Quite by chance, this evening I saw Mel Gibson’s blockbuster of the last movie season. I came to Tomica’s café just in time to see it on video together with him, his girlfriend and wife-to-be, Sandra, and several of their closest friends. Although I shed a tear every now and then, and although I cringed in horror on several occasions, the movie left me deeply disappointed. Not with Mel Gibson, I hasten to add. I am disappointed with my own self. Just like Tomica, I wanted to see the movie. Actually, I did not want to miss it. Having read so much about it, I gave it the benefit of the doubt. But why? On what grounds? With what assurances? How could Mel Gibson, of all people, ever produce a movie worth seeing? And in Tinseltown, of all places? In a word, I am too easy, simple, childlike, innocent, unwary, trusting, unsuspecting, naïve, impressionable, credulous, suggestible, and gullible for comfort. Adding insult to injury, deep down I know this is precisely how I am likely to stay.