I think I’m becoming less cynical as I get older. This is strange, because I don’t think it’s supposed to work that way. I look at some of the people I know who are older than me, and by and large I see depression, world-weariness, and of course cynicism.

Now, I have my sadness, my occasional regrets, yearnings, what have you. But I feel pretty good about life and human beings and all that.

I see another minority edging toward equality, despite what the godsayers and our president (yes, I know that should be capitalized — let’s see him earn it) might attempt.

I see two! honest-to-goodness robots crawling around on the surface of Mars.

I’m writing.

I have a dog that looks me in the eye, and a cat that asks for pets as soon as I wake up (and lets me scratch her belly.)

I’m healthy.

I just finished watching Forrest Gump on television. I remember, when I first saw it in the theatre years ago, that I thought it was a manipulative piece of fluff. Now, I’m more willing to be “manipulated” by a film… in other words, I’m willing to feel something. As for fluff, well, how’s this for some purple prose: fluff fills the pillow we put our head on to dream.

Saw Big Fish a couple of days ago. Waterworks for yours truly for at least the last fifteen minutes. Nice job — very well put together, and for that we thank the writer of the novel and the screenwriters. Definitely Tim Burton’s best work (although Ed Wood was mighty fine, too.) Can somebody tell me what Billy Crudup’s (sic?) been in before? Can’t place him.

Anyway, I’ve always been sappy, but sentimentality is definitely in for me these days. Why not.

Just so you’re sure I’ve not gone completely soft, consider this: All the recent discussion / controversy about The Passion of the Christ is, to me, similar to folks arguing if A Bug’s Life accurately portrays the life of the Grasshopper in Aesop’s fable.

That’s all for now.