How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less Read online

  I always thought I would be famous one day, but I never thought it would be because I was the spitting image of Judge Ito in drag. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Mike and I were getting married. My editor at Marie Claire knew I was looking forward to the wedding. But other than a matching set of crystal bowls, she had something more in store for me. She asked me to crash his bachelor party disguised as a man and report back on what I saw. I was game. Mike and I both shared a goofy sense of humor, and he knew I did strange stunts for magazine work. I knew he would forgive me when he found out.

  Unlike other brides who frown on the bacchanalian practice, I am nonchalant about the thought of seeing my fiancé with another woman’s boobs in his face. Boys will be boys, and I’m just not the jealous type. Plus, I knew Mike would laugh the whole thing off when he found out—he’s not one to take these things too seriously. At least, I hoped so. What really concerned me was the whole “undercover” part—the prospect of becoming a man was terrifying to my sense of vanity. What if I made a horrifyingly ugly man? What if instead of having a fabulous Hilary Swank moment, I became dumpy “Pat” from Saturday Night Live? My fears were realized when I put on my costume—brown trousers, brown shirt, and brown jacket—I looked like the UPS man. But the worst was yet to come. When the makeup artist was through with me, I was the spitting image of Judge Lance “OJ” Ito.

  The strip club was located in the bowels of Times Square; a neon sign in front of the club even advertised a free buffet dinner! I walked inside, feeling nervous and out of place. When Mike and his friends entered, I hid myself behind my overpriced bottle of Bud. I was amazed he did not immediately come over and say hello. I thought that for certain he would divine my presence through psychic intuition. The whole ESP between couples thing. We did have a close call, though—he walked right by me on his way to the bathroom. For the most part, I survived watching sexy women wearing almost nothing bend over and show him their backsides, but it didn’t help that every five minutes or so, a stripper would ask me if I wanted a “private dance” myself. Or that when I retreated to the ladies’ room, which doubles as the strippers’ dressing room, two matrons with hefty ham-sized arms shooed me out. “Oh, no, you don’t, mister! You don’t belong here!”

  “You don’t understand—I’m a girl!” I pleaded.

  “Well … what do you know?” they asked, chuckling.

  “You look like Pat,” one of them said. “On Saturday Night Live?”

  A week later I broke the news to him. “You were the weird Chinese pervert with the goatee?” he asks, roaring with laughter. “Oh, my God! That’s hilarious! We kept sending girls over to you to give you a lap dance! At one point we would have paid for one! That guy looked so creepy! That was you?”

  I wrote the story, and it was published in May. Then the media maelstrom happened. Our phone began ringing off the hook. Good Morning America wanted us. “Diane loved the story,” the producer cooed (as in Sawyer!). I did radio interviews for stations as far away as North Carolina. Inside Edition wanted to make us the “headline feature” for a story. But I was hesitant about it—wasn’t that some sort of tabloid show? But this was during my two-week get-famous stint for Marie Claire, so I said yes to every opportunity that would lead to some kind of public display.

  The television crew took over our apartment. (Neighbors asked if we were shooting a movie, or maybe an episode of Blind Date.) The producer of the segment advised us to say “strippers” a lot in the interview. I was apprehensive, but figured no one I knew watched Inside Edition. It was broadcast at twelve noon, when my friends and colleagues were at work, or at one A.M., when they were asleep.

  I was so wrong.

  Mike’s family spotted us on TV at the hospital—they had just checked in Grandma, who had had an accident. Apparently they were all in the waiting room when Inside Edition blared “Bride disguised as a man crashes bachelor party!” and the zooming graphics revealed Mike and me, looking sweaty under the klieg lights. Then they ran a photo of me dressed as a man next to a photograph of Judge Ito. They were in shock and hysterics. (Luckily, no one had to pull the shock paddles out and scream, “Clear!” for Grandma.)

