Your music grates against my soul. I didn’t even know these trucks existed until I moved to LA. I thought it was only in a Leave It To Beaver world. Actually, I never even saw them in Hollywood it wasn’t until I moved to Silver Lake that the dreaded ice cream truck came into my life—every fucking day that stupid truck appears (even in my current neighborhood).

The first culprit parked just outside my house—which was in a big, round, cul-du-sac like turn. The first thing I do when I wake up is open all the windows and front door—I like fresh air (not that we have that in LA). Most times I would be recovering from a night at the club, while sitting at my computer either writing or editing images, when the fucker would arrive. That mind-numbing music heard from blocks away. When I first moved there, I complained about it non-stop to friends…who thought I was crazy, “But it’s ice cream.” As if ice cream is heaven personified. I don’t care for ice cream, or at least, it’s not something I crave. I would retort, “If he played Mozart and served pickles or martini’s, I’d be running with cash in hand like an eight year old.” But no, I have to listen to a thirty second murder-inducing jingle on repeat for something I don’t want. It’s the same ten neighbor kids. I could see if he parked outside an airport or a business center, but these kids hear him coming, he could have that music play for five seconds and then turn it off. At one point I joked that I was going to buy a year supply of ice cream from Costco, and make these little fat fuckwhistle’s dream come true.

Then, one day, I broke. I threw on tennis shoes and stomped over to the evil ice cream man. I pushed kids out of the way like I was Will Farrell in Old School with the dart gun in his neck. I got to the window, and I started in on the first stages of beratement:

“Lookit, I live in that house, and this music…”

(Oh, shit, he’s making full sundaes in there)

“…Is SO loud. We hear you coming from blocks away…”

(Is that whip cream and nuts?)

“…And it’s the same people who buy everyday…”

(Hot fudge! Is that hot fudge?)

“…I support you making money, but please, just turn the music off once you’ve parked!” I fumed off. I had no idea he was making sundaes. I thought it was Orangesicles and Rainbow Popsicles. By the time I reached my doorstep, I had devised a plan to wear big sunglasses and a hat, perhaps a wig too, and pay some kid to get me a sundae. I never did though. Simply out of principal…and the fact that I don’t crave those things. He never shut the music off, but he did park facing his giant horn of death the opposite direction. It was about the best I could expect. My current villain parks a little further away, so it’s not as bad, but I still hate hearing that music every day. I was in heaven for a year and a half when Brian and I lived up in the hills. Ice cream trucks can’t make it up steep hills. It’s my life goal to get back up there.

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