Have you ever heard a dude say that he would still bed Mary Anne from Gilligan’s Island, even if she’s currently 110 years old? Well, the same goes for Sandy in Grease. In fact, if those rambunctious teenaged gearheads hadn’t soiled her white blouse, she might have remained a virgin. 

In my mind, she always will be. 

Youth is eternal in film.

Because while Kenickie’s Roman hands and Russian fingers were exploring the back seat of the 1939 Packard with Rizzo, Danny was tuning up Greased Lightnin’ with nothing but a pink slip in mind. That’s the terminology for reigning victorious in a good old fashioned drag race on the streets where the result is transferal of ownership by way of a pink DMV form. And it’s also a term for underwear that’s never been slipped past the knees. Which sweeps me back to glowing memories of Sandy.

But why did they call the movie “Grease” instead of “Motor Oil”? Because grease is to be eaten, not poured into your engine. In fact, grease is one of the tastiest items to have ever pleasured the human palette. It slathers your frying pan. It butters your bread. 

It styles your hair. 

Or at least it did in the 1950’s. 

Grease showed us a glimpse into that period’s youth movement where sexual repression graduated from soda fountain sips to gyrating hips. It’s a musical look into the often-painful process of teen self-discovery against centuries old religious indoctrination. And like all curious yungins, these rambunctious punks were ready to define their own style and music that counteracted the strict boredom their grandparents embodied. 

It was also an example of the prevailing winds of love as Sandy was hopefully devoted to Danny. 

I’m hopelessly devoted to this blunt before I watch Grease for the 14th time.