazing truck. What an amazing ride. It surved so many purposes. It drove them around to sell dope. It sold ice cream, well they ate ice cream, but we can talk about that later. It was a music van with kicked out cabs so they could dig shit out when they were bored. And it was kinda cool looking. Just the fact that it had Cheech and Chong in it made it cool. Plus, it sold dope. Dope to house. Kinda like Pizza Hut delievery, cept with this one you get balls out stoned and watch TV. Or turn into a lizard. Or something like that.
Oh yeah. By this time in Cheech and Chong's career, the drugs were taking a toll.
But really. Wouldn't you want a dealer to come by your house with a little song to let you know he was coming by? I mean really. All you need next is someone to hold the bong to your face and you don't need to move. This is like Jetsons technology. All you need is a robot to shave you and some little bastard named Elroy running around and your life is complete. And maybe sex with Jane. And a dog. Well, maybe not sex with the dog. That fucker was big. You might end up being the bottom if you didn't give him a Milk Bone when he wanted one. Jesus. A dog raping you. That's all I want to think about tonight.
Why do I always end up with cartoon sex analogies?
That's my salute to the ice cream truck. I could tell you more about the ice cream driver who blasted "i'm your ice cream man" by Van Halen everytime he booked down our street. Cranked out his speakers. But if I do, Michele will link that god damn song. So I think I'll just keep that story to myself. -T
If I did have experience like that they all went to hell when Al the Ice Cream Man showed up. I guess the regular guy that came down our block retired and Al took over. Al didn’t talk much, didn’t banter with us or make jokes like other ice cream guys I’d heard about. Al was kinda cranky. While all the other kids on the block were content to let Al be grumpy and quiet, I decided I would take it upon myself to figure out what the fuck Al’s problem was. See, I wanted the whole world to be happy. Because the world was a happy place. Puppy dogs and fluffy clouds and rainbows and ice cream men who smiled at you. Al was wrecking my 11 year old world view. I had to fix that.
So one day Al comes around and all the kids buy ices and scatter to their yards and I just kind of linger around, pretending like I hadn’t been able to choose. Al grunts at me. I smile. He makes a half smile and tells me, in a thick accent I couldn’t quite place, to hurry it up. Ok, I was 11. I wasn’t quite schooled in the ways of couth or subtlety yet. I just blurted out to him “Why are you so mad all the time? Why don’t you smile? Don’t you like kids? We’re pretty nice to you.” And with that, Al rolled up the sleeve on his shirt, twisted his arm around in front of my face and said “See that? See?” I saw some numbers on his arm. I was confused. Al could see it in my face. “Go ask your parents what this means. Then you will know. I will never be happy again.” Jesus, dude. Someone tattooed some numbers on your arm when you were drunk or something? Same thing happened to my cousin (though it was a naked lady, not numbers) and he got over it. I told him that story. He looked at me with something close to disdain. Maybe more like pure hatred. Well, you can guess what happened when I went home and asked my parents about it. I spent the rest of the summer avoiding Al and feeling really guilty. He remained our ice cream man for the next four summers before he moved to another neighborhood, and every time I bought ice cream from him we exchanged this knowing glance as if to say “Ok, I’m freaking sorry already, I said it 100 times” and “Say you are sorry all you want. I still don’t like you.”
Cut to five years later. Hitchhiking home from high school one day. Yea, I know, stupid idea. It was the 70's. We were all stupid back then. Anyhow, some guy picks up and gives us a ride for about three miles then says he’s gonna let us out at the next traffic light. Cool. We get to the light. Mary opens the car door without looking and there’s a sudden BAM! and the whole car shakes and moves. What the hell? The door is gone. The door of the car is gone. I look around and see Al in his ice cream truck, the door of the car we were in laying on the road in front of the truck. Fuck. I got out of the car and left Mary to deal with the irate guy who picked us up. I walked over to Al’s truck, looked in the window at him and just kinda shrugged. He looked down at me and said, simply, “Oh. You.”
Honestly, I always thought of ice cream trucks as evil kind of things. Maybe it was the whole Chitty Chitty Bang Bang scenario. Like the guys in the trucks were really out to get you and the Fudgicles and King Cones were just a ruse to kidnap innocent kids. I would lay in bed on summer nights when I was real small and hear the bells ring as the truck made its last drive around the block for the night and I would get a shiver down my spine. They’re coming to get you, Barbara. Yea. Zombie ice cream truck drivers. Night of the Lving Sno Cones. You think I’m crazy but just two years ago there was this ice cream truck that came down my street playing the them to Rosemary’s Baby. I kid you not. He drove around the block about six times each night just playing that tune over and over. And he was in competition with this other truck who was playing It’s A Small World. Talk about the powers of evil. Those two songs clashing together in the night as one truck came down the street from the east and the other came down the street from the west, heading right for each other, each turning up their music until the whole block was bathed in a cacophony of It’s A Small Rosemary’s Baby World and I would cover my ears with my hands and close my eyes thinking, it’s gonna blow. It’s gonna blow. This is the seventh sign. The streets are gonna buckle and the gates of hell will rise up out of the black top and the four horsemen will come and Robert Frost will have been half right, the world will end in ice - a torrent of Spiderman and Snoopy ice pops and Popsicles of every color of the Satan rainbow and when all is said and done, the visage of Mr. Softee will be seen in the sky, letting out an evil laugh that is 80% evil and 20 % whole milk.
I really don’t care for ice cream men too much.
*oh come on, it was like he practically dared me to do it