ome of them were old, like a note from Bette Davis. Others looked like they'd been solicited by Debbie prior to opening her Hollywood museum. There was a big poster of a film featuring Donald O'Connor, Debbie's Singin' In The Rain co-star. There was a poster recently signed by Frank Sinatra. I took it all in, tipped my head back, scanned the framed photos, one hung after another reaching almost up to the ceiling.

Wait a minute, close to the top was a still from Singin In The Rain, showing Debbie, Donald and Gene wearing raincoats, open umbrellas perched on shoulders. Next to Gene Kelly was an autograph, a signature with a message, from this vantage point very hard to read. What did it say? And why the heck was Gene Kelly's autograph placed so high up, out of sight?

I squinted, trying to read it. Finally, I focused in. "Dear Debbie," it read. "Remember when we looked like this? Love, Gene." 1:30 PM. Showtime for Debbie. An usher took my ticket and led me into a medium-sized theatre. It was a pleasant-feeling place. The stage had a sparkly curtain onto which two head shots of Debbie were flashed, side by side.

I was led to a table near the front and sat immediately beside this guy who looked like I used to look in high school. He had a red polo shirt, a bowl haircut, fair skin and features. I couldn't really see his face because he was hunched over, intently reading a Debbie Reynolds program. I felt ghettoized. Nothing against this guy, but I could just hear the usher saying to himelf, "Let's put the single queens together."