How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Every week, I eagerly looked forward to checking my Amazon ranking to see if anyone had chosen to review my book. In the first weeks of the book’s release I garnered ten awesome reviews—all of them had given the book four or five stars! I was on a roll and feeling smug about my success.

  Until the day I clicked on the Web site to find that a reader had given me one star—the lowest rating available on the Amazon system! The reader called it a “complete waste of paper” and wished that “zero stars were possible.”

  Ouch! That hurt! Who was this wretched reader? Why had he or she bothered to buy my book in the first place, let alone review it? How much spite could a poor, innocent author deserve? There it was, out in public—for anyone to see—someone calling my book absolute trash. It was a kick in the gut, a slap in the face, as if something you had so carefully nurtured with love and care was suddenly stomped on violently. Without further ado, I quickly penned a rebuttal, saying it had a “wicked sense of humor” and had the makings of a “cult hit.”

  So there! I thought.

  A few months later, I received another bad review that threw it “three barely flickering stars” and called my protagonist “positively annoying” and from a “useless margin of humanity.”

  Three barely flickering stars?? Hello? Useless margin of humanity? Yikes! I guess next to Saddam Hussein, over-the-top fashionistas were the spawn of Satan. I resigned myself to living with it. But a few months later, it started to grate on my nerves that this dismal review was the first one displayed every time I checked my Amazon ranking. Once again, I decided to take matters into my own hands. This time I would impersonate one of my loyal constituents—a flamboyantly gay man. I even gave him a name, “Ignatius Adricula”—he would be Filipino, like me! “Ignatius” thought my novel “wicked,” “lovable,” and “charming.”

  Yeah for “Ignatius”!

  A few months later I received another lukewarm (three-star) review and a blistering (one-star) one. Apparently, Chinese baby-adoption jokes don’t go over well with a certain segment of the book-buying populace. This time, however, I was too exhausted to combat their ill will with my forced cheerleading. I could only call my own book “wicked and hilarious” for so long. I gave it a rest, and I haven’t checked my Amazon ranking since. (Not true! At the latest count I clocked in at 6,195.)

  WHO NEEDS A FAN CLUB WHEN YOU HAVE FRIENDS?

  I had a very important date one breezy winter night in 2001. It was a blind date, and I felt a lot of pressure to impress him. He—we’ll call him Alec—was one of the fabulous beautiful people—a DJ, video music producer, and artist—and I wanted him to think I was fabulous, too. I pulled my trump card—my biggest fan, who is also known as my ballsy, go-up-to-anyone-and-say-anything friend Katy.

  Before I stepped out in my zebra-print skirt and black knee-high Marc Jacobs boots, Katy and I mapped out a plan. Her mission: to approach me as an admirer who loves my work. The goal: to make me look goooood. I wanted to rehearse, but Katy promised she’d be better if she improvised. “It’ll seem too forced otherwise,” she said. “Trust me.” I did—trust her, that is—though I had to admit, I was a little nervous. One false move and I’d wind up looking like the biggest heel in Manhattan!

  At Canteen, a chic boîte in Soho, Alec and I fidgeted through idle, get-to-know-you conversations about where we were from and what we did. It was somewhat awkward, as all first meetings are, and as my glass of wine started to take its mellowing effect on my mind, Katy burst on the scene.

  “Karen!” she exclaimed, “Karen Robinovitz! Is that you?” My skin got hot. I was sure I was bright red. I probably would have been just as embarrassed if the scenario weren’t premeditated. She was yelling! “Oh-my-God. I thought that was you. You look so good,” she gushed. “God, I haven’t seen you since you introduced me to Sarah Jessica Parker.” It was true—I did introduce her to Sarah Jessica Parker … in a roundabout way. The previous year I helped cast a story for Marie Claire where I found three single women to go out with SJP, who spent a night on the town, trying to fix the girls up with eligible men.

  “Oh, that’s right. But anyway, how are you?” I said, tucking my hair behind my ears, trying to downplay that angle.

  “Forget me. It’s all about you,” she continued. “You’re everywhere. I see your articles in every magazine. You’re so fabulous. And I love your hair. Did you darken it? It looks beautiful. You are such a rock star.”

