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A very merry 80s Christmas poem



Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the web
Not a 80s star was stirring -- their careers nearly dead.
The police reports were searched and looked at with care,
In hopes that Boy George or George Michael would be there.

The punk-rockers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While bruises from slam-dancing showed on their heads.
And mamma with her Stoli, and I with Bacardi,
Had just punished our livers with a long winter's party.

When on one of the blogs there arose such a clatter,
I awoke from my stupor to see what was the matter.
Away to the computer I flew like a flash,
Nearly stepping on last night's cigar and a bowl full of ash.

Past the photos of breasts, of celebrities with blow.
Taken by the paparazzi who stoop so very low.
When, what to my bloodshot eyes should appear,
But rumors of a reunion, after so many years.

A bespectacled director, so full of the muse,
I knew in a moment it must be John Hughes.
More rapid than eagles his co-stars they came,
And he whistled, and berated, and called them by name!

"Now Molly! now, Rob Lowe! now, Judd and Ally!
On, Demi! On, Emilio! On Andrew McCarthy!
Quit your TV shows! Stop the Broadway!
It's back to Hollywood right away!"

And then, like an echo, I heard from afar
The infamous movie lines from those 80s stars.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Mr. Hughes came with a bound.

He was dressed in a trenchcoat, from his head to his foot,
His Chicago Cubs t-shirt tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of scripts he had flung on his back,
And he looked like an agent or celebrity hack.

His eyes -- how they glared! Face pale as a bone.
He must have read my old blog item on "Home Alone!"
His droll little mouth -- lips straight as a ruler,
Oh god, he knows of that sequel to "Ferris Bueller!"

A typewriter and blank pages he held tight in his hands,
An iPod blared only music from old New Wave bands.
He had a long face and no trace of a gut,
He's no Santa afterall, he's just in a rut!

He was surly and short, a right cranky old elf,
But I asked for an autograph, in spite of myself!
A rolling of his eyes and a dip of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had plenty to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Finishing a script, then calling me a jerk.
And laying his middle finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his limo, told his driver 'Find a pub!'
And away they all drove like the end of Breakfast Club.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas 80s fans, and to all a good-night!"

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