Spent an hour this morn­ing watch­ing por­tions of “Sin­gin’ in the Rain” … boy, that Gene Kelly had real white teeth. I heard that Don­ald O’Connor had to have 3 days bed rest after the “Make ‘Em Laugh” sequence.

The whole thing, though, just made me think about these two friends of mine from high school, Gene and Kelly. Insep­a­ra­ble. Gene wore dirty rain­coats, cut-off clamdig­gers and Dr. Martens, had a Fish­bone emblem tat­tooed on the fatty web­bing between the index and thumb of his right hand, worked at the local bevy. Kelly looked like Michael Anythony Hall with stringy Kate Hud­son hair, always had pints of Wild Turkey in the thigh pocket of his fatigues, worked at the same bevy. They didn’t go to my school. Actu­ally, they dropped out of Mas­s­ape­qua High School and were liv­ing with my friend Cor­rina and her mother, who was a biker chick. The five of us used to sit around on the plush velour couch and loveseat in their dark liv­ing room (ver­ti­cal blinds mostly drawn) and smoke Kents and drink the cases of beer that Gene and Kelly used to steal from the bevy … they’d put a few cases on the slats that were going out for recy­cling, then throw them (or place them, prob­a­bly, because we drank a lot of Moose­head and it was always in bot­tles) in this enor­mous dump­ster behind a chain-link fence that some­time after mid­night we’d pull up beside in Corrina’s Dodge Dart, lights off, and climb over … we’d have to climb into the dump­ster, too (except for Gene, who was too short and couldn’t get out of it, which he learned the hard way) and pass the cases up to whomever was lean­ing over the edge above you. One time we went to Sunken Meadow State Park and smoked joints while sit­ting on the edge of the big pond in there … I made out with Cor­rina while her mother and Gene kept yelling curses like ”Fuck­head” and ”Douchebag” to see how they echoed off the water. We closed up shop and left after Kelly actu­ally caught a duck and wound up snap­ping its neck … I remem­ber the way he turned around and looked at us, not nec­es­sar­ily blankly but not quite shocked, the duck in his hands, its head hang­ing limply over his fin­gers like a soft hose.

YouTube Preview Image