This is a tough one to really visualize and enjoy at this exact second, seeing as how it’s absolutely, soul-crushingly cold and bleak out and will continue to be for the better part of the next two months, where in we only get a reprieve in the form of a slightly less-shitty few months before the three good weeks of weather this area of the world is granted per year.
Phew.
OK, anyway. Point is, it’s cold. It’s not exactly what you’d call “ice-cream weather.”
But, you’re a goddamned liar if you’re telling me that, even in this cold, if you heard that familiar diddy (turns out, like most things from our country’s past, it has wildly racist origins) you wouldn’t turn on a dime to look for that fucking truck.
I’ve never even been a huge fan of ice cream (partial, of course, to sour candy), but I don’t think there’s a time or a place where that propaganda music won’t change my course. It’s like I’m sort of a Manchurian candidate and the only thing that will unlock me and begin my journey is that tune.
It reminds me of summer, of being a kid, of being thrilled with having three or four dollars in my pocket. It’s a great association to have with, ostensibly, a sweaty dude in a white truck.
The Polar Opposite of this Feeling: Finding out they don’t have the good soft-serve ice cream and/or are out of the Sonic the Hedgehog bar.
scott spinelli 