Ah, the sounds of summer. Children playing in the park, birds singing in the trees, even the slightest indication of flowers blooming. Yes, I can hear them. Boys walking up the street, dribbling a basketball, girls playing pat-a-cake on the stoop below. An old man sells tube socks on the corner, and a younger man tries to buy three pair for only eleven cents. But hey, this is New York. Anything goes. I have extraordinary hearing. I hear things that no one even knew were out there. I'm able to tell which bus is coming down the street by the sound of its brakes. I can tell which of my neighbors is checking his mail by the sound of the key in the mailbox. And sometimes I think I even know what kind of cream cheese is being spread on a bagel in the sandwich shop three blocks away. Yes, my hearing is supernatural. However, it doesn't take this kind of aural sensitivity to recognize some sounds. I return again to the summer sounds that pervade the air around me. I refer specifically to the ice cream truck. I can hear the ice cream truck miles away. I know it's coming. I can tell the difference between the Kustard King and Mister Softee. The Kustard King demonstrates an arrangement of Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer," which must cause Mr. Joplin to rotate uncontrollably. Once the music starts, there's no stopping it either. And I'm not sure that the other is any better. Mister Softee's music is in a standard A-B-A format, eight bars to a phrase. It's in the key of E. It plays for about forty seconds, and then stops. And then, about ten seconds later, it starts up again. This means that, over an hour's time, forty-eight minutes are dedicated to this music. The Kustard King is different in that the piece doesn't ever end. Like several of Joplin's famous rags, "The Entertainer" is designed such that the end of the first 16-bar phrase can segue smoothly into the B-section of the song. However, it also returns just as smoothly back to the A-section. While I'm quite certain that Mr. Joplin never intended this to be the case, Kustard King has taken liberties with the tune, and adapted it to the King's own needs. Sometimes I can't make out the melodies, but I can hear the music. There is a playground on my street. And daily, at 3:00, the sounds of children running out to the playground remind me that school has ended. And daily, at 3:15, the sound of the ice cream truck's inevitable approach to my neighborhood makes me want to cry. I just want to sit in my apartment and write my songs. Sometimes I want to cook dinner in silence. Sometimes I like watching television. Other times, reading a good book will put me at ease. And yet, it never seems to matter what activity engages me, I am instantly ill at the sound of the ice cream truck.

I sit on the floor of my apartment, and pray to the darkest demons of hell and the angelic gods of the heavens that the ice cream truck goes away. And it does, which renews my faith in demons and gods to some extent. However, it usually takes about an hour or so for the demons to get around to it. This means that either the demons have other more important things to do or there really aren't any supreme beings, and the truck drives away on its own when there are no more customers. Back to the first option, I sometimes believe that someone else has called upon the demons to torment me, and this is how the demons make their money: torment me for one person, send the truck away for me, bring the truck back for someone else. One person's saving grace is another man's nightmare. Usually, small children annoy the crap out ofme. Especially large quantities of small children. And what lures all the small children in my vicinity? The ice cream truck. So when the hokey music begins, I know that I have to tolerate the charade sound of the hokey music for four out of every five seconds, but also the sounds of children screaming: "Mommy, I want a cone!" "Daddy, can I get sprinkles?" "Billy, don't push me, or I'll shove this Heath Bar frappe up your ass!" Look. I need some peace and quiet. I want to do away with the ice cream truck. I don't need the ice cream truck. I have my own ice cream. In my house. I want to run through the playground telling everyone that they can buy a whole box of ice cream at the Key Food down the street for half of what they spend on a dinky little cone. Beyond that, I might just go buy boxes and boxes of Ben & Jerry's, and give it away for free, if it will diminish Mister Softee's business to the point that he'll go away. I've considered purchasing a rifle, and setting it up in my window a la Lee Harvey Oswald. I've also wondered if I could buy off the ice cream truck guy. "Excuse me, sir. Here's fifty dollars. I'd like a vanilla cone, and for you to drive far away and not come back." Ice cream is a provider of vague nutrition. There's dairy, there's... well, there's dairy. When I purchase ice cream, I'm expecting sugar, cream, coldness, sometimes even that horrible feeling that my head is going to implode from the chill that goes through my jaws and all my teeth when a particularly cold chunk gets a tender nerve. But what I do not purchase with my ice cream is the non-stop music. If I wanted annoying non-stop music, I'd purchase an elevator. But not one from New Orleans. What do I want? I don't know... Better ice cream would be good. More music options would also be good. Maybe a variety of songs available to the enforced listening public? Maybe an OFF switch? Maybe I'm dreaming. Do your community a favor, and go to your local grocery store, and show your kids that ice cream in a carton in your freezer is just as much fun and not half as noisy as ice cream from a dirty truck on the street. You may have noticed a few illegally copied trademark logos from other ice cream brands throughout this column. Face it, I'm not going to offer my corporate support by using the logos of the companies I hate. And since most folks who wander the web only look at pictures, my subliminal messages might do some good. Let's get ice cream off the streets and back in the kitchen where it belongs.