How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less Page 4

  The roof was unfinished and full of tar. There were several muddy puddles coagulating in spots. Pigeons flocked everywhere. I stood stiffly next to gargoyles and looked over the roof moodily. Eva took shot after shot, clicking her tongue angrily. “Casual. More natural. C’mon!” she directed. “Open your eyes. Wider. Wider! Chin down, eyes open! No! Too much! Now you look scared!”

  It was July and it was hot. I felt sweat beading on my forehead as I attempted to give her what she wanted. After an hour of trying, we looked over the digital pictures in dismay. My dress had bunched at the waist and the wind had whipped my carefully blown-out shag in all directions. The roof looked like a disaster zone.

  I didn’t look like a New Yorker. I looked like a dork.

  Eva sighed. “Let’s do some inside. Maybe with props.”

  I had explained that I wanted to be depicted as a fun-loving, AbFab kind of gal, someone who shopped a lot. Eva gave me Jackie O sunglasses and stuffed two shopping bags with tissues. She clicked away. I pretended to throw my head back in laughter. I whipped the glasses off my head and struck a coquettish pose. I swung the shopping bags energetically. We looked over the proofs. Instead of a socialite, I looked like a bag lady in Jackie O sunglasses holding two crinkled shopping bags. When I laughed, I looked demonic. Not to mention chubby.

  “Hmmm. No props,” Eva decided.

  I stood in front of the white wall, nervous that we would never get a good picture of me. From childhood I have always been terrifically unphotogenic. My nose always looked too big and my hair always stuck out in feathered clumps. I despaired. Magazine editors would never put my face in the contributors’ page, and I was sure my career was destined for disaster. I imagined potential Cat’s Meow buyers recoiling from the mere sight of my face, banishing my book to remainder-bin hell. All because I couldn’t live up to the beautiful-authoress standards that model-turned-authors like Candace Bushnell and Jennifer Egan embodied. Damn their skinny asses!

  Eva suddenly had a brilliant idea. She got up on a stool and started shooting my face from a bird’s-eye-view angle. “C’mon, give me a tvinkle in the eye!” she ordered. I grinned up at her, desperately tvinkling, my face poised between a smile and a smirk. We looked at the photos. Seen from above, my face looked much thinner. Only one of my chins was showing! And Eva had captured a true side of my personality.

  Perfect. Two years later, I’m still using that photo for everything. It’s on the back of my book. It’s graced the contributors’ pages of many magazines. And it’s here, too.

  CLOSET CASES

  DRESS TO IMPRESS

  “What the hell is that, a postage stamp?” my father snapped as he looked at my dress on the eve of my thirtieth birthday. When I turned thirty (April 2002), I decided to celebrate with a bang and throw a party. A party had the added benefit of fitting into our Marie Claire challenge. I wanted to wear something that would scream, “Look at me! It’s my party!” My friend Elisa Jimenez is a designer who dresses Sarah Jessica Parker, Marisa Tomei, Courtney Love, and Cameron Diaz. I know her through mutual friends, and I’ve always died over her clothes. They’re nymph-like, raw, deconstructed, and rock-star fabulous. I invited her to my party (she’s a “reach guest”), and after receiving my invitation, she called me and offered to make me a couture dress, sculpted for my body. No one gets that kind of treatment! It was my first celeb perk!

  We spent a day at a fabric store to pick out the material. I sifted through velvet, lace, stretch jersey, but nothing would do. I wanted something borderline insane, something I could get away with once—and then toss in the photo album of crazy outfits, like the oversize and massively unflattering sequined Dallas Cowboy jersey that I had to have for my best friend’s sweet sixteen (boy, was that a mistake!).

  Then I found it—a bubble-gum-pink swatch of spandex with a loud zebra print, embellished with splashes of leopard spots. I know it sounds gross and tacky. It kind of was, but in the best possible way.

  “Can I do this?” I asked Elisa sheepishly.

  “You’d better!” she said. “You’re only thirty once. Set your intention to be the goddess!”

