Columnist John Katsilometes: Revealing the cold, hard truth

Monday, July 16, 2001 | 8:25 a.m.

John Katsilometes is the Sun features editor. His column appears Mondays. Reach him at kats@lasvegassun.com or 259-2327.

Idon't know how or when it started, exactly. The memory is indistinct, frosted over like the inside of the giant frozen-snack freezer at Vons.

It was as a child, probably. An ice cream sandwich here, a Drumstick there -- during the hot summer month no one seemed to notice or care. It was always, "Looks like John's enjoying another double scoop of mint-chocolate chip."

Yes. My fifth of the day. It ain't easy being green ... so says my tongue.

But by the time I was a teenager I was sneaking Big Ed's in the garage during the dead of winder. Sticky fingers was not only a great Rolling Stones album, it was my sad state of existence.

I've got it bad, or good. Half-gallons of plain vanilla -- slathered with chocolate and/or caramel sauce and any odd assortment of nuts -- swiftly come and go. When people speak of the ice cream-marring condition called "freezer burn," I only say, "Wha-?"

I'm sick, I tell you. Upon my frequent visits to the nearest 7-11, I try to conceal my habit by asking the pimply check-out clerk, "I'm having a gathering later. Do you think six gallons of Tin Roof Sundae is enough for 10 people?" But no one is invited to these piteous parties, it's just me. I'm on a rocky road, no doubt, something I'm sure even Beavis behind the counter realizes as he quickly stuffs my stash in plastic bags.

And for this condition, we celebrate.

July marks National Ice Cream Month and Sunday was National Ice Cream Day (for facts and figures, see Trends below). But for me, every month is National Ice Cream Month and every day is National Ice Cream Day. I was a one-man National Ice Cream Day festival Sunday, spending the afternoon with the yin and yang of my habit, my very close friends Ben & Jerry. Shades drawn and the TV blaring, I scooped myself into happy oblivion and late that night discarded the dripping empty containers in an alleyway Dumpster.

I encountered an old wino there who fixed me with bleary eyes and said, "Brother, you got it bad," as he handed me a quarter.

Ben & Jerry are dangerous in a deceptive sort of way, packaging their pints of goo in containers bearing cartoonish caricatures of themselves. The confections bear funny names designed to divert attention from their actual contents. Instead of labeling a pint Vanilla Ice Cream With Cherries and Fudge Chips, it's Cherry Garcia. There's Chunky Monkey and Phish Food and New York Super Fudge Chunk and I'm beholden to them all.

It could be that my friends are beginning to notice this defect of character, but I don't care. Whenever I'm invited to a barbecue or dinner party I customarily ask, "What should I bring?" and am told, "Whatever you want."

But lately it's been, "Whatever you want ... we don't have any Ben & Jerry's."

I guess you'd call that enabling.

At some point I'll quit, probably. I can't continue forever. I've got three half-eaten pints in the freezer even as we speak and I know just one scoop of Wavy Gravy could very well lead me down the path of destruction ... or at least make my teeth ache. I need to find others with similar conditions, and with them I'd form a fortifying spiritual bond.

Over dessert.