How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less Read online

  It seems Cat’s Meow writer Melissa de la Cruz couldn’t be getting more fashion attention lately if she turned up to a bar mitzvah in a bacon bikini. She chewed up the It girls bash in a slinky Alvin Valley outfit, and was noted in the New York Post’s Page Six as giving style tips to Mark McGrath and Suzanne Vega at the Volvo party the night before. God knows they need it.

  I called Ben immediately. “I love it!” I gushed. By “Chic Happens” standards, it was a total wet kiss. I felt duly honored.

  The next week, however, the worm had turned. I clicked on the latest installment of “Chic Happens” to find with satisfaction that my dinner party at Orsay had merited the lead. I was on a roll! Scrolling down, however, I began to feel impending doom and dread. Instead of being another PR coup, the column mocked my inability to stay inside my low-cut designer blouse, and worse, loudly trumpeted an embarrassing scandal from my past!

  CRUZ CONTROL

  Novelist and fashion writer Melissa de la Cruz was having trouble with her double-sided breast tape this week at a dinner at upper-crust uptown restaurant Orsay, hosted by New York Post columnist Jared Paul Stern. But it wasn’t just cleavage that was revealed over steak frites and chardonnay. De la Cruz is writing an article in Marie Claire magazine about how to become famous in two weeks. However, it’s not the first time the Filipina import has made a grab for the limelight. De la Cruz has previously passed herself off in New York as the niece of former Philippines first lady Imelda Marcos—a claim that holds about as much water as a porcupine’s condom. The Six Degrees of Separation scam caught up with her at a table that included writers and editors for the New York Observer, Daily News, as well as New York and Hamptons magazines. No word on whether she really is Halle Berry’s twin sister.

  When I first moved to New York, as a gawky eighteen-year-old from South San Francisco (which was famous for its Hollywood-like sign on its tallest hill: South San Francisco: The Industrial City), I was immediately intimidated by my sophisticated and cosmopolitan peers at Columbia University. It seemed everyone I met had gone to prep school with a Kennedy, was Audrey Hepburn’s goddaughter, had an uncle who executive-produced The Godfather or a mom who had hung out with Jack Kerouac. It was my first brush with the East Coast establishment. Next to these well-connected sophisticates, I felt like a geek all over again. And this was college, the great equalizer, or so I was told.

  I desperately wanted to appear as soigné as everyone else. But I had no clue as to how. It happened on a whim—someone was telling a story that mentioned Imelda Marcos, and I suddenly blurted out that I was her niece. That captured their attention. Everyone wanted to know inside details on the coup, the palace, whether “we” still had our millions. I was able to spin a clever tale from remembered news reports and my own imagination. The story grew to campus-wide proportions, especially after I accepted a call from my “aunt” during my crowded birthday party in my dormitory suite. I was suddenly as popular as the girl in our class who had starred in Uncle Buck with John Candy.

  Years later, I was still dining out on the story that I was indeed, related to the world’s most famous shoe shopper. During my dinner party at Orsay, I had laughingly confessed to Ben the truth as we lingered over drinks at the end of the evening. I never dreamed he would tell the world! And now it was staring me in the face. I was outed as a faux Marcos! A crass, social-climbing liar! No better than Andrew Cunanan, Versace’s killer, who used to tell people he was related to Corazon Aquino!

  I called Ben in desperation. “You’ve got to take it down!” I begged.

  “Mel,” he barked, “it’s ‘Chic Happens’; if you’re going to be in the column, we’ve got to go a little rough on you. It’s not personal! I think it’s hilarious!”

  All week long I fielded amazed calls and e-mails from friends who were still under the impression I was Filipino royalty, asking if the item was true. If only I had a publicist who could have smoothed over the whole thing—a bulldog who could call a press conference and deny, deny, deny! I badly needed a spinmeister who could lump me into the category of “good liars” such as David Geffen, who famously faked a UCLA diploma to get a job at William Morris, instead of being seen as a “bad liar”—on par with David “Rockefeller,” the French swindler who passed himself off as a great-grandson of J. D.

  But all I had was time, which was luckily on my side. By the next week, the flame-out of my faux pas faded into history as “Chic Happens” gleefully reported that Naomi Campbell was back in rehab.