  I was a little nervous that it would be too … I don’t know … ugly! But at the same time, that was the very thing that attracted me to it. I went for it. Why not? At least it would be a show-stopper, and no one else would have anything like it (or dare to wear anything like it, I should say). She turned the creation process into a ritual that involved aromatherapy and a prayer. And with a few measurements taken by hand (I was three palms long and two palms wide), Elisa morphed one yard of spandex into a sexy, skin-baring halter dress that hung a mere four inches longer than my crotch. Looking back, I don’t know who I thought I was, wearing such an itty bit of a thing, but I did feel pretty amazing in it all night.

  Once I had the dress (or loincloth, if you will), I needed accessories. The true mark of celebrity is in the karats. Diamonds, that is. The stars are known for borrowing the most exquisite jewels. The year before my birthday, I wrote a heartfelt piece about the retiring eighty-something-year-old longtime designer behind Harry Winston’s most spectacular jewels. So I called my H. W. contact to ask if there was any way I could borrow some baubles for my party. “We wouldn’t do this for ordinary people,” she said. “But we’ll do it for you, as long as we provide a bodyguard.” A bodyguard? Um, yes, please! I went to the magnificently sparkling Harry Winston salon and drooled over twenty-two-karat diamond rings, lavish pink diamond watches, and so many glimmering things that I was nearly blinded. We pored through trays upon trays of pieces that had just returned from the Oscars.

  I chose the pink sapphire ring that Whoopi had worn to host the event in 2002, the diamond Y-shaped necklace starlet Lisa Marie had recently borrowed, a flower bracelet Caroline Murphy wears in their recent ad campaign, a $100,000 pink watch, and a subtle pair of four-karat diamond studs on a wire. The total: $2 million! And for one glorious night, it was going to be mine—all mine! Lou, a dapper, gray-haired man who looked like he just stepped off the set of the Sopranos, delivered the rocks before my party and followed me around all night to make sure no one pulled any funny stuff.

  The jewels. The dress. The bodyguard. It was madness! A photograph of me in the dress and the diamonds wound up in the New York Post party pages days later. And Women’s Wear Daily, the fashion trade newspaper that everyone in the apparel industry calls “the bible,” wrote a gossip item about it, calling me K.Ro! For weeks, ex-boyfriends, old friends from high school, and everyone I had ever encountered in the New York area called to tell me that they saw me in the diamonds and the dress, confirming, once and for all: It’s not who you are … it’s what you wear that counts … even if your father doesn’t approve of the getup.

  A TRIP TO THE WEBBIES

  In 1999, the Web site I had founded with several friends was nominated for a Webby Award in the fashion category—the “online equivalent of the Oscars,” or so the producers of the show claimed. It was the heyday of the dot-com boom, and we were feeling flush, even if our little Web site was only run out of a studio apartment, half the people on the masthead were imaginary, and we couldn’t afford to fly all four of us to San Francisco (we drew straws to see which two could go).

  Mel and Lee at the Webbys!

  I was confident we would blow the competition away and be called up onstage to give our thank-yous, so I made sure to select an outfit I thought would be eye-catching enough. During one of my many trips to lower Manhattan’s fabled designer discount outlet, Century 21 (where Missoni sweaters and hand-beaded John Galliano gowns were sold for a pittance of their original prices), I found the dress. It was designed by Walter van Beirendonck, one of those kooky Belgian iconoclasts who ran a notorious ad campaign that featured hairy “bearlike men” (a gay fetish for very big, very hairy men that is exemplified by the stroke rag titled, aptly enough, Bear). Van Bierendonck was known for out-of-this-world clothing (rubber pantsuits dotted with decorative pacifiers, for instance) and was very p
opular with Japanese club kids (the only people on the planet who would wear rubber pantsuits with decorative pacifiers).

  My dress was two layers: a short red hooded minidress underneath a floor-sweeping, stiff red tulle material with puffed lines that circled around it. It looked a bit like a tiered wedding cake, and it made me look like I was wearing a glass tumbler. I loved it! I wore it with the hood up and my oversize Chanel sunglasses. I looked like a very fashion-forward Jedi knight.

  “What are you trying to go for?” my mom asked, amused, when she saw me. “Star magazine’s ‘Would you be caught dead in that?’”

  “What are you supposed to be, a spaceman?” the chauffeur of our rented (white) limousine asked as Lee and I piled into the mirrored interior.

  “Do you think it’s too much?” I asked Lee, the site’s editor-in-chief (and the winner of the other long straw).

  “Are you kidding? It’s fucking fabulous!”