  Inside Edition, we soon learned, had a huge following. Mike’s boss caught it. My cousins in Los Angeles, Toronto, and Chicago saw it. So did many of my fashionista friends in New York. We couldn’t live it down. I even acquired the nickname “Undercover Bachelor.”

  The story has even made me an international phenomenon. Weeks later, an Australian publicity agent called. The story had been published in a magazine Down Under and had caused quite a stir. Would I be interested in telling my story via satellite?

  Of course I said yes.

  THE SHIRT OFF MY BACK

  TimeOut New York magazine was doing their annual naked issue and they asked me to roam the streets topless for a day—just to see what would happen. Going topless, which is defined by New York City law as baring the breast from the areola down, is technically illegal in New York. There are, however, some loopholes around the rule—when it’s for entertainment purposes or a part of a protest.

  The assignment could have landed me in jail. Most of my friends told me not to do it.

  But I’m not one to back down from a challenge. I have to admit, a part of me liked the fact that the editor called me because she thought I was just outrageous and daring enough to do it. I thought the mission, while embarrassing and risqué, would be a hoot, a practical joke. No one would take it seriously, I rationalized when I agreed to write the piece. Furthermore, breasts are nothing more than skin. How scandalous and horrible could being topless on Eighth Avenue be?

  On D-day (or B-day, I should say), I began on Central Park’s grass beach, sunbathing without my shirt. Two other women were doing the same, and no one batted an eye. Feeling disappointed, I actually stood up to toss a Frisbee with a friend. This garnered massive attention. Before I had a chance to return to my horizontal position, I received a round of applause from a group of frat-boy types. One of them came over and asked me if I wanted to hang out with him and his buds. At that point, I slipped my tube top up my torso and packed up my stuff to go.

  “Suddenly shy?” he asked.

  “Only with you,” I replied.

  I felt like such a piece of meat. (I know, I know—I was half-naked, but still …) Next, I made my way downtown to the Christopher Street pier, an area usually rich with drag queens. A well-built transsexual told me I had cute little “teats.” A butchy lesbian asked me if I was making a political stand for equal rights (men can go shirtless but women can’t?). And I spotted a young mother shielding her toddler’s eyes from my appearance, as if there were something horribly awry with my body (“I am not an animal,” I wanted to say, but I refrained). I was making a scene. And I felt proud … until a grandmother waved her finger at me and told me my display was disgusting. I apologized and covered up immediately.

  The article, accompanied by a photo of me holding a magazine over my chest area, ran the following week. And was I wrong, thinking that no one would see it! My phone rang off the hook. My friends cracked up. “Only you!” they laughed lovingly. My friends’ parents even called me.

  Days—even weeks—later, the comments didn’t stop. (My dry cleaner even mentioned it!) But instead of people saying, “You’re so funny,” they started scolding, “I can’t believe you did that,” or “Not the smartest move.” I took a step back to think about things. Here I was, a journalist, trying to build a solid reputation for good work…. Who would take me seriously after reading a story about my parading around town, exposing myself, doing something illegal?

  The negative comments didn’t go away. In fact, they got worse. A month after the incident, they kept on coming. I started to regret having done the story. Especially when a high-powered colleague called me and told me that everyone in her office saw it and decided my image was too wild and that they didn’t want to work with me—for at least a little while.

  I couldn’t beli
eve it. They didn’t want to work with me! Me? Wild? I didn’t even drink, I told her. I may have the guts to be naked in public, but I’m wholesome at heart! But the truth didn’t matter. What did was the fact that I was suddenly infamous. I was devastated. I cried my eyes out for hours. When I was first approached with the story, I got so excited to do something crazy, something that would get me recognized, that I totally lost sight of myself and my real goals. My harmless hoax backfired.

  It’s like eating a piece (or ten pieces!) of cake when you’re on a diet. You go for that second of pleasure, and afterward you’re left with a few extra pounds on your body that take weeks—even months—to work off. As awful as the backlash of my breast exposure was, my posthumiliation circumstances were actually blessings in disguise. I was forced to decide how I wanted to be known—as the crazy exhibitionist (and damn proud of it) or as a serious writer (who’s not as much fun). I am going for option B … but not until I write about my experiences at a tantra workshop!

