The Huffington express

By KAY HANLEY | October 4, 2006

Rehearsing with Jill on the flight to San Francisco — Arianna’s first gig as a rapper.

We walked into Huffington’s massive parlor — a visual Victorian wonder full of heavy, expensive fabrics, imported chaises, and wrought-iron details encased at every turn in marble. And not that trendy travertine shit, either — real, honest-to-goodness marble everywhere. In LA, of all places, where design has trended so far toward the Spartan that it’s almost a surprise to find a sofa and a chair in the same room, never mind big, velvety couches. We set up our guitars and patiently awaited the arrival of our patron, who was now more than an hour late. It requires a mini army to prop up the fortunes of celebrities, and Arianna’s home on a Sunday morning was abuzz with busy workers. When I mentioned that I was hungry, a giant platter of Greek food suddenly appeared. And then, just as I was about to mention to Jill and Michelle that this waiting-around stuff was bullshit, Arianna whooshed into the room with a disarming smile. All was forgiven.

Michelle had written a little rap for Arianna to perform as the last verse of the song, and while she is not what anyone would classify as a “singer” or a person in possession of “rhythm,” watching her try to learn her part and make it work was an experience in and of itself. We ran through the song a bunch of times for the cameras and with every take Arianna got a bit more confident. When it was time to leave, Michelle and I overheard her telling Jill in that patented Zsa Zsa Gabor accent, “Dahlings, I am leaving for San Francisco to begin my book tour tomorrow. You should come with me on the jet. We will be home by tomorrow night. It will be perfect, okay?” And with that, she spun around on her Chanel ballet flats and split.

Pinot and Priuses
Rather than the usual crusty-bookstore event attended by bored staff and a dozen or so book fans shuffling about with clear plastic cups of boxed wine, Arianna’s party was held at the spectacular home of Larry Ellison, the ka-billionaire (Mish’s description) CEO of Oracle. It was populated by a potent mix of political heavyweights, San Fran’s power-dykes, and Silicon Valley rainmakers, peppered with the occasional society-page plastic-surgery victim.

When Arianna took the microphone in the corner of a steel-and-glass-encased party den, the crowd of 150 or so went absolutely silent. That’s power. She said a few words about Fearless, spoke on the concept of becoming fearless — her new call to arms for the women of the world — and then introduced us to the crowd to perform the theme song. When Arianna gamely sang her “rap,” she brought the house down. It was one of the most surreal moments I’ve ever experienced.

With Arianna at her book launch in San Francisco

And then, before you could say “croo-di-tay,” the evening drew to a close. I watched with some sadness as my sparkly new friends swallowed their last drops of champagne and floated down the long corridor that led from Mr. Ellison’s inner sanctum out into the chilly San Francisco night air. A fleet of Priuses awaited their owners alongside Porches, Volvos, and black Town Cars. In some circles, nothing beats a Prius.

After the official Fearless party, we joined a clearly invigorated Arianna for dinner with a bunch of people who were just happy to be in one anothers’ company. If that sounds sarcastic, it’s not meant to be.

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