It doesn’t matter the door: dog door; bedroom door; patio doors.
You see, my dog has ginormous feet.
And one day, those Paul Bunions are going to shatter the patio doors as if they were peanut brittle as she bounds in and out. I know it. Like Godzilla stomping through downtown Toyville.
And, secretly, I’ll be okay with it — assuming she doesn’t decapitate herself on exit/entry.
Because I want her to be a horse dog. Hell, if she gets big enough, I’ll get her a saddle-shaped dog vest (patent pending). And I don’t know how J.D. feels about it, but I love when people comment on her huge honkin’ thumpers.
And everyone comments. If they were breasts, I’d sue. Or become her agent.
Last week, she finished her vaccinations and could visit dog park for the first time.
“I love those feet!” one human said.
“She’s gonna be huge!” said another.
“Good luck with that,” joked a man who said it too knowingly for my taste.
And this weekend, a friend met her for the first time.
“Those are cub feet!” he proclaimed, adding that I “may have gotten the Great Dane” I was once considering.
Indeed. And, one day soon, I hope those cub feet reach my shoulders, because I’m guessing she’s a helluva dancer.
Here’s an easy way to tell whether you’re going to like Eddie Murphy’s latest sequel, Coming 2 America.
Did you like the first? If so, you’re in luck. Director Craig Brewer not only retreads jokes from the first film: He includes a video reel from the 23-year-old original.
If you weren’t won over the first time, you’re in less luck this go round.
Once upon a time, dear children, before you were born, they made a fairytale movie about a kingdom called Zamunda. Coming to America, starring Eddie Murphy at the height of his popularity and charisma, became a huge hit and a cult classic.
In this film, dear children, Murphy played Prince Akeem — he didn’t need to be called Prince Charming, because he was already so darned charming. We met him on the morning of his 21st birthday, awakening in his palace bedroom to a full orchestra, servants tossing rose petals at his feet, and gorgeous naked women servicing him in the bathtub until his royal appendage was deemed clean.
Oops! Sorry, kids. Some parts of “Coming To America” didn’t age very well. Including most of the stuff about women.
But 33 years and one #MeToo movement later, it’s time for a reboot. The good news about America is that things have gotten better for women in Zamunda. Yes, it’s still a patriarchy (more on that soon) and yes, there are still obedient royal bathers. But we don’t see their naked breasts or backsides. There’s also a bathtub gag involving the great Leslie Jones that flips the gender dynamic entirely and gratifyingly (especially for her).
And now, Prince Akeem is not a randy young heir but an established family man. Happily married for 30 years to Princess Lisa — the bride he found in Queens in the last film — he has three daughters, brave and feisty. The eldest wants to be his heir. A female heir? That’s not done, in Zamunda. But the times, they are — or might be — a-changin’.
That’s the good news. The bad news is that this sequel, despite (or perhaps because of) its nod to modern sensibilities, isn’t nearly as funny or edgy as the original. It has seemingly everything — the original cast, some well-known newcomers, high-profile cameos — and eye-popping costumes by the great Ruth E. Carter (an Oscar winner for “Black Panther”). It has set pieces and choreography and de-aging technology and overlaying plot lines. What it has less of, is fun.
Still, just like we go to college reunions 30 years later to recapture the magic, fans of the first will flock to it on Amazon Prime. They likely won’t be too disappointed. Especially because, despite the knowing references to urban gentrification, transgender offspring, Teslas and even unnecessary movie sequels, little has really changed.
Obviously Murphy is back, as producer and star. So is Arsenio Hall, as trusty sidekick Semmi (and a bunch of other roles). Also back: the stately James Earl Jones as King Jaffe Joffer; Shari Headley as Lisa (a seriously underwritten role); and Louie Anderson as Maurice. John Amos is back as Lisa’s dad, still ripping off McDonald’s.