  THE PUBLICIST’S JOB REQUIREMENTS

  • Deliver press hits. They should splatter your name and face all over magazines, newspapers, respected Web sites, and television screens. If they’re savvy, they’ll be on top of who’s editing or producing which segment or section, and be familar with every major writer and their territory to know exactly how to successfully “pitch” you—and your brand—to the media network.

  • They’ll keep embarrassing details of your life out of the gossip columns, like the amount of money you’re getting in a divorce settlement, scandalous affairs, and drunken incidents you’d rather not discuss. If it’s impossible for them to completely cover up your flubs, at the very least publicists should be able to “spin” your ordeals in a positive manner. (Perfect examples: “She’s not going to jail. She’s taking time off to give back to society,” and “He’s not in rehab. He’s resting.”)

  • Publicists are good fibbers, exaggerators, manipulators, and protectors. They can make you seem more important—and desirable—than you really are. Once you reach the limelight and suddenly can’t even go out to dinner with your brother without people talking about the new guy you’re sleeping with, publicists will manage damage control (i.e., they’ll get you secret entrances to public venues, shoo away the paparazzi, and make journalists print retractions to the news, especially when it leaks that you were once involved in the “adult film industry”).

  TABLE MANNERS

  WHO’S THAT GIRL AND WHY IS SHE AT OUR TABLE?

  I didn’t want to go to Vegas. No way. No how. I had just returned from a weeklong fast at We Care, a colonic farm and holistic detox spa in Desert Hot Springs, California, and in my newly Zen state of body and mind, the last place I wanted to be was a smoke-filled environment where addictions and silicone were considered assets. But there was a Bruce Springsteen concert and a weekend of celebrity events, sponsored by the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino. I knew that if I went, I’d leave with tons of stories to write about. But I didn’t want all the hard work I had just done, cleansing my body, mind, and soul—the wonders of a week’s worth of colonics and consuming only juices—to go to pot. I’d surely succumb to French fries at four A.M., donate the little extra cash I had to blackjack dealers, and suffer through sleepless nights.

  I kept saying no, but the publicist who was producing the parties pressured me … so much so that she bought me a ticket! “Now you have no choice,” she sniffed, tucking her cell phone into her Louis Vuitton bag. “Besides, you just had a high-profile birthday party. You need to be seen at these type of events.”

  The night of the concert, there was a posh dinner party at Nobu, the Japanese restaurant owned by Robert De Niro. A dozen television crews waited to pounce on the celebs—Mark Wahlberg, Leonardo DiCaprio, Cindy Crawford, Lara Flynn Boyle—who showed up for the pre-Bruce bash. I got to dinner early in order to secure a good seat. When I walked in, however, the tables were empty … except for one. Christina Applegate, her gorgeous husband Johnathon Schaech, and Robert Downey Jr., whom I’ve had a crush on since I was fourteen, were schmoozing over edamame beans. I had two choices: sit with them or set up shop at an empty table, like the loser in sixth grade who has no one to eat with at the cafeteria.

  I took a deep breath, prepping myself to approach and take a seat. “Do you mind if I sit here?” I asked sheepishly as I pointed to a chair. Robert extended his hand to introduce himself and Johnathon passed the seared-tuna salad my way. Although I knew that they were normal people,
no different from you and me, I couldn’t help but feel intimidated. Just as I was thinking, I’m the only nonceleb at a table, Juliette Lewis and Rose McGowan joined us. I was dying as they talked about the movies they were doing and their film-festival circuit. What did I have to contribute? I stressed. I was in no movie. I had no TV deal. I was no one! I remained silent. Suddenly my PR hero, who was planning the party, came to my rescue. “Do you all know Karen?” she asked. “She is the best writer on the planet.” With that, the conversations began to flow.

