Way down in the tunnel underneath riverside and 155th street two guys are permanently residing with shopping carts full of eclectic, miscellaneous "junk" and sporting homeless-chic casual couture. Their baggy attire could almost be mistaken for a number in the latest Balenciaga line and probably pulled off flawlessly by some Asian girl wearing over-sized brunch glasses at F.I.T. And as far as spacious living in New York is concerned, for the square footage and price, it's a great deal in a city where twenty dollar bills are hemorrhaged with every breath you take. Walking under the overpass is the only way to get down to Riverside park but it feels like an intrusion or invasion of privacy to stroll through their living room with my dog and Frisbee in tote. To think about how I'm always one to two months rent away from being roofless myself is like a punch in the stomach. And no Tums or holistic anxiety pill will settle the feeling that comes from the financial lows I've seen in thirteen years of being an actor in and out of employment in Manhattan. The great American musical is on the decline as Broadway is being replaced my 3D movies and Disney. It's a slippery slope from laying on your Bloomingdale's duvet while scrolling through the movies On Demand and petting your King Charles Cavalier.....to warming your hands by a busted trash can fire in the freezing cold. Casting Notice...."stable guy" wanted.
The number one detail that sticks out in my mind the most in this sad picture of unfortunate circumstance was a beautiful, royal Cocker Spaniel that followed these guys around like their closest shadow. This dog could've easily been tailing any king's heels through the velvet courts of the past but instead is living outdoors whilst completely domesticated. Would this dog starve right next her owner out of loyalty? Companionship at that desperate, basic level runs deeper than we probably know and I couldn't help but write about it. I know I would probably follow my dog off a bridge at this point because life without her is not an option. Two and half years makes the connection soulful and epic enough to fully realize your love and I don't know who saved who honestly. I was just home in Tennessee visiting my parents for a couple of days and I decided to spread out under my favorite tree in their beautiful back yard on a soft yellow blanket of dreams. Sweet tea and Frisbee in hand I relaxed into my first afternoon back home in two years. Sleepy from the Benedryl I had taken hours ago in the "silver bullet" mini van I had pianos tied to my eyelids and I couldn't fight the drug haze that came over me and I passed out cold in the honeysuckle scented air. I was gone leaving Harley absolutely free to roam and play and wonder all over the three plus acres. She could've run away or gotten hit by a car and I never would've known. Suddenly my mom shouts from the porch "Wake Up! Wake Up! There's a hawk circling Harley in the yard.....go grab her!" I stumbled to my feet absolutely terrorized into consciousness and ran like the wind to save my little baby that was busy trying to destroy a Kong Frisbee totally unaware of the horrific danger of such a fate. Thank you mom for saving my emotional assistance service dog! I thank you. In the city I've got red lasers on her every move as we do a careful dance though Manhattan's matrix of street cleaners, pot holes, broken glass, angry rabies-ridden rats, and cars cutting the corner so tight that they actually roll up onto the curb inches from where I told Harley to sit. Her world is a world of dirty puddles, honking cars, and chicken bones. The fresh air takes my dog to places unknown and her inherent wild beast takes over. She rolls around on dead things, scratches and scrapes and sniffs with wild abandon and even occasionally barks at the unfamiliar horses and cows in the neighboring yard. White paws become muddy and the smile on her face is undeniable. We are both on the same page when it comes to the Tennessee open air and prime ball throwing acreage. The homeless Cocker Spaniel reminds me how tried and true our little furry companions can be and the emotional therapy I receive on a daily basis does have a price.....and it's really really really high....but worth it.
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. 
