My roommate Foxy Browne has gotten herself a real, flesh and blood, got-my-own-identity, able-to-commit and totally-in-love-with-you man. And of course, he's not American. She met him at a cafe of all places, and it was practically love at first sight. He saw, he liked, he asked for her number. And after a few rounds of crash-course culture and communication (Foxy's African-Am, homeslice is African), they have stars in their eyes and starting to say syrup-y things to one another. In a good way.
Foxy's not alone in her discovery of the all-non-American love. Gwyneth found happiness with the English, Johnny is down with the French, Britney is luvin' -- okay so she's just ghetto.
Note to self: Book that trip to south Asia ASAP.
Akeem: "Is it just me, or does every woman in Queens have some kind of an emotional problem?"
(Now that's real wisdom out of Hollywood.)
(Now that's real wisdom out of Hollywood.)
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