  I smiled and thanked her. But I wanted her to stick a sock in it! I was mortified. It seemed so fake, so forced. (Duh!) “Well, this is Alec,” I said, introducing her to my date.

  “Alec, I hope you know how lucky you are. Karen is such a keeper,” she said. And with that, she gave me a pretentious kiss on both cheeks and said, “I’ll have my assistant call your assistant so we can rendezvous.”

  I never saw Alec again.

  CHEERING SQUAD

  Jared Paul Stern, a nightlife columnist for the New York Post, a Page Six contributor, and an all-around swell guy, was sympathetic to my “fame” assignment and had offered his help. Jared and I had been friendly acquaintances for years, as we both started out in our careers by writing for the same edgy downtown newspaper, covering the trendy-people beat. After a few days of pestering, he agreed to have dinner with me at Meet, a hot new downtown boîte, and invited me to the Volvo Anniversary Party during Automotive Week—like Fashion Week, but for cars. (New Yorkers will celebrate the opening of a door.)

  The party was a blast—right in the middle of Times Square. Jon Stewart worked the crowd and Sugar Ray performed a private concert for the invited few, which drew a large crowd of fans who were able to watch it from beyond the police barricades on the sidewalk. I was enraptured. Mark McGrath is one of my favorite singers and there I was, standing two feet away from him! I even exchanged chitchat with two of my childhood heroes—Suzanne Vega, the arsty folk singer, and the New Wave band Modern English, who also performed a private concert (and their classic prom ditty “Melt with You”). At the end of the evening, after we had received our goody bags filled with crystal candleholders displaying the Volvo logo, we exited through the stage door, where a large group of Sugar Ray fans and assorted tourists were assembled.

  “Hold on!” Jared said. “I’ve got an idea—Mel, you go back inside.” I did as told. I waited for a few minutes, then wondered what Jared was up to. Tired of waiting, I exited through the doors once more. Once outside, I was greeted with a tremendous roar. “Omigod!!! There she is!!!! Oh, my God!!!!! It’s her!!!!!” There was cheering, yelling, and crying. Jared had whipped the crowd into a frenzy. He had asked them to affect mass hysteria in my name. I blushed. At first I was shocked, amazed, and slightly embarrassed. But as the cheering escalated, I found myself grinning. I began to wave madly to the crowd, and to blow fake kisses. It was exhilarating to have inspired such pandemonium. So this was what it felt like to be Madonna!

  Volvo’s publicist came out to see what all the ruckus was about. When he saw me acting like a star, he assumed I was somebody and invited us to a private after-party with Mark McGrath and company at their hotel suite. I was delighted! Jared’s plan had worked! But instead of heading for the hotel, I chose to schlep it homeward. I was tired. It was after midnight. I said my goodbyes to Jared (who also chose to hoof it home), and hiked three blocks in the rain in my stilettos before I found a cab. A proper star exit, all right.

  MVP, YEAH, YOU KNOW ME

  The Knicks are New York City’s darlings, the underdogs we always root for and adore, even when their defense sucks. Anyone can go to a game, but it’s not just anyone who can go front-row style. Floor seats are a $1600-a-pop commodity, reserved for the likes of Spike Lee and Woody Allen. And there are always free front-row seats for VVIPs (very, very important people). Those are typically given to the supermodel of the moment, a major star who’s in town (think Jack Nicholson status), or someone high up in life, like the mayor. I had never sat courtside, and unless I became really, really rich,
dated a big-time-celeb, or married a Knick, I never would. Until I made a fan in Miss U.S.A.

  After reading about my birthday party in the Post, the beauty queen’s publicist called me and asked if I’d like to attend a Knicks game, courtside, of course, with the Halle Berry look-alike. “I really want her to meet more people like you, and you’ll love her,” he said, referring to me as a “star on the rise” and “the one to know.” It was my first official fan call from someone who wasn’t related to me by blood. How could I say no to such kind words—and a close-up look at Sprewell, charging down center court?

