The seeds of this entry were planted last evening while watching, not by choice, 1961’s “West Side Story.” Our duplex-style living—I use the word ‘style’ loosely. Very loosely—and profusion of children and dogs (five in all) leaves scant space for alone time while a cinematic engagement is in progress. My cohabitants selected WSS as the evening’s entertainment. I, in turn, selected an ass-numbing rickety wooden dinette chair, scraped it up to the laptop and began clacking away at our twins blog. Before one paragraph was complete, the TV blared with a gang of gay acrobats in multi-hued denims prancing into an alley,  twirling here and hopping there. 

Distracted, I perused the trivia section of IMDb,  where I learned those lanky gents split 27 pairs of pants during filming. I just couldn’t go on without recording the stat on this blog. Apparently the Sharks’ and Jets’ threads weren’t adequately elastic, a quality not lacking in their vocal chords.

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