  Of course, he himself was wearing eye makeup and sporting a faux-hawk. An assymetrical jacket with unfinished threads and a tear down the middle to show off his tanktop, which read “Fashion Victim,” topped off his ensemble.

  As we walked into the auditorium, the photographers immediately started snapping away. I was gratified by all the attention and knew I had picked my ensemble well … until I heard one of them hiss, sotto voce, that my outfit was “Pretentioussssss!” All night I felt like a pompous heel in a stupid dress. Even the sight of all the free food at the after-party didn’t make me feel any better. I barely touched a sushi roll. I had lost my appetite and my confidence.

  But three months later, my spaceman outfit and I made our debut in Paper magazine’s “Cultural Sushi” party page, and I was soon receiving congratulatory phone calls from as far away as the East Village.

  Pretentiousssss, my famous ass!

  TOP IT OFF!

  A friend of ours was shopping at Bergdorf Goodman. For fun, she tried on a gigantic floppy fedora that no one in their right mind would actually wear. Suddenly Steven Tyler, the lead singer of Aerosmith, came up to her and said, “That’s a great hat. It looks so good on you.” She bought it on the spot. She figured, if Steven Tyler gave her the thumbs-up, how could she pass on it? She walked home with her huge hatbox, all proud of herself, feeling fabulous. Then stress hit. Where on Earth would she ever wear it?

  As luck had it, she was working for an event planner who was producing the MTV Music Awards after-party later that month. Our friend was granted a ticket to the soiree. It was her fedora opportunity. She couldn’t wait to wear it.

  But at the show, Steven Tyler went onstage wearing the same hat! And all night long our friend was known as the girl who wore the same hat as Steven Tyler … even though she saw it first! She was famous that night … but for wearing someone else’s hat! Hey, whatever works.

  MAKE A STYLE STATEMENT

  Establish a focused personal style that will set you apart from everyone else. Liz Hurley took off her clothes in a host of B-movies for years before she got noticed for putting on a Versace safety-pin dress for the premiere of Four Weddings and a Funeral, her then-boyfriend Hugh Grant’s movie. She stole the spotlight that night. Everyone wanted to know who she was and what she was wearing. So whoever said you can’t judge a book by its cover was sadly mistaken. In the fame game, clothes are everything. Here are some style concepts that may turn you into the next Liz Hurley:

  • Headgear. Everyone notices people who wear hats. Newsboys, fedoras, berets, top hats, veils, cowboy hats, pillbox hats. It doesn’t matter what you fancy, just get one.

  • Monochromatic dressing. Be the person who is always in one color, head to toe (black not included, because that’s too generic). All white (in the winter!) works, as do shades of red, orange, blue, yellow, turquoise, green, and pink. It might be a bit loud and obnoxious, but it will bring you some well-deserved attention.

  • Makeup for men. That’s right. MAC Cosmetics aren’t just for girls, and wearing them doesn’t make you a sissy (unless that’s the look you’re going for). It worked for Nick Rhodes, Nikki Sixx, and KISS. A much-photographed dandy in New York is constantly in the New York Times’s Styles page. His signature? Painted eyebrows, rouge, and a beauty mark. Very Boy George-chic. We approve wholeheartedly.

  • Hair color. Model Linda Evangelista was just a run-of-the-mill catalog cutie until she cut off her hair and began to change her color every three months. The cover of Vogue followed, as well as a $10,000-a-day paycheck. Be creative and get brash with hot pink locks, flaming red streaks, a touch of blue. When people question your motives, tell them it’s what all the models are doing in Paris.

  • Go ethnic. Discover your roots with authentic saris and bhindis, obis and Chinese flip-flops (with socks for winter), or whatever signifies your heritage. If you don’t have a fashion-friendly heritage, just borrow one. Every blond actress has discovered cheongsams; why don’t you?

  • Consider a cane. That’s right. A cane. Paint it colorfully. No one will ever forget having a conversation with the girl with the cane. People will give up their seats for you. You’ll get sympathy and fame. Nothing like killing two birds with one stone.

  • Extreme eyewear. If you think they look too big and too bold, get them. Never take them off. Take a cue from the late famed fashion editor and Old Navy spokesmodel Carrie Donovan, who wore hers to everything—even black-tie affairs.

