Dear Ricky Martin

Dear Ricky,

As you can see, our moment is finally going to arrive.  After all of these years, we will at last be together.  Ever since Livin' la Vida Loca, I've had my eye on you.  From afar.  But nonetheless.

You're at the top of my list, you know.  My free pass list.  You have been for years.  And this Saturday I know that when our eyes meet--which they will--yours on stage, and mine sitting in Mezzanine Left Center, you will see what you have been missing.   And you'll see my handsome and faithful husband sitting right next to me.  When he realizes what is going on, a flash of recognition will cross his face, and he will murmur in my ear that it will be okay to bring you home.

I don't know how you'll arrange it with your people, but we'll pick you up outside in front right after the concert in a 2004 silver Dodge Grand Caravan with integrated child seats, that we affectionately call the Homobile.  We also call it the Grocery Getter and the Mormon Mover, although the latter is inaccurate.  It's just fun to say.  Try it, Ricky, say, "Mormon Mover."  Ah.  I digress.

We'll come back to the house.   I hope you won't mind two yappy dogs and a resonant old Mexican lady who will insist on telling you each and everything she watched on the news that day.   I hope you'll still be in the mood for an evening of enchantment and calisthenics.  I hope you don't mind night guards and retainers.  I hope you don't mind the possibility of a seven year old boy waking us up really early in the morning with a question like, "Isn't farting the best thing ever?" or demands like, "Please tell me what a nucleus is made of!  Is it another nucleus?"

Now Ricky, I just want you to know that I don't care for all of those tattoos all over your arms.  But I'm able to look past them, and adore you for who you really are, just as you have accepted you for who you really are, after all these years.  Oh, Ricky, I was so proud of you that day.  Reading those words, "I am a homosexual man," on your website was like finally being told after all these years that large blocks of cheddar cheese every evening is actually good for my cholesterol.  Or something like that.

I'll not keep you any longer, I know you're in Los Angeles as we speak, making talk show appearances and rehearsing for your concert.  But know this:  In case you don't spot me right off the bat, I'll be the middle aged gay white man wearing ironed jeans and a nice button down shirt.

Love, your biggest fan,

Jason