I have seen the face of evil and it’s playing the “Entertainer” at full volume.

The ice cream trucks are back on the streets. Sinister things, they lure children with jaunty music and collect souls as they pass. Painted clowns with wide smiles leer as the trucks move from neighborhood to neighborhood like mobile spook houses.

Eeeevil.

That infernal music plays on and on, lulling us away from the fact that true horrors are afoot. The happy chimes of the Good Humor man are filled with subliminal messages that lead good men to atrocities.

Na na na na, na na na … (must steal the neighbor’s barbecue) … Na na na na na na na na … (tie tin cans to the dog’s tail …)

I could go on and on about it. But the last time I did so, you wits out there left spooky ice cream trucks on my desk. You hummed “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” every time I passed. I have just completed therapy. I’ll leave it alone now.

There are other signs of the season to discuss. There are cops on bikes and surly teens on skateboards. There are bees and there are strange items found beneath the melting snow. There is the ferocious roar of motorcycles startling you out of your spring reverie.

I don’t have the science to back it up. But I’m pretty sure the roar of a bike with a trillion-dollar exhaust evokes the same sense of panic primitive men experienced when toothsome beasts growled from the dark side of the cave. You wince and become very still. You drop the drumstick you just bought from the evil ice cream man. You wait for the thunder to pass and then scream obscenities into blue exhaust.

There is rap music pounding from the open windows of passing cars. The cars cost $250 and are in advanced stages of decay. The stereos cost a thousand bucks and are capable of playing music loud enough to be heard on the moon. They are equipped with armed defense systems to thwart thieves. The rapsters who listen to this stuff drive around sitting way back in their seats as if they are 9 feet tall. They crank up the volume even if it causes things to fall off their cars. They need to be seen. Above all, they need to be heard.

There are guys with knobby knees walking around in shorts. There are girls with skimpy skirts. The basketball court downtown is crammed. Street corners are starting to show signs of life and everyone looks like they’re up to something.

But there are things that are missing, vital things such as hookers and nakedness. The first street walker to me is more relevant than the first robin. Folks typically get naked and act strange by the time the thermometer hits 70. Where are they? Where are the hookers and naked people, I ask you? The season is not official unless one or both have made an appearance.

I content myself with other spring phenomena. Like bizarre behavior inspired by the liberation that comes when fierce weather turns mild.

On Tuesday, a report of a figure clad in a Scream mask and carrying a butcher knife. I never caught up with the fiend.

Early Tuesday night, a young man stood out on Pine Street with a sign that instructed: “Honk if I’m ugly.” I honked. He was. And it occurred to me that it’s not the kind of thing you stand around announcing when it’s cold and wet.

The same night, minutes later, a report of a young lady lifting her dress at passing cars on Birch Street. Again, you just don’t hear about flashers lifting their parkas to reveal the ski pants in January. After my ninth drive around the block, I determined it was a bogus call.

In Auburn, a woman chasing a man down the street with a brick. A woman in pajamas trying to light leaves on fire. Beautiful, beautiful hijinks you just don’t hear about in the death grip of winter.

Then, at about 6 p.m. Wednesday, it became official. Police in Lewiston were advised that a naked man had been spotted in the woods near the industrial park. So winter white he almost glowed, the nude man officially launched the start of spring in the Twin Cities. Only now is it safe to break out the barbecues and picnic tables. Only now can you stop worrying about whether there’s enough gas left in the snowblower.

All hail naked man. Now for God’s sake, someone get some clothes on that guy. Honk!

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter.