So, for at least the last couple of years, I've always provided one of two answers: J.D. Salinger, author of The Catcher in the Rye and Franny and Zooey; and John Hughes, writer/director/producer of Ferris Bueller's Day Off, The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, Home Alone, and just about every other classic film from the 1980s. The former plays to my superiority complex regarding literature, as it's recognizable, but gives off that air of "I'm moody and therefore more cultured than you are." The latter is one of those Jeopardy question names that sit on the tip of your tongue-- someone you've heard of, but have no idea where.
John Hughes died today. He was taking a walk around Manhattan, thinking whatever it is amazing people think, and he had a heart attack at fifty-nine years old. And here I was, going cheerfully about my day, having no idea. I first heard the news from Molly (mememolly)'s blog, and when I ran to google, there weren't even any news stories about him yet. His name wasn't trending on twitter. Not a single facebook status contained any hint of tragedy.
Now, at least, Ferris Bueller is a popular hashtag, and Adam Dubberly has written on my wall that he's watching Weird Science in memorial. It's possible that I included that last bit just to brag that one of The Mudbloods wrote on my facebook wall, but regardless, today is sad.
I can't help but wonder when old J.D. Salinger is due. The man's ninety, and he hasn't peeked a finger out of his little hiding corner of doom and misery for years. I don't want him to die, because I admire him greatly (and am holding out hope that I'll be the last of the young fangirls he flirts with through letters), but I am selfishly and eagerly awaiting all the promised prose that will be released after his death. Imagine, a whole new Salinger canon. My sexual fantasies run wild with it.
Anyway, there's no meaningful conclusion to this blog. I just wanted to say at least a tiny something to recognize a great man. Especially since there are some things heavy on my heart right now-- personal drama, if you will-- I think I'm going to pop in Ferris Bueller, lean against the giant poster on my wall with John Hughes's name in bold, and go to bed.
...OH MY GOD.
OH MY GOD.
OH MY GOD.
Remember when I said I wished Michael Jackson would die the day before it happened? According to my tweets, on July 22, I sleep-walked and tore that same Ferris Bueller poster off my wall. "Maybe it's symbolic?" Jess had said. I giggled and tried to imagine how that could be true. Okay, now I'm seriously going to bed. I'm seriously going to bed before I kill any more celebrities. GOODNIGHT.
Sexy: Getting a fake ID not to drink, not to smoke, but to vote. RIP, The Breakfast Club.
Unsexy: The giant "Lil Wayne" concert happening in my county tonight. There are cars hauling in from ONTARIO to hear a man with dreadlocks drop it like it's hot, or whatever it is he does.
Chipotle burritos this year: 25
S'mores this summer: 6
Bye, guys! Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow, without having murdered anybody. <3