Searching For Jake Ryan

Jesus, can everyone quit dying already? This means you, Farrah, Wally and John Hughes. I'm a little slow on the uptake these days in terms of current events, due to some dramatic moments in my own (both intensely good and intensely sad) so forgive me that my rumination on Mr. Hughes comes a bit late.

I'm sure it's been said more eloquently in other places - and I can't really top a NYTimes Op-Ed by Molly Ringwald (um, John Hughes made you mix tapes? I didn't think it was possible that the man could become any cooler, but now he is) so I'll just give you my own John Hughes experience, which started at age 12, when I somehow talked my mom into taking me to 16 Candles. I wore some kind of geometric patterned top and skirt, and my low swede ankle boots that had recently been purchased for back to school, that much I remember.

Oh that time of my life did last a lifetime. Or longer.

I also remember that moment when Caroline's perfect boobs popped up on screen and how much I wanted to be the owner of said boobs, and probably gasped in much the same way as Samantha did as her friend commented, "Her brother's deaf and everybody in the world worships her. Practically impossible to cut up." My mother gasped too, and was slightly horrified as we left the theater, realizing that he movie was way over my head. I told her I understood it, of course, and loved it, all of it, and recounted to her the best moments, the underpants, The Geek, the awkwardness, the bus ride and of course, Jake Ryan. Who can forget Jake Ryan?

"If you were here, I would deceive you, if you were here, you would believe......"

Fucking Jake Ryan. Fucking John Hughes. For the next 10-15 years, I was Searching For Jake Ryan. Sweet, vulnerable, puppy dog-eyed, super-hot, only-has-eyes-for-me Jake Ryan. This, of course, was an exercise in frustration, and led me to settle for boys that might have looked like him, but were dead behind the eyes or were the opposite, some kind of horrible hybrid of Ducky and The Geek, insecure, vulnerable, sweet, doormat-only-had-eyes for me mismatches. Sure, sure, you could say that my first mistake was organizing my dating life based on a movie I saw at 12, but hello, people, it wasn't a conscious effort. Plus, let's not forget the movies that followed and their impossible romantic liaisons: St. Elmo's Fire, The Breakfast Club, Pretty In Pink, Some Kind of Wonderful, Say Anything. Don't even get me started on the Soundtracks. I lived with those tapes in my retro cassette player, dancing with myself to Spandau Ballet's "I Know This Much is True" nearly every weekend night in junior high. Oh you can't quite picture it? Let me help: black and white wallpaper in a grid pattern covered nearly entirely with pages of hot models and fashion torn from magazines and one of those horribly mod posters with just the woman's red, red lips and red, red nails holding a red, red phone that seems to be melting into the distance. Yep. Now me, chubby and big-banged, green eyeshadow, in stretch pants and a Forenza sweater pulled down nearly to my knees, bunched matching socks and white, white Keds, singing, swaying, wishing.

The poster was something like this. But worse. Far, far worse. Um, it was purchased at Fred Meyer in the music section. Remember when they used to have posters hung in frames that you could flip through?
Yeah, right there, that's where I found red phone/red nail lady.

I didn't stand a chance, and neither did any other kid who came of age in the 80s. We were raised on these kinds of quirky characters, with their dry wit and angst and the possibility of romance in our teens. I'm not sure any of us got it then, but it wasn't a bad way to grow up, really, especially since honestly, what else did the 80s actually contribute? Neon? Scrunchy socks and matching sweaters? Esprit?

I think what we had that kids today don't is anticipation and mystery. Everything was still so esoteric, from love to sex to dating; we had no blueprint aside from John Hughes and the occasional steamy episode of Days of Our Lives. Nothing is mysterious now if you've got access to the Internet and basic cable. I mean, have you watched Rock of Love or The Bachelor/ette? There's so much tongue involved in front of the camera that there's no doubt as to what's going on behind closed doors, and if there is, I'm sure you can Google it.

The fact that he's gone, so suddenly means that there won't ever be those kind of movies again, at least not exactly, and kids today are left with bullshit like American Pie, where pastry and musical instruments fill in for any real objects of love. They are guided by the illustrious Ashton Kutcher and even worse, Zac Efron, who lives in a world where kids in high school burst into song at any given moment. We may not have been handed reality, but what we were handed was a hell of a lot better than any of that crap.

And there is also this message in his death - a heart attack at 57 while walking in New York - this is the only moment any of us have. Grab it, live in it, and make it whatever you can.

I saw this sign a few weeks ago, while I was running, and couldn't help but take a picture of it. I've learned enough the last few years to know that one cannot ignore the signs, especially ones like these.

I'm stepping off my soap box now. Have a lovely Sunday.