Grievance

As a seven-year-old, if I heard "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain" or "Pop! Goes the Weasel" playing with a delightful music box quality from some unknown location it meant that it was around 1:30 and that the ice cream man was making his rounds. I would try to scrape up enough change to purchase a Bubble Play or Screwball and sprint up the street to meet him at the corner. (We lived on a dead-end street with three houses rendering it a hassle for the boxy truck to take the trip).

As a 21-year-old living on St. Alphonsus St., if I hear "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain" or "Pop! Goes the Weasel" playing with a music box quality one more time I will be filled with enough murderous rage to kill an entire orphanage. I exaggerate. But seriously, is it really necessary for the ice cream man to park a stone's throw from our building and sell his goods while keeping the music on for (what I've timed today to be) an hour and a half? It is irritating enough for me never to want a Bubble Play again. Fine. I exaggerate some more. Bubble Plays are delicious.