In 2015, I wrote a blog post titled “Why Chicago Needs a John Hughes Museum.” But the explanation was flimsy, and given the testosterone-heavy, estrogen-depleted atmosphere in Hollywood, it felt like I needed to read the room better.
I unpublished the post several years ago and promptly forgot about it. Until one day, while working on the menopause book with my friend Kristen, I suggested out of the blue, “What if I wrote a blog post in Moira Rose’s voice?”
She thought it was a brilliant idea. I thought this was the perfect post to resuscitate. Catherine O’Hara starred in the film Home Alone. What would it look like if Moira Rose tries to bring to life a museum in memory of John Hughes? This is what I came up with.
*You may need a Moira Rose to English dictionary.
*If you’ve never seen Schitt’s Creek, this is the week to skip a post.
*This is a parody
Dear John Hughes brethren,
I’m writing this epistle while I consider something that has been vexing me for some time.
Why is Chicago without a John Hughes museum?
Mr. Hughes sojourned in the Chicago area for most of his life, did he not? He expostulated and centered most of his moving pictures in the Chicago metropolitan area that I am aware of.
So, why is he not being memorialized in some way? According to my gatherings, Chicago has a “Busy Beaver” button exhibition, a memorial about currency, a surgical science conservatory, and one gallery dedicated to dry cleaning.
Yet, woefully, there is yet to be a museum that accolades the cinematic wizardry behind such classics like Home Alone (my joie de vivre), The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, to name a few.
One postmeridian, I deliberated why such a museum doesn’t exist for you wretched wayfarers in the unified commonwealth of America. I stipulated and adjudicated until I was able to nurture a summary of justifications…
He spawned moving pictures that circumscribed a generation
I believe they like to ascribe themselves as “Gen X”. Whatever the moniker, he articulated their nomenclature.
The tours for his cinematic locales seem to bespeak a desire for a conservatory
If you excavate “John Hughes movie locations”, a plethora of results issue forth. A twee dilettante who composes a whimsical webpage you might recall, even penned a Wordsworthian article dubbed, “Walking in John Hughes Footsteps” about such a task.
Does this not demonstrate that a structure which facilitates all of this is indeed imperative?
The ’80s was a scintillating decennary
There is a charismatic application termed “TikTok” that seems to share a fondness of the decade that cackles decadence: the eighties.
Time to be shrewd like a fox and use our skullduggery. Why not take advantage of this 80s bombilation? Stop pettifogging and find a pecuniary millennial with a trust fund, and a good litigator to get this Musée off the terra firma, tout suite!
John Hughes treasured his dear bebe, Chicago. One could say, that love was unrequited.
One might suggest that it’s time to at last rectify the malfunction of disregarding John Hughes in Chicago.
As I mentioned in the preface, there are many other charming conservatories in this bustling metropolis, but none for filmmaker extraordinaire Hughes. It’s no surprise you’ve earned the moniker “Second City.” A “First City” would have erected a John Hughes Museum a millenia ago.
You have a Starbucks Reserve and a behemoth shrapnel of metal shaped like a clitoris that you call a “bean”, but no museum dedicated to the man who birthed the cinematic opus, Home Alone?
Mr. AND Mrs. Hughes Museum
Now that we are at long last feminists, please join me in rectifying an ancillary conjuncture. Nancy Hughes was the impetus behind your esteemed movies. Sans Nancy, nary a Home Alone. As the French say, Les Hommes Succent, which translates to behind every great man, is an even greater woman. Do not quote me on that, por favor.
Mr and Mrs. Hughes appreciated a museum, so it’s only fitting that one exists to honor their memory, may they rest in peace.
This museum would be pulchritudinous for a field trip. Do this if you must:
Perhaps after this ghastly virus. Hands should be washed, of course.
Where is the escritoire Jake and Samantha placed a birthday wish on?
O’ where is Ferris Bueller’s clarinet?
Where art thou Andie’s dreadful pink prom frock?
The original Breakfast Club screenplay was espied in a cabinet in a suburban Chicago high school. Such heinous acts would not occur if there was a Nancy and John Hughes museum to house artifacts such as this.
Consider the resplendent gift boutique!
Take heed the melodies piped throughout the corridors!
In the commissary, salivate cogitating about all the comestibles! Claire’s sushi, Uncle Buck’s pancakes, Kevin McAllister’s pizza, Aunt Edna’s wet sandwiches.
It’s still in the toddler stages of development.
Dear John Hughes brethren, please consider this epistle from a vociferous lover of the arts, a brilliant and recognized thespian, and someone who was in the decolletage of the Hughes family. A Nancy and John Museum makes sense. It seems absurd to not have one in the year 2021. That’s as ridiculous as going on a sabbatical without your offspring.
Not that I would have any experience with a quagmire such as that.
*Again, this is a parody