  My ticket was awaiting me in an envelope at Madison Square Garden. And two men in suits escorted me to a private suite, where Candace Bergen was dining and model Karolina Kurkova was admiring her new basketball, signed by all the Knicks players. I grabbed some shrimp cocktail and waited for my date.

  Miss U.S.A., clad in Cavalli jeans and an off-the-shoulder top, entered the room with her publicist and marched right toward me. “You have to be Karen Robinovitz,” she sang. “I could tell. You have such a glow about you.” (Her publicist must have trained her well.)

  She introduced me to her friend Ananda Lewis, the former MTV VJ and current host of a morning talk show, and the three of us made our way down to the court.

  My seat was insane—so on the floor that I could feel the vibration of the bouncing ball and the thump of the size-fifty feet of the players as they bolted by. Paul Simon was sitting to my left. Chris Rock was across the way. Carrie Modine, wife of actor Matthew, was nearby, cheering her face off. It was better than I had imagined. The supermodels were two rows behind me. I sipped my Diet Coke (the courtside area is equipped with waitresses). I gave a nod to my front-row peers, as if we were all members of the same elite club. This was life in the famous lane, all right. After Angela Bassett’s publicist introduced me to a handsome New York Giant and an even more handsome actor from that show CSI, I realized I could never go back to being just another spectator sandwiched between sweaty, fat face-painters again. Yes, this world suited me just fine.

  I didn’t know what was more exciting—the fact that we were winning or that I had these famous-people-only seats and I kept catching the camera guy’s lens (turns out my face appeared on television; a friend called me the next day and asked if I was at the Knicks game, because she saw me on the tube). At the end of the game, a random person asked if she could take my photo with Miss U.S.A. and Ananda. One moment with two stars—and front-row seats at a Knicks game—and I had already cultivated a fan! “Will you three lovely famous women get together so I can take a picture?” she asked.

  She thanked us for our time. And then she asked me what I’d been doing since “that show, Blossom.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I wasn’t Mayim Bialik … or admit to myself that I had no real fan in my nonexistent club.

  FAN YOURSELF!

  WITHOUT FANS, YOU’RE NOTHING. HERE’S HOW YOU CAN CULTIVATE THEM

  • Bribe people (even strangers) to be your admirers, who will serve to prove your worthiness to the general public by approaching you with compliments.

  • Recruit family members and friends. Remind them that you’d do the same for them if they asked.

  • Send yourself flowers when you’re stationed in a busy place. Or before you arrive at a restaurant, call and send a bottle of champagne or an overwhelmingly indulgent dessert to yourself. When it arrives, pretend someone famous sent it to you.

  • What’s wrong with being your own fan? Start your own on-line fan club. Post fan letters, adoring slogans, and glowing reviews. Give this job to your assistant.

  • Get glossy photos of yourself (headshots!) and return them—via mail—with a form letter that says, Thank you for your support and being in touch. Lots of love! to anyone who contacts you.

  • Post photos and posters of yourself on lampposts, tree trunks, walls all over town, along with a slogan about your grandeur. It will make people familiar with your presence on the planet—and you will be recognized before you know it.

  Days 8–10:

  MANAGING THE PRESS MACHINE

  In your quest for fame, the press is your number one ally. Without magazines, ad campaigns, television, and radio, we might never hear about the important things in life, like when rap moguls get arrested for toting guns in nightclubs, Oscar nominees shoplift from major department stores, pretty young starlets come out of the closet, or when a very well-known actor cheats on his fiancée with his latest costar. Think of the press as the ultimate introducer, a way for your brand to meet the world.

  The second a magazine or newspaper declares someone “It,” everyone wants to know who it is and why. Talent agents pounce. Film deals pour in. And that person becomes “It.” Why? It creates a “buzz.” It gives you recognition, because being the subject—or a subject—of an article is the biggest affirmation of your rising status, proof that someone thinks you deserve praise. Fame is a media-driven industry, and if you ever want to work in this town again, you have to realize that the press is your conduit to an adoring public.

