The death last week of Chicago’s auteur, John Hughes, shook the foundations of a generation, and all those whose generations have since followed. Coming within a month of the demise of Michael Jackson, the message seems loud and clear: those days have ended. Michael’s death, sad as it was, surprised no one. He was our alien, bringing us strange wonderful magic from another place. We could love him, but never understand him.
But John Hughes, he was one of us. He “told me to myself,” as David Schneider writes herein. And in dying, he take a piece of our selves with him.
We asked writers to share their personal thoughts and experiences related to the John Hughes experience, and received an overwhelming response.
Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want by Ray Pride
The Art of Ferris, Wheeling by David Schneider
Bible Study by Tom Lynch
Going Through Changes by Brian Costello
The Blueprint by Michael Nagrant
Molly-festo by Scott Bradley
The Director’s Cut by Emerson Dameron
Sweet Home by Mike Shum
The Big Bad City by Garin Pirnia
Creative Spontaneity by Kim Bastyr