Better Costner Handles

Shall we return to more comfortable pathologies? Not one of my better posts in yet another season of squandered opportunities, to be sure; perhaps I will delete it, but not this morning. I am due to meet Ed on the tenth floor to discuss my threat of legal action against our landlord, and then I have to go forage for cat food, weekend supplies. I have no idea why I am talking to Ed; he has read some of my reporting, as have some of the other tenants, some of those deceased, and I have made a lasting impression on Mr. B^^^owitz. He has his own chronic conditions, swollen forearms with swollen lymph glands from dialysis, reminiscent of bubonic plague, and I use him as an example of a man who would be an acceptable partner, except that I have little interest in him now. He has a paramour named Suzanne. She is tortured by a severe case of epilepsy, which is why I never pushed befriending the woman, though she approximates the caste from which both my mother and myself never easily subscribed, unlike my mother's sister, and Mary wants me tucked away, safely managed, to die in a nursing home, though she herself would not put it like that to you. Mary would say I am in denial about what is in my best interest, and that is having a black woman bathe me, a catheter out of one end, an ostomy tube out of the other. Ah, the glories of medical model death micro-management. Marie, the other aunt, less educated and more ill, tells me I am worrying about what has not happened yet, but it seems my thirties have led to this, the slow creep of the inevitable, from which my former employer will not have much of a conscience. They never do. Centers, like businesses, like media conglomerates, vomit casualties; independent living centers are simply more glaring examples of what a deplorable model looks like.

Actors should not discuss politics, because they instantly diminish in stature, and I include Clooney, with his white guilt flag waving protests about the Sudan, in this critique, but George knows his limits where Costner does not, and as a consequence, Kevin, veering off the expected A-list track, sounds like a blithering idiot, more folly in the liberating qualities of serial predation. This is the dichotomy of a film like Mr.  Brooks. Implausible with interesting strata, bound together and playing off each other, simultaneously within narrative incredulity. One thing Denby does not dwell on in his considerate interpretation, is that Evans ties together two staples of the American diet, the diabolical mind that is Earl, exposed for our convenience, juxtaposed against the thriller gore of the violent rampage that is the Hangman killer. Both are follies of the imagination, and most survivors of violent crime and institutional torture know it. The human animal is not so far removed from evolutionary excess, and I have serious doubts that we will succeed into a speculative future that purges this reality, even if our species survives resource depletion for a time, a barren world with no predatory rivals. Perhaps I will mourn the last polar bear, the last great white, before my skeleton browns to forensic issue, no more of my emotive discontent to sally.