Like any American kid, I would whip into a frenzy at the first hint of that tinny, slightly creepy music signaling the ice cream man was on his way down my street. In scenes repeated in neighborhoods across the country, I would run around in circles screaming “Ice Cream Man! Ice Cream Man!” while my mom scrambled for change. Tightly clutching that salvaged quarter, I’d fly out the door and sprint down the street like a track star in an Olympic 4×400. Sometimes I was successful, sometimes not and I’d crumple at the corner (I wasn’t allowed to cross the street), breaking down in hysterical tears as I’d watch him pull farther and farther away. Insanity. Sheer insanity.