By Mark La Monica
Having already been chauffeured into the city from my palatial imitation apartment on the Island this fine Sunday morning, I'm in a grand mood.
Walking from 45th Street and Fifth Avenue after my first live television appearance, there's a hop or six in my step. Life will undoubtedly check me back into the Reality Hotel soon, most likely when the Super Bowl coin toss turns up heads and I lose my first prop bet of the day.
But for the moment, I'm on Cloud Nine and I'm looking to purchase some acreage on Clouds 10 and 11. What better way to celebrate than with a nice glass of champagne?
Hellooooooooooooooo, Fashion Week!
A media credential is like a gun on my hip and my trigger finger is itchy. Bryant Park is on my way to the PATH station at 34th and Sixth anyway. Easy on, easy off access. This is better and easier than stopping at the Chesapeake House on I-95 for some Sbarro.
Damn! The Moet & Chandon champagne booth still refuses to pour until the afternoon. I'm launching an investigation. Someone call ADA Jack McCoy.
I will not be denied my celebratory bubbly, even if I'm the only one who knows about the celebration.
Hey, wait a minute, I wonder if that Friday afternoon bubbly session at Delta was a one-time thing. Let's find out.
I walk the 30 feet to my left. Another Delta flight attendant without a flight asks if I'm feeling hot today. I say yes. She clearly meant my face looked a little flush from the brisk four-block walk. I clearly did not mean my face looked a little flush from the brisk four-block walk.
"You guys still pouring mimosas?" I asked.
"Yes we are," she replied.
Holla at your boy! I resist the urge to praise a deity for my short-term stroke of good fortune.
Instead, I politely ask for a glass of champagne with a splash of orange juice as I check last-minute flights to the Caribbean.
I drink my champagne, walk among the beautiful people and call it a day. There's a Super Bowl to watch this evening. The Fashion Week blogging can be placed on hold until Monday.