Fatale Abstraction

Recently my sister got out her guitar and her John Denver songbook, with which she's been serenading the family for years. This is generally pleasant as long as she doesn't venture into JD's repertoire with a very broad tessitura. Indeed, challenged beyond an octave, my sister's sense of tonality borders on the pathological. One such song is "The Eagle," which all and sundry in the family beg her to stop singing within 2 bars. *shudder* (Incidentally, I trained as an opera singer in college, so I don't know whose baby we brought home from the hospital all those years ago). Coyotes have been moving into her neighborhood in record numbers. I have a theory why...

Anyway, my niece is quite familiar with John Denver's body of musical work. She asked my sister how he died, and she explained he shuffled off this mortal coil while flying an experimental plane off the coast of California. Niece looked puzzled and said "Isn't that weird? Didn't he write that leaving on a jet plane song?" Yes. Sister giggled herself silly over that one. Me too. Clever girl.

Back to the pimp-o-lympics™. Rocky (racquel) had to go and invoke the ultimate horror of the image of these medals snuggling into unruly thatches of Italian chest hair. I would point out the Italian ladies are by now no doubt familiar with 21st century depilatory methods, so let us not be catty.