Kids just wanna have fun

It's official. I have entered my second childhood.

This past Friday, despite the humidex being 90+ F. (33 C.), I decided to go for a walk. Here in the Great White North, the mercury this summer has been so high and the humidity even higher, that any day where it only feels like 90 is a good day to go out. I haven't been getting out nearly as much as I like--it's been feeling as hot as 112 F., making it impossible to do anything more than walk across the street to buy groceries. And even then, you're all sweaty by the time you get back.

Anyway, I hit the road and was planning to do a route that takes only about 15 minutes, but the sun was intoxicating and I felt so good, I decided to extend my outing to the 30-35 minute route. This new route takes me toward, but still some distance away from my local Dairy Queen outlet.

This very thought entered my mind (the Dairy Queen), along with a chocolate sundae, one of my favourite treats and which I haven't enjoyed in several years, and although I was starting to get hot, or perhaps because of it, I decided to yet again, extend my walk. This meant that my total walk would be about 50-55 minutes--a very long walk in those conditions.

The fact I haven't made any mention of my second childhood in three subsequent paragraphs is probably testament to it. I've forgotten how to properly write. I'm almost there--I promise.

When I reached the intersection where the cool, delightful treats are located, I spotted a couple of young girls in front of the place, one of them inside a 6'6" paper mache or plastic ice cream cone, trying to drum up business. I have news for them. If the devil were visiting this town that day, he wouldn't need to be encouraged by a fake ice cream cone to get a cool refreshment. I crossed the street and went up to "the cone"--oh, I could tell she was a young girl by the shape and size of her legs. I peered into the slot that was the cone's "mouth" and said "I know you're an ice cream cone and all, but aren't you hot in there?"

Her response was "Awww...gimme a hug". So, like a little kid seeing a Disney character for the first time, I gave her a hug...to the apparent approval of the people on the patio based on the oohs and aahs, not to mention a passing motorist. I felt a bit silly and a bit childish, but it actually felt very good. I smiled at the barely visible face, bid her "Take care", and made my way to the shop.

One step into the place and I was hit by this beautiful rush of very cool air. Ironically, I hadn't noticed until that moment just how hot I was feeling. I seemed to sweat more rather than less as the queue moved along.

I glanced up at the menu and found the sundae prices. A "small", what I always have gotten at Dairy Queen, and always chocolate (I'm a creature of habit), was priced at $2.49...plus tax, of course. In this neck of the woods, that would be 13% or 32 cents, bringing the total not far from $3. It seemed excessive...until it arrived. Then, it seemed ridiculous. To put this in persepctive, a couple of weeks ago, I purchased two litres (almost half a gallon) of name-brand ice cream at the grocery store for $3.99. I could literally consume that sundae with one large bite assuming I wanted to risk the resultant brain freeze killing me.

I exited and almost without thinking, I wandered over toward Miss Ice-cream-cone and asked her if she'd like a little taste of my sundae. She said "Oh, sure!". I scooped up some chocolate syrup and some ice cream and carefully slipped it through her "mouth" and then toward her lips. She said, "Oh, that's so good! Thank-you very much! Give me a hug". And so, this "kid" put his arms around this giant cone for a second time and on this occasion, I hear a slight commotion over my shoulder. I let go of the giant treat while saying "You're very welcome" and "Bye", and glanced to my left to see an Asian man fidgeting with a camera and who had obviously just snapped a picture of the kooky, old man feeding ice cream to the ice cream cone. Those Asians will photograph anything!

As I embarked on my way home, glancing back, I saw that the man was asking to have his picture taken with Miss Cone. A few moments later and as I was 50 yards or so from the Dairy Queen, I heard shouting from behind me. I turned to see the two girls calling at me and waving good-bye. I'll tell you what--it's not at all bad being a kid...again.



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Classic cars from my childhood

Back in the late 60's, my older brother must have been quite a car enthusiast--probably "nut" is a more accurate adjective...even if it is a noun. He had recently purchased this beauty... (you can read about it here)

...a 1967 Chevrolet Chevelle SS 396, when he shortly thereafter embarked on an ambitious plan to build a '57 Chevy from the ground up, no less.

I remember him working on that car in the garage, sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend, at all hours, often working in the dark by the light of one of those lamps-on-a-cord-with-a-hook thingees. I can recall the jubilation when the engine first turned over. There would have been high fives all around except I'm almost positive no one had ever done a high five until a decade or two later. Even after that first milestone, there were setbacks. The car would randomly stall, sending my bro back to the drawing board.

The car wasn't one of my favourite colours--plain white, but millions of people the world over consider the '57 Chevy one of the most stylish vehicles ever produced.

Another thing I remember is how loud that street machine was. I don't recall what size engine was in it or what kind of exhaust system/mufflers/resonators it had, but I can tell you unequivocally that it would not be ignored. A slight touch of the gas pedal, idling or not, and heads would turn from a block away. What I do know is that the Chevelle's 396 CID was bigger than whatever was in the Chev.

You may not believe what I am about to share, but I have heard this from my brother on more than one occasion. The '57 was faster off the line than the muscle car Chevelle! The only reason I can think of why this was so, is that the gear ratio must have favoured lower speeds in the '57.


It seems that "the white car" (how my 13 year old brain thought of it) wasn't with us very long. One day while bro was out cruisin' on Yonge Street, he came to a red light alongside a guy on a noisy bike. They glanced at each other and they rev'ed their respective machines. It seems silly to even think that a street-legal car could compete with even a moderately quick motorcycle, but...

The light turned green, the engines screamed, the tires screeched and like greased lightning they were off. In what must have seemed like a split second, driver and rider came to an even faster stop at the next light, the car slightly before the bike. The rider was blown away. He offered to buy the car from my brother on the spot and soon thereafter, I never saw "the white car" again.

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Last Kiss music video.

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