When I woke up this morning, I had a laundry list of things to do, not unlike most of my days off. But today, I decided I was actually going to adhere to plans and finish each and every last task on my list: I wanted a sense of accomplishment.

I got out of bed at 8AM, got online with the help of some bootleg internet, which for the past 5 years has been considerably reliable. But then in the middle of July the proprietors of said connection did something technical, which I cannot explain nor do I care to be bored by or bore you with such details. All I knew is that I was locked out of the internet :( Finally, the internet connection resurrected yesterday so this bright morning fifty minutes before my alarm went off, I FBed and then took on the chore of sifting through 367 emails that I had left unread, finding them insufficiently readable (boring HTML format with no pics) on my treasured Blackberry. I felt like a man of means going through his summer mail after returning from a long tour of the European rivieras. But instead it was because I'm a cheap jerk who steals people's legal internet (BTW I hope this isn't a punishable offense, but I digress). With 125 new emails remaining, the BB calendar buzzed with the first of many task reminders: schedule Florida driver's license appointment (check).

From here I shut down the Mac, packed my bag for the day, and grabbed the dirty towels to drop off at the laundry (check). As the laundry lady snatched the spunky towels from me with her bare hands, I cringed. With gym gear in tow, I started to head downtown but the reminder buzzed yet again: my stinky Topsiders were in desperate need of replacement. So I stopped at Lord John's Bootery and snatched the 9.5 display pair and deposited my old Sperrys in the trash (check). As I traipsed down Lex toward the gym, hot boys were everywhere I turned. What a treat of a day this was turning out to be.

I reply all-ed the girls about how repulsive I found old ladies' FUPAs and before I could say liposuction, I was at the gym ready for my Pain+Pleasure class (check). Now this title is quite the misnomer as the class is taught by, IMH0, the cute with a capital C trainer whom I will baptize with the code name Spex. After an ecstatic 45 minutes, I hit the showers and was on my way to face the remaining tasks like Hercules chopping away at the 12 Labors.

Next stop was Gap, where I was unsuccessful in finding my Hampton Classic uniform (no check). But as I walked out I ran right into Staples to find a lock for the gym to safeguard my prized Prada "gym" bag in the DB locker room (check). And who should I see, much to my joyous excitement, as I exited Staples but Spex. Bliss. I trailed him (in the spirit of full disclosure it was partly because I was going his way anyways) like a proper stalker for a few blocks until the oppressive heat got to be too much to continue on the sunny side of the street. Unshaven and clad in a striped tank, I decided to postpone my passport pictures until I had shaved and was wearing more appropriate passport attire (postponed check). In the cool safety of the shade I found the nearest Verizon store where Neisha, the very sweet sales SUPERvisor, versed me on the benefits of wireless internet cards and promised me a fool-proof installation of my new legit internet connection (check). She even gave me her mobile number in case I had any questions. Or maybe in case I needed some TLC — heeeeeeey. Pit stop at Diesel in Union Square to say hi to Jonathan.

Pangs of hunger started to foment in my empty stomach so I decided on a visit to healthy ol' Pret-a-Manger (check). I grabbed a Brie, tomato and basil baguette, Darjeeling lemonade and a bottle of sparkling and my old girl from Pret on Park greeted me with the gift of a delicious chocolate chip cookie. "A sweet treat for my sweet friend," she said. Indeed. From there I continued my search for the Hampton uniform of a white stretch cotton poplin short sleeve shirt with no pockets. Try saying that three times fast. I tried Banana, Club Monaco and finally found the perfect shirt at H&M (check). What a great day: I had done nearly everything on my list and it was barely 2PM! Then on my way to blog at my favorite breezy spot du jour, the High Line, I was verbally attacked.

I was supposed to meet Kathy after her shoot in the MePa so I needed to kill a little time. A nice sorbetto from L'Arte del Gelato in the Chelsea Market would totally tide me over. Now let me paint the picture. I'm wearing caramel leather rimmed porn aviators with about 5 days beard growth, a blue/yellow/purple striped tank, short jorts (jean shorts) and my brand new pristine Topsiders. With my iPod in my ears and my green nylon and purple ostrich Prada bag on my shoulder I was waiting patiently on the corner of 17th Street and 8th Ave in the heart of Chelsea. Apparently I had my iPod on at a very reasonable level because just then an SUV zoomed uptown, and the vato inside stuck his fat head out the back window and feebly yelled "Fag!" I chuckled, totally disarmed by this ref's puerile behavior. You are passing through NYC's official gayborhood in your uber-gay champagne colored SUV from California, it's 2009 and same sex marriage propositions are sparking ideological fires across the country. Get a life douche bag! And some creative juice too. Do you think calling someone a fag in Chelsea is any more effective an insult than calling a straight man "Hetero"? My condolences to you and your little dick for being so small minded.

So using that as ammo for today's writing adventure, I picked up a cup of peach, green apple and strawberry sorbet and found a seat in my shady corner of the High Line. Et voila! Click here to publish post (check)