  What do you write? they wanted to know. “Don’t worry, not celebrity gossip,” I joked. “Good,” they said, relieved. Johnathon and I bonded over our blackjack winnings earlier in the day (we both took in $500!). Rose joined in and told me that I reminded her of one of her friends. Christina and I chatted about her amazing red knee-high boots—and a pair of shoes we both coveted for fall. When the temperature in the room dropped and I began to shiver from the chill in the air, Robert got up and in one swift motion removed his brown Hugo Boss trench coat from behind his chair and placed it over my shoulders. (I actually used the bathroom to call a friend to tell her that I was wearing Robert Downey, Jr.’s jacket! She told me to check the pockets for junk. For the record, there was none.) In the rest room, I bumped into someone I went to high school with and she said, “I thought that was you! My God! What are you doing at that table?”

  “I have no clue. It’s so surreal,” I said.

  “Well, you look like you belong there,” she complimented.

  I felt like I was no longer an outsider, at least for a short while. We all traveled to the concert together and sat near one another. We even exchanged friendly hugs. And the paparazzi snapped away, getting close-ups of all of us. I remember specifically posing for one shot with Johnathon, Christina, and Juliette.

  The next week, it ran in the pages of People and Us magazines … without a hint of my existence! I didn’t even get a “with friend” or “gal pal” credit. I was just plain-old cut! The curls of my hair were airbrushed right out of the shot!

  I guess I was an outsider, after all.

  Ask Not What You Can Do for Your Publicist; Ask What Your Publicist Can Do for You

  HERE’S WHAT TO REQUEST

  • A press plan, a formal detailed strategy for securing your press coverage.

  • A party. A publicist will often double as a party planner. Having a party for yourself is a savvy move, whether it’s your sweet sixteenth, tenth annual twenty-first birthday, or even an intimate dinner to celebrate the opening of your back porch. Your publicist should be able to canvass corporate sponsorships (from Moet & Chandon to Adidas), create dazzling invitations, and cull the appropriate guest list.

  • Introductions to other publicists, celebrities, or pseudo-celebs, who will, in turn, recognize your celebrity and contribute to your growing profile. Consider such intros as your foray into the A-list circle and remember: you’re only as good as the least famous person around you.

  • Invitations to the most prohibitive, hard-to-get-into parties. One famous film director is notorious for having fired his publicist when she was unable to get her client into the Vanity Fair Oscar party in LA.

  • Around-the-clock flattery on demand. Your publicist is your head cheerleader. When you’re feeling depressed or—even worse—anonymous, one call to your publicist and you’ll be reminded just how fabulous and famous you are.

  • Media coaching. You should be trained to handle interviews without degenerating into a Farrah Fawcett-like abyss. She was slaughtered by the media after a painful interview, where she seemed high, out of it, and incoherent on David Letterman.

  • A surrogate mommy. Your publicist should feel your pain. When you feel sick, she’s the one who throws up. She should kiss all of your boo-boos good-bye, carry your umbrella when it rains, and hold a personal grudge against anyone who’s ever crossed you.

  TRUE LIES

  FRONT-ROW PERENNIAL

  Twice a year, the circus comes town, setting up big white tents, parading beautiful girls in spangled costumes, and executing death-defying acts of courage and bravado. I am talking, of course, about Fashion Week. Seven heady days of air-kissing, champagne-sipping, and goodie-bag-stealing adventures; blindingly fabulous runway shows; boutique launch parties; and a riot of multiple diva acts. It’s a time when celebrities as diverse as Tori Spelling, Rudy Giuliani, and Lil’ Kim band together in the name of style. But the most important thing to remember about Fashion Week is that it’s not who you are; it’s where you sit that matters.

  Typically, the front row is reserved for those occupying the highest echelon of fashion—New York socialites, Hollywood actresses, the editors-in-chief of Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, W, and Elle, powerful buyers from Bloomingdale’s, Barney’s, and Saks Fifth Avenue. Applying the trickle-down theory, a front-row seat is a sign that one is a true fashion heavyweight; the second row is reserved for those one notch below on magazine mastheads; while junior editors and correspondents from small regional publications occupy the third to fifth rows.

  Several years ago, as an aspiring fashion scribbler for a small independent Web site, whatever invitations I received to the fashion shows arrived with the lowest seat assignment possible: “Standing.” Which meant, of course, that I didn’t even merit a seat of my own. Standing? I was incensed. How could this be? All right, so maybe our subscriber base would never come close to matching the numbers put up by Condé Nast style bibles, but we did count a rabid and devoted following of several thousand fashion freaks. A standing ticket is much like flying standby: there was a chance I would never even be able to get inside to see the shows, much less report on them. On the very rare chance that I was actually given a seat, it was usually one in the nosebleed section, reserved for eager, underage FIT students and the designer’s relatives from Columbus, Ohio. I might as well have stayed at home and watched the shows on cable!

