Clay Bell worked at a fancy restaurant called Coy’s, which is no longer in business. In 1991, my phone rang, and I answered to Clay saying, “Aaron, come down here now. I’ll explain when you get here. Come now!” I hopped in my car, and sped over to Coy’s.

“Vanilla Ice is right around the corner. Let’s go make fun of him!”

Clay was outside in his street clothes, his busboy garb balled under his arm. He tossed it in his car, and walked me over to a big privacy hedge on the side of Coy’s. He said, “Vanilla Ice is right around the corner. Let’s go make fun of him!” So, we sneaked around the corner, and found Vanilla Ice sitting in a big picture window, eating dinner.

We ran up to the window, and both began jumping up and down, clapping and shrieking like crazed fan girls, saying, “Oh, my god, it’s Vanilla Ice! EEEEEEEE!!!!” He scowled and flipped us the bird, and I heard him shout, “Fuck you, faggots!” in a loud growl that was muffled by the thick window. He yanked the venetian blinds down, and Clay and I laughed and laughed all the way back to our cars.