Going soft

No, I'm not talking about my committment to blogging (though, seriously, sorry about the absences, folks, and for those of you whose email lacks response, doubly sorry).

I'm talking about this: After a life-altering experience last night, I now think Marc Anthony is a genuinely sweet, likeable, and humble guy.

I know that this is the part where the cynic in me, the bitter, bitter cynic we all know and love, would whisper That's exactly what his ex-wife says about him.

But for now, we're going to pretend that he didn't abandon his entire family to take up (for a second time) with Jennifer Lopez, for whom he alleged last night he wrote all his songs, including, I'm guessing, the ones that he wrote before they got back together for the second time while he was still married and a father of two. But I digress.

Here's how it happened:

I accidentally watched ten minutes of the Alma broadcast last night, because my VCR was still set to record some show that has long since had its finale. Prior to those ten minutes, I did not know that the Almas existed, and even now, ten minutes to the wiser, I'm not sure I know what they are really -- some kind of Latino entertainment achivement awards? (This is the part where the ignorant gringo in me should Google and where the lazy bones in me refuses.) Point is, I watched ten minutes of Marc Anthony being feted and awarded the Celia Cruz Lifetime Achievement Award.

And the man rendered me verklempt. He made me touch my chest and suck back tears. I know. Read on.

It sounds insincere recapping it here, but he bit his lip, teared up, wiped his eye rather overdramatically at a certain point but otherwise behaved as if he were manfully holding back real emotion, and then salsa-ed in his seat while people whose names I should maybe know, but don't (see note about gringo = me, above), performed works from his oevre. Performed them in ways that made them sound . . . listenable. I know. Read on.

Marc Anthony seemed genuinely touched by the canned speeches, even. Admittedly, Jimmy Smits can so smoothly sell a canned speech that it seems freshly picked off the tree. (I love me some Smits.) But not everyone was so -- let's call it persuasive, shall we? Nevertheless, the man of honor looked as if he was grateful and humbled that everyone decided to show up. He even looked into my blackened heart and seemed to say, Seren, I'm glad you showed up. Even with the asides about the ex-Mrs. Anthony and the children who are seemingly dead to me now, I'm glad you showed up.

How does a man sit through a montage of bit parts he's played (junkie and/or cop) in really unimportant films (I mean, I personally like Hackers, but.) and keep that goofy, kid-like smile on his face, except that he be sincerely humble?

It could be that he benefits from his anatomy. Let's face it: he looks like an earnest, gawky twelve-year-old. Those emotions I'm crediting as genuine -- if they were going across the face of someone who actually looked his age? I might have found them smug. But I did not.

I'm not saying that after ten minutes, I'm ready to buy all his albums. I'm not saying that I'll ever attend any one of his concerts. I'm saying that I may perk up a bit when he plays a bit part in the next blockbuster I see. I'm saying that I forgave him when he got all fatuous about Jen at the end. And that is saying a lot. It's saying I've gone soft.

And then on top of that, Keanu Reeves goes and says something really meaningful:

"Grief changes shape, but it never ends. People have a misconception that you can deal with it and say, 'It's gone, and I'm better.' They're wrong. When the people you love are gone, you're alone."

Clearly, the universe is soaking me in milk like a graham cracker. It's all just priming me to actually enjoy The Lake House.