The Monster Snowball
Riverside is hazy and hot with the heat of a fading summer and Harley looks like she's about to have a sun stroke and drop. Its a very fine line between a happy, heavy panting session and a wheezing death rattle. You get a full ear to ear smile when the heat begins to swelter to a dangerous degree and a severe and total collapse is not an option because there is no grey area when the vet bill comes trust me. Does a tired panting puppy equal a dehydrated, dying puppy I wonder? To the web.
The coats are gone and all my scarves and gloves are rolled and tucked away for good. Sunburns, dog parks, rollerblading, gay bars, and grass stains on my straight-boy cargo shorts is basically the summer theme way up here on the upper upper upper best side. I may or may not have f*d my back up like I do every year trying to single handily muscle my huge industrial sized air conditioner into a better position while cleaning the dirty windows. It's pretty hot if even "I" am willing to part with the clean lines and candle-light possibilities of a gay man's uncluttered window sill for a bulky, loud, hiccuping monster that operates at more than a light hum. The light sleeper that I am occasionally sticks ear plugs in at night just to justify the loud buzzing growl of the chilly summertime beast. I've traded in silence in order to achieve the roaring rush of cold air and the necessary Arctic temperature that I require in my golden lair of sleepy dreaming. If I left that baby on high for a while you would start to see your breath in about fifteen minutes and you would consider ice skating on the frosty layers that start to form on every hard surface in about twenty. If I cranked that baby into high gear little Harley would be frozen in no time like a woolly mammoth stuck in a lost glacier ....a 1,600$ ice cube if you will. It's a rusty, shaky collection of screws and bolts that soothes my broken skeleton and muscles with her frigid breath and saves me every year around this time when the heat is actually visible as it rises from the hot asphalt in layered waves. Sweat stings my eyes and drips from my forehead onto my touch screen while I'm tap taping away with my thumbs as I write this. This IPhone is literally salty with hope and remains the direct gateway to my every recorded thought...T2's memoirs...a piecing together of an interrupted chorus boy's doubtful personal demons. The second floor of my house feels like a hot oven in the New York summer heat and my room upstairs would make a Bikrim yoga teacher pass out or start crawling and scratching for the front door.
I'm obviously too proud to ask one of my million room mates for a helping hand with the over sized AC and the consequences are dire for the lower back and above. And speaking of back spasms and doom, tonight i have to tuck my tail under and barback(no e) in a busy, crowded gay bar in Hell's Kitchen. It's not for the physically weak or faint of heart because we're talking about cleaning actual explosive shit spatter off the bathroom walls and moving cumbersome buckets of ice and kegs around and anything involving extreme heaviness and horribly foul smells. Cocaine does terrible wonders to the innards of the wasted gay guys that come into the bar and the result can be epic for the poor maid which turns out to be..........well...........me! The only solace for me is that I know that this particularly unglamorous gig will come to an end at some point and I will move on (I hope). I miss flying out to be a part of something creative and huge like Guys and Dolls felt. It was a huge dose of theatrical fierceness that reminded me that daddies still got it and that it may not be the appropriate time just yet to hang up the leg warmers and large M. Stevenson. Whacking my face is definitely still in the cards come the first day if my next unknown rehearsal. Patti Colombo is genius and the high Lord of any and all dance and once a choreographic storm of that level comes blasting into Ripley Grier at 10am you better be ready because there's no stopping the thunder. I can still smell and feel the Ultra Ben Gay searing my skin and nostrils like a hot iron. Run my sweet little vertebrae, run while you can! The angel tosses...Russian splits...Lindy swings...knee work...lady lifting...face kicking...fire bird-shoulder destroying....neck breaking...whiplash spectacular awaits somewhere in the caverns of the exclusive casting offices in mid town. One day. Le sigh......So......how's tomorrow universe?! I'm reminded that I'm not 22 anymore and that basically everything hurts so........
The coats are gone and all my scarves and gloves are rolled and tucked away for good. Sunburns, dog parks, rollerblading, gay bars, and grass stains on my straight-boy cargo shorts is basically the summer theme way up here on the upper upper upper best side. I may or may not have f*d my back up like I do every year trying to single handily muscle my huge industrial sized air conditioner into a better position while cleaning the dirty windows. It's pretty hot if even "I" am willing to part with the clean lines and candle-light possibilities of a gay man's uncluttered window sill for a bulky, loud, hiccuping monster that operates at more than a light hum. The light sleeper that I am occasionally sticks ear plugs in at night just to justify the loud buzzing growl of the chilly summertime beast. I've traded in silence in order to achieve the roaring rush of cold air and the necessary Arctic temperature that I require in my golden lair of sleepy dreaming. If I left that baby on high for a while you would start to see your breath in about fifteen minutes and you would consider ice skating on the frosty layers that start to form on every hard surface in about twenty. If I cranked that baby into high gear little Harley would be frozen in no time like a woolly mammoth stuck in a lost glacier ....a 1,600$ ice cube if you will. It's a rusty, shaky collection of screws and bolts that soothes my broken skeleton and muscles with her frigid breath and saves me every year around this time when the heat is actually visible as it rises from the hot asphalt in layered waves. Sweat stings my eyes and drips from my forehead onto my touch screen while I'm tap taping away with my thumbs as I write this. This IPhone is literally salty with hope and remains the direct gateway to my every recorded thought...T2's memoirs...a piecing together of an interrupted chorus boy's doubtful personal demons. The second floor of my house feels like a hot oven in the New York summer heat and my room upstairs would make a Bikrim yoga teacher pass out or start crawling and scratching for the front door. 
Le sigh...
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