TO DEAN CAIN...IF YOU GOOGLE YOURSELF

Last week, I was sitting eating a bowl of Chocolate Chex (God's food!) and a Kathy Griffin special happened to be on television.  Okay...saying "Kathy Griffin accidentally came on the television" is the equivalent of saying "I slept with  your Dad by accident."  But bear with me.  First of all, I was at a friend's house and had no command of the clicker.  Secondly, he happens to enjoy Kathy for her alleged storytelling skills.  Although I can't explain his love of a woman whom I find both unfunny and visually terrifying, I will say that I found myself relating to some of her little anecdotes.

STOP THE PRESSES! Mrs. God relates to Kathy Griffin?!?  Okay, no.  I don't relate to her.  I don't relate to her comedic sensibilities, I don't know what it's like to be on the E list or whatever, and I don't know what it's like to have an overflowing fan base of thirty-something gay men.  But I did find myself relating to her stories about her disdain for people.  It got me thinking, why do love hating on folks so much?

Of course, this led to a downward introspective spiral in which I actually discovered the word "HATER" encoded in the fibers of my being.  So I decided to fight my instincts, look deeply into my soul, and find the good.  To kick off my find the good party, I re-read The Giver, ate some childhood comfort foods ( huevos con weenie) and watched my favorite show from childhood: "Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman."  And all that seemed to do it.  I was tele-ported back to an age of purity, when all I cared about was winning softball games, writing the next great American novel, and getting a convincing pair of knock-off jinkos.

In that deliriously giddy mode, I wrote the following.  It is an open letter to the apple of my childhood eye, Dean Cain. 

***

Dear Dean,

I've been in love with you since I was five years old.  You are the perfect man!  I mean, you're Superman.  Okay, okay, I know you're not really Superman.  Even when I watched the show, I knew you weren't Superman.   But I didn't care, because you brought me hope for the future- a future in which someone could save even me.

There was this one episode, when Clark (you) got shot and had to pretend to be dead.  But when you came back to the Daily Planet alive you said that Superman (you) had found you (Clark) in the gutter, frozen your tissue and brought you back to life.  I mean, we all knew  you were lying but it still seemed pretty plausible.  Then there was another episode when Lex Luthor's son found out you were Superman and he told you bring him the dead body of Lois Lane, so Superman (you) froze Lois to death, kicked some ass, then used your heat vision to revive her.  Same basic idea as that first time- but really great.  Then there was this other episode toward the end of the series when you froze her again, and even though it was kind of tired at that point, I still liked it.  I thought, If I could only get frozen for a few months, years even, I could get revived in the future, when they'd have the technology to cure me.  Obviously I didn't have any access to superbreath, so I got creative.  To make a long story short, they found me in the meat locker at the Steak and Shake (my Dad owned a franchise) trying to freeze myself.

After that whole hoopla, I decided to get real and write a letter to the Make-A-Wish Foundation.  I had my sister, Christy, help me with the big words.  They rejected me.  I guess there are all these rules, like your disease has to be fatal, and you have to get a doctor's note to verify it.  But at that point, the health department found out I'd coughed on the burger patties for about 80 minutes so we lost the Steak and Shake and couldn't afford the family doctor anymore.  Me and Christy put a little white coat on and glasses on Peanut and took a picture, but a Basset Hound can't sign any official forms, no matter how wise he looks.  Plus, they don't grant wishes to people who have family members involved in other wish-granting organizations, so the fact that my cousin Bryan was working as the Genie from Aladdin at Disneyworld didn't help.

But all those  years, I still dreamed of you scooping me up, flying me around Metropolis, taking me to ball games with Jimmy and Perry.  And it wasn't just that you were Super, you were a sensitive 1990s new man, a man that even Christy liked- and let me tell you she was still pretty raw about her split with Derek.

Anyway, I'm a lot older now (ahem legal), so if you find this letter somewhere on the Internet, maybe you can find it in your heart to make a big girl's dream come true...

love,

Mrs. God

***

 Dean, if you Google yourself, and if you're reading this....I'm still feelin your shit, okay?  And everyone else? The below link is a little treat for you.  I don't want to ruin the surprise, but I will say that it's the stuff that 90s dreams are made of.  The "I'm so Excited, I'm so scared" SBTB episode ain't got shit on this:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=1xKNskrODCU

Have a good one!