How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less Read online

  We were introduced to Steve as “the two most famous writers in New York” by a mutual friend, a publicist who spoke only in hyperbole. “You don’t say,” he said. In turn, we complimented him on his new airline, telling him we’d heard terrific buzz. We were fresh from our Hollywood high, and regaled him with stories from our two weeks of fame-related misadventures. He smiled and said, “Well, you know, you can’t be a real celebrity without a private plane! It’s a vital accessory!”

  We groaned and agreed, thinking a well-placed hint might work in our favor. “Next month we’re flying to Miami for the opening of a swanky new club. But God knows we’ll probably be stuck in economy again, unless we meet another nice ticket-counter employee who’ll upgrade us for free to first class.”

  He harrumphed. “First class is nothing! You girls deserve your own plane,” he said.

  “Exactly what I’ve been saying all along. Mel, I like this guy. He’s a keeper,” Karen said, flipping her hair, flashing a wide smile, and tapping his shoulder.

  Sure enough, on our next flight together, we were reclined, fully horizontal, on tan leather Barcaloungers, with a bottle of Cristal on ice by our sides. We munched on sushi in Bento boxes from Nobu, while a cute copilot in his Prada uniform asked us if we wanted anything else. We turned to each other in disbelief—how did we get here?

  To the Green Air mogul, one flight for two up-and-comers is a drop in the bucket, like taking a gallon of water out of the Atlantic Ocean. He probably saw it as an investment. He figured, if we had a good experience, we’d tell people about it and help promote his brand … just as he helped us promote ours.

  The schmooze had gotten out of control. It was like the Jedi mind trick. By convincing people we were celebrities, we were automatically treated like celebrities. “Do you think we can get him to give us our own plane?” Karen asked between bites of toro scallion maki. We laughed it off at the time, but we are sort of wondering: Can we?

  FLATTER THEM

  SOME PEOPLE CALL IT KISSING ASS; WE CALL IT GETTING AHEAD

  • Hand out compliments as freely as a Jew for Jesus passes out pamphlets. People love to hear that you love what they are wearing or admire their work. Tell a girlfriend that she looks thin. Ask a guy if he’s been working out. People can never hear “You look good” enough. There’s nothing wrong with being slightly sycophantic as long as you’re sincere. Be warned: Like a bad Gucci knock-off, people can spot a disingenuous comment a mile away. And while you’re at it, don’t fawn over known enemies. They’ll only dislike you more. As a famous person, it’s important to come to grips with the fact that not everyone will like you, no matter what you do.

  • Congratulate others on recent accomplishments—a job promotion, quitting smoking, throwing a fab party, buying the season’s most coveted boots, paying off their credit card bills, getting their preschooler into the right kindergarten. God is in the details—take notice of the little things.

  • If someone has worked hard on a project—cooking a meal, finally breaking up with an icky boyfriend, decorating a room—acknowledge it.

  • Call people “inspirational.” It makes them feel admired, cherished, and appreciated. (During our minor squabbles over the writing of this book, we each called another “inspirational” at one point or another to mend the rift. Worked every time!)

  • Take important people to lunch. Because there’s no such thing as a free meal, they will have to find some way to thank you in the future.

  YOUR TARGET AUDIENCE

  CONFESSIONS OF A WINDOW DRESSER’S FAN

  Simon Doonan is the acerbic fashion columnist for the New York Observer, the quick-witted and arch-tongued Englishman who is also responsible for the outrageous, fantastic, and often controversial window displays of Barneys New York, my favorite store. I have been obsessed with Simon ever since I read (and could not put down) his autobiography, Confessions of a Window Dresser, which documented his madcap English childhood, his days in Hollywood, and his final triumph as the man who put Hello Kitty in Jesus’s cradle in the Barney’s windows at Christmas. “Kitty Nativity” generated tons of publicity for the store, put Simon on the map as the king of cheek, and turned him into a hero for disgruntled art students everywhere. He is the most famous window dresser in history.

