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
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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.
Michelle, Jill, and I sighed happily over our exquisite French/Vietnamese food, which we chased down with the finest pinot noir the Pacific Northwest has to offer. Sadly, dessert was more inhaled than enjoyed because we had a private plane to catch. So the group of us hurried through our goodbyes, hopped into the van that had served, for a day, as the Ari-entourage shuttle, and sped to the airport. I’m still not sure what all the hurry was for. I mean, the plane couldn’t really leave without Mr. Lear, and Mr. Lear was with us, goddamn it.
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It had been only 12 hours and already we were taxiing down the runway, heading back to LA. As the wheels left the ground, I knew I’d never enjoy flying coach again. When I went into the bathroom, it was stocked with everything a person could want in even the finest hotel suite. And, yes, I was able to lift a pair of brand new, fluffy, pink socks from the flight. When we landed home at the private airport, I laughed in disbelief at the sight of our cars lined up 25 feet away from the jet’s resting place. Now that is the kind of service a girl from Dorchester could get used to. In fact, I am already plotting to offer my songwriting services to Rush Limbaugh’s organization. While he could not shine Ms. Huffington’s Christian Laboutin pumps (yes, I am obsessed with her shoe collection — so what?), I hear that his private jet is even better.