Who loses their journal during a move but has every cable and cord wrapped, organized and labeled? That would be me. My journal is where most of my posts stem from. I have many that I want to put up now that we’re all moved in to our lovely new digs. But, goofy me can’t find it. So, you’re getting one pulled fresh from my sleepy brain. (Well, it was fresh Thursday night when it was written.) Courtesy of an Office Max legal pad from 2005 (as dated by the state hearing screen card from my lilest monkey’s birth shoved in the back of it) and the pack of papermate pens I happened upon while searching for something to write on.

Despite the bliss of a bit of closure to a month of much hell in my life, today I am deeply saddened by the loss of John Hughes. No, I did not know him personally. But, the mark his work left on my life and who I am can not be denied. I don’t idolize celebrities and I damn sure am not going to be the crazy chick tweeting about wanting to join him in the afterlife. I am, however, going to give him a lil blog love. I wouldn’t be me without a lil babbling side note in a post and would hate to let anyone reading this who knows me down. It will be short, it will be sweet and it may piss some off but here it is:

I firmly believe that we should mourn the loss of John Hughes on the same level as that of Michael Jackson. In reality, part of me wants to say more than, but who am I to pu tone person’s life above another’s? Yes, as an entertainer MJ was an inspiration for some. His musical catalog, however, was not exactly life changing. While Thriller was fun, grounbreaking and will remain a classic, Hughes gave strength to the underdog, love for the geeks, helped a world understand what it was like to be a teenager and The Breakfast Club should be mandatory viewing for all as it contains one of the single most important lessons we should all learn in life. Will they fill a stadium for Mr. Hughes, hell even a theater, and televise it? Probably not. That, my friends, is a damn shame and breaks my heart.

While I was not even close to a high schooler when the bulk of his greatest hits came out, my sister was. The soundtracks to his movies became the soundtrack to my life. Bits and pieces of each of his movies have been found in my memories, gift wrapped lovingly and stowed away to hand down. From my Duckie who used to ride his 10 speed past the ad agency I worked at in high school every day to me sitting on the floor with my old sewing machine whipping up my prom dress (no, it was not pink, but close). Hell, I even dated a guy named Blaine. While my underwear was (to the best of my knowledge) never up for viewing, the science team appearantly had a bet going where $10.00 went to the first one of them I actually touched while we were at the State Science Finals. I had agreed to fill in for one of the team after they came down with chicken pox or some such thing. I was the Genetics ringer. Also, the only girl. That day is a whole nother blog though. I think you get what I’m laying down here.

John Hughes Rocked. In a BIG fucking way. For the memories, the lessons, the Duckman, the misfits, the no more yanky my wanky the Donger need food, the rise of the science geeks, the stand of Cameron, the hopes we’d all have an Uncle Buck someday, the understanding of a generation, the love. Thank you just doesn’t seem to be enough sir.

I leave you with my favorite moment of his…

Dear Mr. Vernon,

We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you’re crazy to make an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us… In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain…and an athlete…and a basket case…a princess…and a criminal…Does that answer your question?…

Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club.