Seriously, though.

Hello, readers.

At one point today, I thought I might blog about my runnings about downtown Nashville getting various documents stamped with a hierarchy of official and officialer stamps. It would've included having my driver's license scanned, and photograph taken, before entering an office building. There also would've been bits concerning a county clerk explaining to a couple how to get married, and a blonde girl in the Apostille's office who described my diploma container as a "tube thingy." But, that's not where my head is anymore.

Instead, it's on Ferris Bueller warning me that life goes by fast. It's on John Candy finding a home with Steve Martin. On an impossibly sexy genie created by what, I recall, as a flimsy looking Macintosh. It's on Anthony Michael Hall explaining that we are all, in the end, each of us, the Brain, The Jock, The Troublemaker, The Princess, and The Weirdo. That we're in this together.

As a young boy, I felt, as most young people do, that they are alone. That they are special. That they are alone because they are special, and special because they are alone. I've grown up since then, and realized there's nothing special about being alone, or the yearning not to be. I've also, in that time, learned about oatmeal, tea, and sex, but those are other stories and only slightly applicable to what happened today which is that John Hughes, who more than anyone else charted the various ways of feeling lonely and yearny as a teenager (not to mention two middle aged men), has died of a heart attack.

In lieu of me trying to figure out how to say how much his films mattered to me, I give you dancing. Enjoy, readers.




ttfn.