A new presence is the casually appealing Jermaine Fowler as Lavelle, Akeem’s previously unknown son. Celebrity guests include a highly amusing Wesley Snipes as flamboyant General Izzi, leader of Nexdoria (next door); Tracy Morgan as Lavelle’s uncle; and Jones as his uninhibited mother. Another Saturday Night Live face, Colin Jost, makes the most of a brief cameo. Among notable musical appearances, Gladys Knight sings “Midnight Train From Zamunda.”
The plot follows a familiar trajectory, beginning in Zamunda and traveling to Queens to solve a major need. In this case, the need is not a bride, but a male heir. Akeem, who becomes king upon his father’s death, learns he unknowingly sired a son during that Queens trip three decades ago (it was Semmi’s fault!) He needs a male heir to cement his power. So he brings Lavelle, a ticket scalper who aspires to much more, back to Zamunda, along with Mom.
But Lavelle needs to learn royal ways, and pass a “princely test” which includes facing down a lion. There’s also the matter of Akeem’s daughter, Meeka (a luminous KiKi Layne, not given enough screen time), who rightly deserves to be queen one day. Complicating matters entirely, Lavelle falls not for his intended bride, Izzi’s daughter, but for his royal barber, Mirembe, who aspires to her own shop one day (women don’t own businesses in Zamunda).
Again, it all feels like a 30th reunion — maybe because it IS one — where the liquor flows, old stories are rehashed, the men haven’t aged quite as well as the women, the kids steal the show, and by the end you’re happy to have gone but feel no need to be at the next one.
I never thought the day would come, but I’m going to have to renounce my atheism and cast my lot in with the believers.
The latter half of that proclamation is nothing new; I’m such a believer in (and product of) the Scientific Method that I take it as nothing short of faith. The first part, though, I never thought I’d have to utter.
But watching an episode of The Atheist Experience, a YouTube channel, finally sent me over the edge.
The show, hosted by Matt Dillahunty, features some lively debates between Dillahunty and select other atheists, who field ardent and sometimes angry calls nationwide from believers. I called in once. They take calls only from believers.
Matt Dillahunty
The shows of late have gone like this: A caller rings in and says something to the effect of: “I know you guys say there’s no God, but...”
At that point, Dillahunty unfailingly cuts off the caller to correct the record about his position on God — and the definition of atheism: the disbelief or lack of belief in the existence of God or gods. “I’m not saying there is no God,” Dillahunty is fond of saying. “I’m saying the burden of proof is on the believer making the claim.”
The caller is usally so thrown off by the nitpick that they never get to the meat of the philosophical difference.
I’m calling bullshit. Yes, that is the Oxford definition of atheism. But we know that everyday atheists mean ‘There is no god.’ when they identify as such.
I know that as fact because I used to say and think it all the time. And if you’re still talking Oxford’s definition ((in Christianity and other monotheistic religions) the creator and ruler of the universe and source of all moral authority; the supreme being), I’d say it still.
But in the spirit of the law (which is what we all seek, yes?), I’ve abridged my thinking. If religion is undeciphered science (which I also take as faith), then that undeciphered science is the higher power. Whatever you want to call it — empiricism, evidence-based, factual, provable, predictive, falsifiable — that what I believe. That’s what I am.
And I’m tired of hearing people tell me who they’re not.
It’s that very behavior that has proved such political mildew at either end of the spectrum. On the right, you have a GOP that will tell you what they’re against: abortion, gun control, Obamacare. Ask them specifically what they do want, and you’ll get a CPAC-smeared version of “I don’t want to get ripped off anymore.”
The mold is no less toxic on the port bow. What is the woke cancel culture but a societal rejection of what we’d like to forget about ourselves?
Both are easy way outs, a sound bite after a close game, a political answer to an apolitical question. We like all music. We like all foods. We are non-binary, off-the-guage, undefinable-but-still-uniquely-individual fingerprints on the steering wheel that is humanity.
Fuck that. Pick a side, suit up, and get on the field. Regardless of jersey, we’re human, right?
