The palm trees swayed and the reggae played. Those asked if anything was needed at the bar OK'd. Another day in paradise? No and yes.

I walk by the Cooper Hotel at least once a week. I usually glance inside the glass walls at the flickering candles on the faces of people who can afford to enjoy specialty cocktails, sometimes spotting hair or clothing too rich to be on a regular civilian, but I never stare long enough to confirm. Last night I breezed past the cocktailers and headed straight for the penthouse to cover the launch of Glo, a "magazine on the Internet."

Who knew there was a restaurant over Armani? Oh, excuse me, I mean "Ristorante." Personally, unless I was dying of starvation and nothing else was open, I wouldn't choose a luxury fashion brand to eat, but you know, it's all about new experiences and that is definitely what this column affords me -- those steps through a doorway I wouldn't ordinarily take. Lately those steps have led me to pleasant surprises. Now, if only it were easier to get in the door...

I entered the 4 train last night with someone practicing for Parkour on my ankles. After a polite exchange of "engulf yourself in flames!" eyes, I settled into my seat on stinky bellybutton train, realizing that I was on the wrong train." Sayeth the Pixies, "Where is my mind?" After transferring to the Q at 59th Street, I was finally on my sweaty way to an intimate dinner with Ted Danson at the Hearst Tower for the Hearst Heart of Green Awards.

Last week I attended the Discovery Upfront and it 90% blew my mind. I can let it --because I'm not sitting there weighing budgets and ad buys and such, I'm just observing the glittery dog and pony show that networks put on to woo advertisers. Discovery brought out the howitzer and fireworks. Scripps brought out an early dig at competitors with a note that others may have two-hour presentations, but they're still lower in ratings than Scripps. They aimed for showcasing their content, rather than their celebrity talent. Make no mistake, though, there were celebrities there. And I stalked them...

"We don't care about real artists any more," said Carrot Creative's Mike Germano, as I gushed to him on a Union Square bench about "Up There," the documentar-mercial I saw last night in the company of about 40-something other invitees at the Crosby Hotel. No, no, he didn't mean it like that. We were doing a lot of back and forth about the state of commercials as art, art as commercial, and how middle America consumes advertising now less as the art it used to be. What the hell am I talking about? Continue...

People ask me all the time what makes one party better than the next. They also ask how I'm not drunk all the time. The answer to the first question is simply "food and music." The answer to the second question is less intelligible.

Why didn't I take any women's studies courses in college? I get it, I was more interested in where the next pizza and keg party was coming from, but please tell me that you, too, were a little vapid in your youth. Either way, I apologize to all women for being so disinterested when I was most impressionable. If my biggest gripe is some ding-dong sucking his teeth behind me in the voting line, I should remind myself that some women got the crap beat out of them so I could stand there and complain. Thank you, Good Housekeeping, for …

Last night I left the swanktastic Discovery post-Upfront reception to attend a media tasting at Exchange Bar. What does media taste like? Calamari, mozzarella sticks, and Buffalo wings, duh.

I walked into the Frederick P. Rose Hall, grabbed my press packet and headed to the front of the room, feeling pretty special to see that the press corral was right behind the roped-off seats "reserved for friends of Oprah Winfrey." Yep, that was Gayle King sitting three rows up. As I squeezed into my seat next to a Fox Networks reporter, I saw the infamous locks of Jessica Simpson, dressed in gold, enter the auditorium. I peered to confirm that it was, indeed, the former "Newlyweds" reality star and asked myself, "why the heck is Jessica Simpson at a …