W alk past the elevator in the gold-gilded living room, past the mural of Spanish galleons seeking the Fountain of Youth, past the Mortal Kombat console, step outside, and there—just by the lazy river—you’ll find Vanilla Ice’s 9/11 memorial. Last week, the 58-year-old rapper, born Robert Van Winkle, was giving me a tour of his mansion in Florida’s Palm Beach County. Pattering brightly and ceaselessly, he puzzled over his smart toilet (“I think it’s made for a woman to have fun and enjoy