  You’re going to have to amass a large scrapbook of press clips, images of you in magazines, printed news reports on what you’re doing, who you’re doing it with, and how much it cost. The only problem with press is that it can make you so famous that you may want to hide from the media, rather than chase it. Love of the limelight can lead to danger, a life without privacy, a prison of gawkers. You have to learn to control the press so it does not control you. This chapter will give you the inside dirt on courting the press, the science of dissecting magazine mastheads, inside secrets of turning ordinary parties into media extravaganzas, and how to work the camera, get on television, and be in command of your public persona. Fame, after all, is nothing more than image.

  FULL-COURT PRESS

  WHY DON’T YOU THROW FOOD AT THE HILTON SISTERS?

  You’re not anybody in New York unless Village Voice scribe Michael Musto has written about you. Michael is the doyenne of downtown, the consummate arbiter of fame, the one who championed RuPaul into stardom and wrote about Madonna before anyone else did. (He even used to be in a band that opened for her.) Prior to the Marie Claire assignment, I had met Michael once a year before, when we were both invited to be featured in a panel discussion for a magazine feature on fame. My novel was about to be published, so I was asked by the writer at the last minute to fill in for a teenage socialite (Stella Schnabel, the painter Julien Schnabel’s daughter) who had dropped out, crying “homework” as her excuse.

  Meeting Michael was a dream come true. As former club kids, my friends and I used to shadow him at nightclubs like the Roxy, the Copacabana, and Amazon. (He and Isaac Mizrahi were our favorite targets in the early nineties.) I told him about my teenage obsession and we hit it off. He even provided a generous blurb for my book. So when Marie Claire came calling, he was the first person who came to mind.

  Michael is used to obsessive fans and wanna-bes vying for his attention—Courtney Love used to stalk him in her pre-Versace makeover days. “She used to ring my doorbell at odd hours in the morning—this was way before she had ever met Kurt Cobain; she was living in New York, and she wanted to be famous.” Fortunately for Michael, I didn’t know where he lives, so I resorted to e-mailing him every hour, to remind him of my existence and our burgeoning friendship. He finally agreed to meet me for lunch.

  To become famous in two weeks, Michael told me, I needed to do something scandalous—and make sure I was photographed doing it. He told me a famous story of Sylvia Miles, a seventies star and current Manhattan party animal, who made her name by assaulting a theater critic. “She dumped a plate of spaghetti on his head after he gave her a bad review. It was in all the papers—it made her. Everyone forgot about her acting. She became a star because of her personality!” We cackled over our crab cakes. “Hey,” he said, “why don’t you throw a plate of food at one of the Hilton sisters? And make sure Patrick McMullan is there to document it.�
� (The Hilton sisters are the pretty blond Hilton hotel heiresses, barely over twenty, that Page Six has labeled “the hot-blooded hotel heiresses.” And Patrick McMullan is New York’s most ubiquitous paparazzi machine.) It was a tempting plan, but I didn’t know if I wanted to cause that much pain—after all, the teenage siblings might faint at the sight of food!

  Michael dispensed some advice on seeking fame. “The public has to connect with you. Journalists like me, we can only hype things up so much—look at Matthew McConaughey; he was supposed to be the biggest star on the planet. Everyone wrote about him. But he never connected with the public. There’s a limit to how much influence the press has. We can certainly introduce—but we can’t sway the public. Ultimately, people make up their own minds.” I felt a little deflated. If I was going to be famous in two weeks, there wasn’t much time to cultivate an adoring public.

  “But that doesn’t mean you can’t do it,” he said. “Why don’t we concoct a story about how you’re the goddaughter of the Dalai Lama? That’ll get you attention!” Michael also told me that the people who are dying for attention in his column never get put in. “I never wrote about Courtney Love,” he admitted. I guess I adopted the wrong strategy.

  Michael’s a staunch ally nonetheless, and during my two weeks, he not only took me to some pretty fabulous parties, but also to the premiere of The Graduate, starring Kathleen Turner, Jason Biggs, and Alicia Silverstone. I had never sat so close to the stage before! The play was atrocious, but we got a great view of Jason’s abs and Kathleen in all her naked glory.