  During my stint as an editor at Hintmag.com, one of our regular features involved taking a famous fashion personality out to lunch. Lunch was usually subsidized by the restaurant in exchange for publicity on our Web site, and the famous fashion personality often agreed to meet with us after we had begged them repeatedly for months. Simon was one of our first “Lunch Voxes.” I was thrilled to meet him and even more charmed when I discovered he was not only funny and sharp, but warm, friendly, and genuine. A total mensch. When my editor asked him a few months later for some kind words to help promote my first novel, he provided the following much-quoted blurb: Melissa de la Cruz is the Jackie Collins of the Moomba generation. She’s on a collision course with pulp stardom! I screamed in joy, sent him a rapturous note, and thanked him with a doll from the Barbie Wizard of Oz collection.

  But I wanted more of Simon. I wanted to get to know him better, and go beyond the usual cocktail chitchat at random fashion events. Like the starstruck teenagers on MTV’s Fanatic, who believe that rock stars really “know” what they are going through, I wanted Simon and I to be close. Like my earlier obsession with Boy George, I was utterly convinced we would become best buddies if only we had the chance to hang out regularly.

  For my two-weeks-of-fame assignment, Simon was one of the first people who came to mind. Here was my chance to see him again! I e-mailed him and asked if we could have lunch. I didn’t hear from him, so I took matters into my own hands. I visited his partner Jonathan Adler’s home accessories store in Soho, thinking I could “casually” bump into him there. It worked. That very day I spotted Simon in the back next to the geometric pillows I craved. (I’m also slightly obsessed with Jonathan, but that’s another story.) Simon was as warm as ever, and agreed to meet me the next day for lunch at DB Bistro Moderne—five-star chef Daniel Boulud’s newest restaurant and the home of the very famous $50 hamburger.

  I clued him into my mission for fame. “Real celebrities are a pain in the ass,” he said. “You should take your cues from Tonya and Joey.” (Harding and Buttafuoco.) He told me how he orchestrated his own attention-grabbing stunt for the opening of the latest Barneys store by dressing up as the queen of England and hiring celebrity look-alikes to “vacuum” the red carpet. “We had Michael Jackson, Liza Minnelli, Sylvester Stallone. It was hilarious! And impersonating royalty is always good,” he said with a sly wink.

  Lunch left me high on Simon. I adored the man. I wanted us to bond in the Hamptons, giggle together at fashion shows, have late-night phone conversations about the latest celebrity incarceration. I wanted him to adopt me!

  But in the end, I left him alone. Schmoozing is one thing; stalking is another. I didn’t want him to think I was a weird freak. I decided to be content with our current friendly acquaintance. After all, it’s more than I ever had with Boy George.

  THE CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY

  One winter, when I was covering the Sundance Film Festival, a friend introduced me to her longtime family friend and colleague whom I’ll call Jon. Jon is very powerful film mogul. In the business he is revered and feared, as he can make or break a career. For years I have been hearing my friend talk about him—how brilliant he is, how connected he is, how he’s the brains behind some of the biggest names and movies in Hollywood. So I was a bit intimidated by his commanding presence when we met. And because he spent most of his off time with my friend and travel work partner, I, too, spent ample hours with him (and his entourage), snowboarding, people-watching, and taking in indie pictures. I couldn’t believe how “real” he was. He had no assistants surrounding him, no pressing office calls. He was just a guy’s guy—and a cute one at that. He even bought me a lift ticket. This was the same shark who’s known
for taking no prisoners and always getting the job done—his way?

  I never brought up anything about what he does, who he is, and the kind of power he wields. I was sure that everyone he ever met must suck up to him and ask him for favors and I didn’t want to be “one of them.” It’s like meeting famous actors, who are used to being hounded—it’s better to treat them like normal people and not divine creatures, holier-than-thou. I wanted to get his card, however, and possibly call him in the future. From my experience, it’s okay to develop a friendly relationship with someone and, at the right time, you can cash in the bond into a beneficial working connection. But you can’t broach the business thing too soon or it will seem like you’re using the person for your own personal gain.

