Helloooo fracture, my new frenemy.
My community is being over-run by Vanilla Ice sightings.
Yes, you read that correctly.
Supposedly, he is finishing up the filming of his latest foray into reality television where he goes and hangs with Weird Al in Amish Paradise and is now drifting eastward in the county towards the “big cities” (the county is around 100,000 or so in total population).
A guy I went to high school posted a picture with the Ice Man at the bowling alley where he runs the bar. (Uh huh.. bowling alley and bar.) My favorite local pizza place (organic, local, killer flavor) posted that Mr. Van Winkle had one of their salads to-go for lunch and is rumored to be stopping in for dinner tonight and so of course, they’ll be slammed with customers hoping for their brush with
infamy fame a tattooed rapper who knows the Ninja Turtles. The dining room only holds about 50 on a regular night, so there is no way I’ll be braving the masses even though I wanted to try their latest seasonal pie (asparagus bacon) tonight. And of course, via social media, every local business is like “hey, tell Vanilla that we’re the best place to get ______________ [ wine, a haircut, a workout, an insurance plan ].”
About ten years ago, I was at the local regional airport picking up my mom at a flight from Atlanta. Vanilla Ice had been on her flight and deboarded from the plane about 20 or so people ahead of her. I recognized him, of course. What good teenager of the 90s wouldn’t? Anyway, as we were walking through the concourse, I tried to give her the high sign that she’d been on a flight with someone notable.
“Hey Mom, that’s Vanilla Ice.”
“You want a vanilla ice? Who’s ever heard of ever having vanilla ice. Usually it’s lemon. Or strawberry. You love strawberry ice.”