A sound caught my ear, tickling my consciousness until I was impelled to locate its source. It was not that I wanted any ice cream from the ice cream truck I was sure was the culprit; it was because it sounded suspiciously like it was playing Come Dancing by the Kinks. When I saw that it was a large garbage truck, I was still more bothered by the calliope-like riffs coming from it than the fact that the garbage truck was playing a song.

Naturally, I whirled around and goosestepped away. After having dinner with what was probably a contracted companion, I was escorted to a massage parlor. While I was being serviced, I stared at the TV while a news program started. Its theme song was a muzak version of Yanni.

Shortly thereafter I made the mistake of getting into a conversation about lavender: the flower, not the color. The musical accompaniment was Elvis Costello. This is not notable.

Then, before I was fondled unpleasantly by an 8-year-old with Down's Syndrome, whose mother was entirely unsympathetic to my plight, I encountered a much smaller garbage truck. It was playing Für Elise. What a contrast! I only want to encounter garbage trucks playing classic rock from now on.

Come dancing; it's only natural, unless you get molested by a mongoloid.