  I sent Jon an It was so nice spending time with you—even with the bruises on my legs from a horrific day down the mountain note to his office in the hopes of closing the deal as far as “getting in” with him was concerned. While I had no plans for Hollywood at the time, I thought, You never know. A year later I was working on a project (i.e., this book!), and I thought that Jon would be the perfect person to approach regarding a small aspect of it (i.e., helping me convince a celeb to write the foreword). I had no doubt he’d remember me. I was just hoping he would return my call—and want to support my fame-seeking cause. I wasn’t asking him to foot a bill for a movie or for anything that would put him out in any way. In fact, my measly assignment would take up ten minutes of his time—max. It was a harmless request. A cry for help, if you will.

  I left a heartwarming message for him, where I reminisced about our Sundance moments. His assistant put me on his “call sheet” (mogul-speak for “list of people I need to call back”). Two weeks later there was no reply. I tried again and asked his assistant to make sure that next to my name on his call sheet, she included details of when and how I met him. (“I did that the first time you called,” she said, which I thought was rather passive-aggressive.) Still no return call. I waited three weeks and gave it another shot. Not surprisingly, I never heard Jon’s voice over the telephone.

  Our onetime romance was over, I realized. I meant nothing to him.

  A month later I was at a dinner party and everyone was gossiping about Jon. He was supposed to be there. I thought, Now’s my chance …just dazzle him with some charm. I waited for his arrival. When he emerged, I was shocked.

  “That’s not Jon,” I whispered to the person next to me.

  “Yes, it is,” she said.

  Oh, my God! I was harassing the wrong Jon. Actually, I was calling the right Jon, but I actually met and hung out with the wrong Jon. My Sundance pal was no mogul. In fact, he was just another film buff whom my friend knew. In retrospect, I don’t even recall her telling me his last name. I just assumed it was the Jon. Maybe out of some sick delusional fantasy, I wanted it to be the Jon. And poor the Jon! He was probably thinking, Who is this crazy girl who’s calling me about snowboarding in Sundance? Like he has time to snowboard in Sundance. I considered schmoozing up to him—and telling him about the whole mix-up. I imagined that we’d have a big laugh and work and play together happily ever after.

  Instead, I took a sip of my wine, politely told the hostess I had to leave, and made a dash for home, where I planned to remain indefinitely!

  WHO TO SCHMOOZE?

  • Whoever is in charge of things: the hostess of the restaurant, the co-op board, your apartment’s super, the president of your company, a teacher in school, the manager of your favorite store, who will put things on layaway for you when it’s really against the establishment’s policy.

  • Don’t forget the little people. Anyone who can do something for you, even if it’s the person who works at the smoothie bar (he or she will sneakily let you cut the line when there is a long wait for an energy elixir—or let you in when the store is actually closed), the stewardess on the plane (could lead to extra pillows), the receptionist at your salon (she’ll get you in when your stylist is “booked”).

  • Club promoters, publicists, event planners, producers, restaurateurs, and anyone who has a higher profile than you do. If these people like you, they will invite you to their fancy events and parties, which will help elevate your status.

  • The assistants of these club promoters, publicists, event planners, producers, restaurateurs. They’ll put in a good word for you.

  • A mentor, someone who can help and champion your career. If you don’t have one, get one. Rent All About Eve to learn the ropes.

  WORKING IT

  THE INTERNATIONAL LANGUAGE OF YES!

  Sometimes you have to schmooze contacts who speak with very strong accents that are impossible to understand. So it is important for all professional networkers to have a knack for faking their way through conversations while still seeming genuine. It’s not an easy task, but once mastered, it can bring you plenty of ripe opportunity. I honed this particular skill after meeting an event-planning big shot who hails from the West Indies. Ever since we crossed paths in an elevator ascending to the penthouse for a fashion party, I have never been capable of deciphering anything he says.

