If Judy Blume got me through my pre-teen years (we didnt call them tweens back then), John Hughes got me to adulthood. Hearing about his death as I stare down the double barrel of my 40th birthday reinforces the inevitable march of time. I need no more deaths of 80s icons to remind me that my generation is slipping away into middle age. The Ed Rooney generation.
In The Breakfast Club, I wanted to be Molly Ringwald (pictured), felt more like Ally Sheedy and realize now that I was Anthony Michael Hall. Pretty in Pink I could quote it. Annie Potts in her finest, John Cryer serenading his love long before Tom Cruise Lost That Lovin Feelin" and Andrew McCarthy. Andrew McCarthy. Andrew McCarthy. What about the prom, Blaine? What aout the PROM?!