Leaving on a Jet Plane

Leaving on a Jet Plane

Andy is off to L.A. ... but not before a memorable trip to the airport.

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It's early in the a.m., and I wake up behind schedule and groggy. I have not slept great in a few weeks and I am officially running on empty and scrambling to split town. The sunrise over this sleeping city is arresting and makes me stop and breathe.  And take a picture for you.

I check my e-mail and there's some stuff about the A-List Awards that wakes me up, and an e-mail from Bravo exec Eli Lehrer saying he is a proud new daddy of baby Jude, who was born just a couple hours ago, after 4 this morning. Life!!! (Need to order a Snoopy for the kid ...) I change my Facebook status because I can think of an "is": Andy is going to LA.

I am trying to cram two weeks of crap into one carry-on and it is not working. And I somehow waited until this morning to decide what I will wear to the A-List Awards so my options seem very poor, outdated, sad, out of season, out of fashion, and just out. Black velvet just doesn't seem viable at 6 a.m. Or in 2009. I ponder changing my status to "Andy is wondering if black velvet is still relevant" but I decide against it. Black velvet will always be relevant. I see a bag on my counter that I meant to drop off at a friend's on Jane Street on my way home from Shun Lee last night. CRAP. What better time than now to run an errand. I don't think, and so I motor.  he lady on the elevator is with her dog that is so violently ugly that I don't mind that it's beakish nose is essentially inside my carry-on. I feel sorry for ugly dogs. The lady starts oversharing with me and I start to feel sorry for her, too. On her way out she offers to get my doorman a coffee. He says yes, and I love her again.

I dump my luggage in the car, grab the bag, and run down the street. On my way to drop off the bag, I see a multi-paneled mirror that someone had thrown out by the curb. I have a photo session with the mirror and am as unhappy with the results as I am to have to go drop off a bag. See the bag in the pic?


I drop of the bag. Done and Done. My friend's doorman has no teef. How can you be a toofless doorman? As I wonder if the dooman was seeing anybody, I see a clump of nitrogen tanks on the corner of my block. I don't care to see a clump of nitrogen tanks on my corner. And I don't know why we need nitrogen tanks on my corner. Does anyone know?

I get in the car and my driver is very nice. While I was out on my photo-hunt, he'd put my newspapers in the trunk to ensure that I'd have nothing to read on the drive to JFK.  Thanks, mate.

I am standing in the line behind a girl who thinks she is fun, flirty, and fashionable. She is none of the above. It doesn't look the same on her as it does on, say, Rachel Zoe. It's cool. Walking through security I feel eyeballs and mentally prepare for a cavity search. When I look directly at the eyeballs upon mine, I realize that they belong to a former trainer from the Equinox on Greenwich Avenue. Now he's in a TSA uniform and I am quite possibly in love. Though I am not totally sure that we ever spoke a word to each other during his tenure at the gym,  we reunite like forner lovers. I consider taking a picture of him (for you. Well, for US) but decide that would be poor and against TSA regulations.

We have a lovely chat and I do not listen to a word he says. I can tell you that his name is --- and he stopped training because ---- and he thinks ----- about working at the TSA.  And ---- looks very very very very good in his wee uniform.

And he does not search me.

My seatmate has a bushy mustache, a short fuse ("some IDIOT put his attache on my bag!?!?") and intensely bad breath.

See you in LA!

Want to reach Andy? E-mail him
Who's Andy? Read his bio


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