  It’s as if, no matter what he utters, I hear a cacophony of noises that sounds something like, “Oonda a you jileltthrohelun-tush and dat model lether LA for n’bouchet party tonight.” He could be telling me that he’s taking a model to a party or that he has a kinky fetish for leather, for all I know. When we chat, I spend most of my energy asking him to repeat himself. I wind up saying “Excuse me” and “Pardon me” so frequently that I actually feel bad when I talk to him. There are only so many times a person can say, “What?” So I decided that my best approach in communicating with him would be nodding, smiling, and yesing him to death between saying things like, “You’re so smart” and “You’re so cute.”

  Once, he asked me if I was still working out with my trainer.

  Of course, I had no idea what he was saying. So I said yes. But I actually hadn’t worked out with my trainer for ten months! Then he wanted to know how it was going. Again, no clue what he had asked. So I said, “Oh, it’s great, never better; you have to join me sometime,” hoping that would float. It did. Until he asked me for my trainer’s number. I was able to make out the fact that he wanted a number, so I said, “What number?”

  I had to ask him to repeat himself three times before I got that he wanted my trainer’s number. “Oh, I don’t have it. I haven’t seen him in ten months,” I said.

  I felt pretty dumb when he informed me that I had just told him my trainer and I had never been better. I was able to get away with it by throwing in, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I must have misunderstood you. I thought you asked me about my editor. I couldn’t hear you. I must stop cleaning my ears with Q-tips all the time. It’s ruining my auditory canal!”

  From that point on, I made a concentrated effort to limit our conversations to e-mails. When he calls, I often say, “I’m running out. Just send me an e-mail and I’ll call you later.” Then I write him back long, detailed e-mails, so he never gets the impression that I’m trying to blow him off. While I still struggle through most of our conversations at restaurants and face-to-face appointments, the Internet has brought us to great new depths of our connection. And I never have to say, “What?” He even played a part in helping Mel and me produce our big book deal party (see The Main Event, Step IV, for details). Unfortunately, I didn’t understand him when he asked if it was a costume party. So I said, “naturally!” He showed up as the Naked Cowboy (Step I) and was rejected at the door by the bouncers!

  SOLD! TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER?

  The year before Marie Claire asked me to become famous, I was on the planning committee for the annual amfAR charity ball in New York, Boathouse Rocks. Boathouse Rocks routinely kicks off the summer social season with a glittery bash at the Central Park Boathouse, where luminaries such as Angie Harmon, Macaulay Culkin, Sharon Stone, and Sarah Jessica Parker raise money for amfAR. I was asked to join by my friend Tom Dolby, who was one of the chairs of the
event. I was eager to broaden my social horizons and befriend the publicists, fashion executives, and magazine editors who comprised the rest of the committee. The meetings were held once a month, and although my attendance was sporadic, my enthusiasm for actually being on a charity social committee—I was a socialite! Just like Jackie O—remained fervent. During my tenure, I contributed several items for the auction and impressed friends by securing them exclusive invitations to the event.

  During my two weeks of fame, Boathouse was in the midst of planning its annual party. I coyly suggested to Tom that since I was too busy to actually help plan the event this year, perhaps I could be part of it instead. The Boathouse signature is to sell “Celebrity Kisses” for thousands of dollars—MAC lipstick imprints from the likes of Oprah Winfrey, Susan Sarandon, Toms Hanks and Cruise, Nicole Kidman, and the rest. While I knew I was not at the status of “Celebrity Kisses,” I thought there might still be a way to capitalize on this. The yearly auction also offered “Nights Out With” packages wherein partygoers could bid on an evening with their favorite New York-based model, TV anchorman, or gossip reporter. Why not a night out with “novelist” Melissa de la Cruz? If people saw that I was being auctioned off like a true star, they would think I really was a celebrity!

  I begged Tom to convince the auction committee that it was a good idea. Since I had been so helpful the year before, it was an easy enough task. “Oh, you’re the famous writer!” the auction chair said when I gave her a copy of my book. “It would be such an honor to be part of the auction,” I told her, laying it on thick. “It’s the best party of the season!”