  • Get wacky. Over-the-top shenanigans will get you infamous, rather than famous, but what’s the difference, really? Dress as a clown for a charity benefit. Go to dinner wearing white makeup and act like you’re trapped in a box, mime-style. Or make like Björk and wear a dress that resembles a swan, complete with feathered bum, beak, and a purse shaped like an egg.

  FIND A SIGNATURE SOMETHING—AND STICK TO IT!

  A COPYCAT FINDS HER STRIPES

  I have hair lust. I can never resist copying a famous person’s iconic haircut. At various points in my life, I’ve sported the Lady Di, the Bo Derek, the Winona Ryder, the Jennifer Aniston, and the Meg Ryan. I always believed that if a certain haircut worked for the biggest star of the moment, it would also work for me. I was usually wrong. I even dyed my hair platinum blond during a retro Marilyn Monroe phase. (And take it from me, blond locks and Asian coloring should never be attempted outside of Tokyo’s Ginza district.)

  But I kept hope alive. When I was sixteen, I decided I wanted to look like Siouxsie Sioux. I was going through a punk period. I craved ratted, matted, curly hair—slightly spooky and bad and brave at once. I begged my mother to give me a home perm. Three hours later, I was “Weird Al” Yankovic.

  Luckily, in 1994 I had my hair cut into a choppy seventies shag, and while it has varied slightly in length, it’s still the same cut I received all those years ago from the Frederic Fekkai salon (I no longer go to the salon, but the cut has been easy enough to replicate at, say, Fantastic Sam’s). Like Anna Wintour (Vogue’s editor-in-chief) and her perennial bob (a ‘do she’s had practically since birth), I’ve found a style that works for me. It’s become my signature.

  Even when I get it cut a little too short on the sides, otherwise known as Flirting with the Mullet, people always assure me it looks just like My Hair. Today, I look in the mirror and I don’t see a famous-person wanna-be. I see myself. And I guess that’s enough (at least my hairstylist says so). Although I’ve considered trying the Beyonce Afro! Groovy, baby!

  KARENTINIS

  I’m a candy addict. Gummy Bears, Swedish Fish, Tootsie Rolls, anything I can get my mitts on. At a trendy bar one day, I asked for a “Yummy Gummy martini.” The bartender looked at me as if I were crazy. “You want what?” he said, raising his eyebrows in horror.

  “It’s a martini made with Gummy Bears and a splash of cherry,” I replied, as if it were the most normal request in the world. He didn’t have Gummies, but luckily I did. I forked over a few red squishy bears and was sipping happily in no time. Two people next to me wanted what I was drinking and I was gracious enough
to share my confectionary treats. I did the same stint for a few weeks, every time bringing my own Gummy Bears and chatting up the (very cute) bartender.

  He said that other people had been requesting them since I started coming in and making such big “yum” noises as I drank up the pink chilled liquid from my cocktail glass. I brought him a few bags of bears as a gift and soon after, “Yummy Karentinis” were on the menu. I may not have been famous yet, but my drink certainly was!

  DESIGN A SIGNATURE DRINK

  Anyone can have a glass of pinot grigot, but you … you can get away with saying, “I’ll have the usual—sauvignon blanc with a splash of soda, a bit of cranberry juice, and two round ice cubes, please.” (Send it back if the cubes are square!) A signature drink will make you unique and make you appear to have control over every aspect of your life, including your taste buds. Be consistent and never falter with the order. Who knows? You might even inspire a trend.

  Some things to consider when creating a signature drink:

  • Color. Are you a pink, a red, an orange, or a blue curaçao? Choose one that fits your personality and flatters your complexion.

  • Ease of order. You don’t want the bartender hunting down an obscure liqueur legal only in Russia. It should be quirky without being fussy.

  • Taste. Try out some concoctions at home before making a commitment to this beverage, because once you do, it’s yours forever. It has to be good enough that everyone will want a sip.

  WHAT’S FAME WITHOUT HUMILIATION?

  JUDGE ITO’S DOPPELGANGER

  Like many freelance writers, I’ll say yes to everything. Yes, I’ll cover the transsexual protest at City Hall. Yes, I’ll try to get thrown out of the nightclub to see what happens when you spill a drink on a celebrity. Yes, I’ll dress as a man to crash my fiancé’s bachelor party.