Today I made an attempt at recapturing my childhood. I awoke to the sound of a jingling melody wafting through my bed room window from the street below. It began faintly, and grew in intensity as I roused from a dead sleep. There are train tracks that run about 20 yards from my house, and the metallic beasts that grumble over them continually blare their horns, but I never notice those ever-screaming greetings. Yet, the synthetic music gently drifting into my room drew me to my feet, and I was running, dazed and bleary-eyed, down the stairs, lured by instinct and the Sirens' call. The Sirens lured me with "Pop Goes the Weasel"; it was the Ice Cream Man. Having the benefits of longer legs and my own source of income, I easily outran the other children who had to endure the intolerably infinite wait for their mothers to retrieve quarters from their purses. I stood in front of the white truck and gazed slack-jawed at the colorful menu pasted on the side. Choco Tacos. Fudgcicles. Ice Cream Sandwiches of various exotic types. I made my way home with my booty, and discovered how little I actually like this stuff. As far as ice cream goes, it's all pretty low quality. Still, it was the principal of the matter; of all the things I grew out of, willingly or otherwise, chasing down the Ice Cream Man is a childhood activity that just seems entirely natural at 22. It will probably seem so at 62, as well. --ryan.