So I’ve been thinking about John Hughes, and even though I am exceptionally fuzzy-headed today, his influence on my life is still clear.

John Hughes created my conception of adolescence.  I wasn’t even a tween when the brat pack dominated the movie scene, but I think this contributed to the potency of Hughes’ influence.  I was learning how to be a Hughesian adolescent at 7.  I watched Ferris Bueller’s Day Off weekly as a kid, and I am confident that this directly led to a) my desire for a Barbie Ferrari (seriously, coolest thing ever) and b) the unholy amount of school I skipped as a teenager.  (Sorry, Mom.)  I wanted to be Sloane.  I wanted to be the pretty girl to rock the white go go boots, but I was always more of a Jeanie (although, dude, she got to make out with pre-2.5 men Charlie Sheen, nice.)  But it was Jeanie Bueller, Samantha Baker, and Allison Reynolds that were weirdos, insecure, not rich or even wholly sane,  that spoke to me and permitted me to be the insecue, not rich, not wholly sane weirdo that I am.

We’ll miss you Mr. Hughes, thank you for your humor, and thank you for Shermer, Illinois.

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