  There is one benefit of a “standing” ticket. A few minutes before the show is about to begin, any empty seats in front or elsewhere are up for grabs. If one is aggressive (and shameless) enough, and blessed with a sharp left hook that can be played off with the polite utterance of “Pardon me,” a front-row seat can still be had. This free-for-all is similar to the depraved sight of pigeons fighting over scraps of bread. Only the truly obnoxious survive.

  I was a hardened veteran of the Front-Row-Seat Dash, but felt it would look unseemly this time around. I had convinced a reporter from a local paper to write a profile on me as part of her publication’s fashion coverage that week. Her assignment was to accompany me to a fashion show so she could observe me, the fashion editor of the “leading independent fashion Web site,” in my element. If she saw me waiting on the standing line, seated in the back rows, or indelicately scrambling for a front-row seat, she would undoubtedly ascertain my diminished status, call her editor, and spike the story. But first she would laugh—long and hard. I had to find a way to fake A-list fashionistadom somehow.

  Rumor had it that the hottest show of the season was Benjamin Cho’s, an up-and-coming Asian designer who made sexy dresses out of crocheted horsehair and counted Jennifer Lopez and Claire Danes among his fans. There was a serious buzz about Benjamin, and it was the show everyone in the fashion set looked forward to all week. I needed to be there, front row and center. I faxed Benjamin’s publicist the following hoity-toity statement and crossed my fingers: Melissa de la Cruz is the senior fashion editor of the leading independent fashion journal on-line. She is being profiled in a very important newspaper during Fashion Week. This is a request for a front-row seat at your show. Please let us know if you will accommodate Ms. de la Cruz.

  After receiving the fax, Benjamin’s publicist then called my “publicist” (a.k.a. me). I told her about the lavish two-page spread about “Melissa” that was going to run. After much prevaricating on my part about my own importance, she reluctantly agreed to put me in the front row.

  The night of the show, I arrived an hour and
a half late. The place was packed. When I checked in at the reception desk and gave them my name, the publicist stood up, placed two quick kisses on my cheek, and said, “Oh, my god! Thank God you’re here! Now we can start!” She escorted me to the very first row, where an empty seat awaited me. It was obvious she had kept my seat vacated at a very steep price—the standing and backroom crowd shot me daggers as I sat down.

  Once ensconced, I fully enjoyed the unobstructed view to the runway. I was two seats down from Claire Danes and Chloë Sevigny, and a hairbreath away from Kate Betts, who was the editor-in-chief of Harper’s Bazaar at the time. I blew kisses to assorted colleagues and fashion editors of my acquaintance who were madly waving and trying to get my attention. Because of the spectacle my entrance had caused, paparazzi came by and snapped my photograph. I had died and gone to fashion heaven. The reporter assigned to write about me was seriously impressed.

  The next day I attended another fashion show, fully prepared to journey up the bleachers with the riffraff for my back-row seat. I presented my ticket to the gatekeeper. “Oh! Melissa de la Cruz! Follow me, please.” She smiled broadly and escorted me to a front-row perch. Good news travels fast in the fashion world.

  FRIENDS FOR HIRE

  Radu is the ultimate trainer to the stars. He’s gotten J. Lo in shape, kicked Cindy Crawford’s butt, and tortured many a celebrity. He charges $150 per hour, and there’s a year’s wait list for the hot time slot between six A.M. to nine A.M. (when all of his power people train). In the name of hip slimming and inner-thigh trimming, I wanted him to whip my bod into shape. But when I contacted his gym, a posh setup on Fifty-seventh Street, I was rebuffed. There was no way Radu could fit me in, and no amount of pleading and explaining my awful predicament (that I had gained a few pounds and my clothes were getting tight) worked. I became obsessed with working out with him. Maybe it was because I couldn’t have him, but I began to truly believe that I’d never be thin without Radu’s help.