  NOTORIOUS!

  One of the fastest ways to fame is infamy and making a spectacle of yourself. Being an outrageous person often leads to instant celebrity status. Be warned: A little infamy is dangerous. People won’t likely forget the stunts you pulled anytime soon. If that doesn’t bother you, here are some things to try:

  • Stand on street corners singing and dancing, wearing nothing but underwear, cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat. A guy known as the Naked Cowboy does this near Times Square in New York, and he landed a movie deal.

  • Publicly picket random, inconsequential things you don’t agree with. Do this at coffee shops, parks, and while you’re doing errands. After a while, people will get so used to your shenanigans that they may even go as you for Halloween. Come on. You’re not really famous until you’re a Halloween costume, after all.

  • Consistently go out dressed to the hilt, with toilet paper hanging out of your pants. It will get you loads of looks and attention. Just act surprised when people tell you about the faux pas, remove the TP, and put it back when you round the corner.

  • Don’t be afraid to indulge in a little insider trading. You might wind up in jail, but you’ll get your heyday in the papers before they cart you off.

  BUSY, BUSY BEES

  “NOW I KNOW WHY BENJAMIN DUMPED JULIA.”

  During my two-week fame fling for Marie Claire, everything about my beloved homebody ways had to change. To be famous, you have to go out around the clock. It’s important to be seen. It makes you come off as popular if everyone invites you everywhere. As a journalist, I get invited to tons of parties. Publicists and event planners want writers at their galas in order to try to get press in magazines. But I typically don’t RSVP to many things. Mostly because I like to hit the sack by ten-thirty P.M. (I’m no good on less than eight hours of sleep.)

  All of that had to be different if I was to successfully elevate my profile. I booked—and double-booked—my calendar solid and forced myself to navigate the nightlife with Clint Eastwoodian skill. My first night, I went to a much-publicized dinner at the Hudson Hotel, a chic midtown hotel owned by Ian Schrager, the guy who brought us Studio 54. I finagled my way onto the guest list through a friend, who was working the door. I didn’t know a soul in the room—except for an emerging R&B singer named Kelis, whom I had interviewed the previous year for British In Style magazine. Although she was engaged in what appeared to be a serious conversation with supermodel Heidi Klum, I had to approach her and say hello. It was either that or continue fidgeting by the bar, which would bring me no fame to speak of. Both women were as friendly as can be, and they informed me of a party for some film premiere. I found out where it was and made a beeline for the bash.

  I figured, if I arrived early, I’d have no problem getting in. When I showed up at the club, the doorperson didn’t seem anxious to grant me an entrance. I kept telling her I was on the list. I dropped whatever name I could think of. “Just get Katy. She’ll tell you.” And just as I was about to leave in defeat, a random guy with a British accent and a shaggy ‘do came to my rescue. “You can let her in. She’s with me,” he said, flashing a gleaming invitation. Apparently he saw me chatting with Kelis and Heidi and assumed I was “one of them.” I walked across the room diagonally, a tip I once heard Donald Trump mention in an interview, and said hello to anyone I made eye contact with. By my third catwalk, the Brit asked me to go with him to a birthday party for some major film producer at Lot 61, a groovy club nearby.

  Film producer! I thought. This was my chance to get discovered. I went to the party with him and held my own at a table of agents and managers. It all seemed so fabulous. And while no one offered me a movie deal, I was dragged to an after-hours event at an underground club where I had to ask for the rabbi to get in. It was wild—dancing on tables, live music, and a room in the back where people were being very badly behaved.

