It’s just before 8 a.m. on a recent Friday at Mom’s Kitchen, a country-style breakfast joint in Wellington. In walks a six-foot-tall, 42-year-old man in cargo shorts, a navy-blue hoodie, and a black ball cap with the flat brim nudged ever so carefully to the side. Tattoos cover his body and hands, and his hair — once a tall, creamy-blond pompadour — is now dark, cropped short. He takes a seat next to a bearded man at the counter, his back to most of the restaurant. Regulars barely notice him. Strangers stare for a moment before recognizing him, their eyes tracing the familiar broad shoulders, the staunch jaw, the glowing white teeth. To the staff here, he’s “Rob.” But to most of the world, he will forever be known by one moniker: Vanilla Ice.
” ‘Morning, Rob,” a smiling waitress says. “Know what you want today?”
He does: orange juice, coffee, eggs with extra hot sauce, and hash browns. “No meat,” he reminds her. These days, Rob is a vegetarian.
Soon, three of his buddies arrive. Over breakfast, Rob tells them about getting stopped by a police officer the previous day.
“I was only going maybe ten over when he got me,” he says. “He’s asking me why I’m in such a rush. ‘What’s the emergency?’ That kind of stuff. And he asks me for my license and registration. I pull it out, and he takes one look at it. He goes, ‘You’re Vanilla Ice!’ I’m like, ‘Yes, sir.’ He’s like, ‘All right, well you drive carefully, and have a good day.’ ” His buddies chuckle.
