Smooth ice is paradise for those who dance with expertise.
— Friedrich Nietzsche
Driving home from an appointment this evening, I had the XM radio in David’s car tuned to the 90s station. After some Goo Goo Dolls, a little Soup Dragons, some Sophie B., what should I hear but . . .
Yeah. That’s Vanilla Ice. This song was released in 1990; I was 13.
At 13, I was dying to fit in. A lot of people I knew at school, who were already into classic rock, hated this song. I clearly remember repeating one of their derisive comments when this song came up in front someone I was trying to impress: “Oh, all he did was rip off Under Pressure,” I said, trying to sound worldly. As if I gave a fuck about Queen at 13. In truth, I loved this song. I taped it off the radio and spent afternoons in my bedroom with the door closed, playing it over and over, even choreographing a dance routine that I imagined presenting in the talent show at 4-H camp that summer. It should go without saying that I was not cool at 13.