  My whole week was like that. I hit a Burberry party to launch the baby beauty product line, two restaurant openings, the film premiere for the new Stephen Dorff film, dozens of things for the Tribeca Film Festival, a store opening for Ferragamo, some kind of charity event for Robert Kennedy, Jr., a cocktail party at Bendel’s to launch a clothing line, and a birthday affair for an upcoming hotelier in Las Vegas (that lasted twenty-four hours!). I used my press credentials to guide me as I jockeyed two to three parties a night.

  During the day, life was no calmer. I fielded calls from publicists and event planners, all of whom wanted me to show up to their parties. I scheduled two or three lunch meetings a day with clothing designers, store owners, restaurateurs—all of whom had heard of me through friends of friends or industry people who had heard about the fame game. I didn’t have to worry about gaining weight, as I didn’t really eat, even though I really wanted to. Instead I just pushed the food around my plate, the way most waifish stars do.

  It was mayhem. I was losing my mind (and killing my feet). I hadn’t talked to my two best friends in days. My parents were wondering if I was dead or alive (I didn’t have a second to return their calls). And I had bags under my eyes the size of Samsonites. But I was excited, too. I felt wanted, needed, desired, and famous! Until my (then) boyfriend bitched, “You know how celebrities are so caught up in themselves? Well, that is what’s happening to you. Now I know why Benjamin (Bratt) dumped Julia (Roberts).” Ouch. Had I let things go to my head? I wasn’t sure, but it was nine P.M. and I was late to the dinner party that I was hosting! I had no time to discuss!

  IT’S MY PARTY?

  Once we inked our book deal (this one), Karen and I thought it would be a great idea to throw ourselves a smashing event to celebrate the occasion. We decided to work with Full Picture PR, the event-planning firm that specialized in outrageous, over-the-top extravaganzas, like the Victoria’s Secret runway show. They helped us make one of the most important decisions—the date when the party was to be held. November 25.

  “Does that work for you?” they asked. Karen and I nodded. It was late September, and November 25 would give us enough time to secure space, sponsors, and a press plan for promoting our party.

  I was so excited about the party—and all the attendant details—I rushed home and spilled the news to my husband. “And we’re inviting a thousand people … and tons of models … and all these places want us to have it there … and everything’s for free! And there’ll be buckets of champagne … and Karen and I will get couture gowns to wear … and—”

  “When is it?” Mike asked.

  “November twenty-fifth.”

  “November twenty-fifth?” he asked incredulously.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s my birthday!”

  Oh, no. In all my excitement, I had completely forgotten the importance of that date. My husband’s birthday. And it was too

  PADDING YOUR SOCIAL CALENDAR

  A vital aspect of your new image is that you’re busy. Very, very busy. Your social calendar must be packed at all times. It doesn’t matter if “I’m booked” means a
night of Must-see TV and take-out Chinese with your cat. The busier you seem, the busier you will become. Here’s how to pull off the busy routine:

  • Book your schedule a week to three weeks in advance.

  • When people ask to make plans, never commit, and put them off for at least a week. People want what they can’t have, and if you’re busy, people will make time for you.

  • Attend every event you’ve been invited to when you’re new to the scene. However, once you make a name for yourself and become recognizable—pick and choose your events carefully. You don’t want to develop a reputation as a social slut, one of those party perennials who’ll attend the opening of an envelope.

  • It’s all about spin—if you’re going to the movies, say you’re attending a screening; if someone asks you to bring music to a party, say you’re the DJ; and if you’re throwing a party for an artistic-minded friend, say you’re hosting a benefit as a patron of the arts.

  late to change because it was the only date in November that worked for everybody, since the month of October was out of the question (early October was too soon, and late October meant we’d be competing with all the Halloween parties), and Full Picture was planning the Victoria’s Secret show on November 14 (and they wanted at least a week between that and our event), and we couldn’t move it to November 26 because Karen was leaving for Florida for Thanksgiving that day. And we couldn’t have it in December because, well, we were planning to write about it in our book and our manuscript was due December 1.

  “I can’t believe you’re going to have your book party … on my birthday,” he said to me in disgust.

  One day, I know he’ll forgive me. I hope.