I guess I’m never going to meet John Hughes, now.  I’ll have to let that little fame-seeking fantasy go, along with the one where I get to do high school over and end up with Andrew McCarthy. Mr. Hughes has passed away to the prom in the sky, and I don’t know if I can keep from crying.

Growing up in the 80’s, the Hughes’ repertoire was far and away my gold standard of teenage fare. We didn’t have Twillight’s vampires. We had humans to lust after. Truthfully, I still prefer Judd Nelson to Robert Pattinson. At least the “rebel” has a nose. (The better to sniff out cheerleaders with a proclivity for bad boys.)

Speaking of which–Molly Ringwald, the cheerleader in question–perfect casting. Pretty, sweet, but not impossibly gorgeous. She amply fulfills the audience stand-in role for teenage girls in many of Hughes’ most memorable films, fitting perfectly into the “she could be me” category…whereas Kristin Stewart is far too haughty for the every-woman role. When I was 16, there was no way I rolled my eyes that much. My closest relatives may disagree. But please, let me still cling to a few fantasies….

I have to admit, too, that I feel guilty about Hughes’ death–he died in “my” city. New York killed the 80’s, man! He won’t be the last visitor to have a heart attack there. But he was one of the most influential to my generation. Sorry, Wisconsin. We didn’t mean to take him from you.

Flat out, John Hughes was a brilliant filmmaker. He captured teen angst like nobody else. Sure, we all remember our our teen heroes the best.  Hughes was mine. He gave me hope that the jocks, the nerds, the weirdos and the popular girls could all sit around a table together one day. Guess he anticipated FaceBook that way.

For the hope, the dreams, the laughs…to the late, great Mr. Hughes: RIP.