My Huffington Post

By Pandora Young

I have loved Arianna Huffington since she was the voice of the right wing on KCRW's Left, Right & Center. I loved her before I knew she was a gorgeous red-headed Amazon with some serious junk in the trunk. I fell in love with her shrill, heavily accented voice as she berated her helpless, liberal, weenie-boy co-hosts.

I would have fallen in love with that voice if it had belonged to a cockroach sitting atop a pile of dung. But when I learned she was hot, that she was getting a divorce from her homosexual, would-be-governor husband, that she was becoming a liberal, that she was super-wealthy, that she was a power-hungry bitch intent on world domination, well... I loved her more.

Some find my love amusing, like LA Weekly writer Marc Cooper. In addition the Weekly, Marc writes for a number of other publications, including the Huffington Post. He knows Arianna well. So when she hosted a book party at her home last Saturday, he was amused enough to invite me to go. I was thrilled, like Cinderella going to the ball about to meet the prince. I asked Marc point blank, "Do you think I can get her to switch teams?"

"Pandora, it's not about the genitalia you don't have. It's about the money and power you don't have."

Not to be discouraged, I strapped on a push-up bra and drove to Brentwood. The party was being held in conjunction with The Festival of Books, and it was an industry schmooze fest. I knew no one, and relied on Marc to help me meet people. But Marc has an annoying habit of introducing people by identifying what they do for a living:

"This is so-and-so, the Dean of the School of Journalism at USC."

"This is so-and-so, literary agency president."

"This is Pandora, assistant to the editor at the LA Weekly."

Oh, an assistant. How nice. Polite, forced smile, and then they would quickly move on to someone, anyone else.

I was not making friends. So I downed a few pomegranate martinis and struck out on my own. I met bored spouses, bitter writers, and some very cute cater waiters.

Finally, at the end of the night, I met her. I would have been too shy, but dear Marc grabbed us both and made the introduction. He took my hand and placed it firmly on top of hers. He told her that I, Pandora, assistant to the editor of the LA Weekly, was so very excited to meet her. I looked up, up, up into her hazel eyes and murmured, "I am such a fan".

She recognized me right away for what I was. A perverted groupie with sweaty palms. And she wanted her hand back. "You must have a copy of my book then!" she declared, wrenching herself free of my grip. Then a book I already owned was thrust upon me, and she was off to talk to someone, anyone else.

It was magical.

Also got a generous Fishbowl LA mention here.

So the cleavage wasn't completely wasted, even if it did nothing for Arianna.