And we sink, and we drown, and what is lost can never be found
Perhaps the worst part of living with someone in very close quarters is that you pass germs back and forth and, once one of you gets sick, it takes a long time for both of you to get well. It's my turn this week, as I am shoving tissues up my nose and popping sinus pills like candy. Yellow snot makes me sad.

Phil just called and told me he saw my dad on CNN. Dad, mom, Evan and grandmaw have trekked to Charleston, S.C., for the week to attend a big burial service for a Confederate submarine crew (H.L. Hunley, if you're interested). My dad is a huge Civil War buff, and a budding re-enactor. He has the uniform, the weapons, the whole bit. And my brother, a 16-year-old drummer, has a drummer-boy outfit he dons sometimes. My mom even gets in on the action with a hoopskirt and dainty umbrella. While, to me, this seems a little on the fetish side, I won't knock it because, if I had the time and money, I would probably chase MST3K conventions across the country or something. To each his/her own.

Tonight is Kill Bill Vol. 2. I've read some reviews and it seems that the biggest complaint is that Tarantino's intense love affair with himself and his brilliance bleeds through in the dialogue. Also, it's way less violent than the last one, relying instead on exposition and character development. But I'll have to consume first and decide later.