How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less

by Melissa de la Cruz

  I never did make it in his famous “La Dolce Musto” column. But a few months after the fame game ended, I opened an Ocean Drive magazine, where Michael also writes a column. I flipped to his page and yelped! A full-length picture of me from the Rookie premiere ran next to one of Ivana Trump! It was awesome! I was the lead item! I called Michael to thank him and realized an important lesson in fame. Don’t ask and you might receive.

  PRESSING ALL THE RIGHT BUTTONS

  HERE’S WHAT YOU SHOULD DO

  • Befriend gossip columnists, a nosy tribe of journalists who get off on scandals, the misfortunes of others, and badly behaved recovering child stars. They are the ones who bestow boldface status upon unknowns. When they write about you, whether they have something good or bad to say, it makes a statement that you are one to watch. Most gossip columnists live by cocktails and cigarettes, so finding out where they hang out and cozying up to them at a bar is a good start. The other way to their hearts is by providing them with gossip-worthy fodder. If you are privy to anything noteworthy, like spotting a married NBA player leaving the apartment of a woman who isn’t his wife (Karen used to see a former Knicks MVP come and go at odd hours of the morning and night from her neighbor’s apartment in her old building), call or e-mail the columnist immediately.

  • Learn who all of the party reporters are for your local pa-per(s) and publication(s). They can usually be spotted behind the velvet ropes and VIP doors of the best events, talking to hipsters, social mavens, politicos, business moguls. They report who’s going to events and what people have to say about them. Read their sections so you know the kinds of quotes they like to get. Craft one and go in for the approach. After being seen repeatedly, you’ll eventually work your way into this person’s favor.

  • Acquaint yourself with fashion and lifestyle editors, the cool hunters whose job it is to spot—and cover—the latest trends and emerging personalities for local newspapers and magazines. They are always looking for the next big thing for their pages, and it’s high time you captured their attention. Have your publicist fax them on letterhead to give them story ideas about you. Follow up once a week. Persistence is key. Even send flowers. Everyone responds well to gifts.

  • Contact music, book, film, and theater critics if you have something they can criticize. Send them free tickets to your shows, copies of your manuscripts, and whatever you can to grab their eyes. Of course, you can’t predict if you’ll get a good review, but, as a wise T-shirt slogan once said, “It’s better to be looked over than overlooked.”

  MEDIA MANIPULATION

  One of our friends used to be a junior features editor at a high-profile fashion magazine. She told us the following story about a certain striver who successfully sought a write-up in their publication.

  “I received this press kit for this young woman who had just designed some award-winning video game for girls. She had sent us her bio, as well as a glossy 8-by-10 picture of herself. She was quite attractive—blond, blue-eyed, the whole bit. It was obvious she knew her stuff. It was almost as though she knew my job was to fill in the front-of-the-book feature section, where we write up a hundred or so words on new up-and-comers. She was completely right—I was high enough on the masthead to green-light that kind of piece, but not so low to have no power at all. I have to admit, she was perfect for us, but I felt like she was such a media manipulator and kind of gross. I didn’t write her up. But a few months later, she sent the same kit to a colleague of mine who had the same job I did, and he responded favorably. She ended up in the magazine after all. Later, I heard she was even named ‘One of the Fifty Most Beautiful People’ by some downtown publication. She was a great self-promoter. I have to hand it to her, I wasn’t convinced by her, but there are others out there who were.”

  DISSECTING THE MASTHEAD

  Before you try your hand at networking, you need to know who to work. Below, we explain what the confusing titles on mastheads of magazines mean. This way, you’ll be able to figure out who to contact—and how to contact them.

  Editor-in-Chief: The head-honcho, the person who makes all of the final decisions. By all means, do not (we repeat: do not!) contact this person. He or she is way too busy handling real celebrities, magazine sales, and important people to have time pour vous.

  Deputy/Executive Editors: These people are right under the editor-in-chief in job status (and salary). While they’re often unapproachable, getting in with them is a surefire way to make sure your pitch is heard. They are down with all of the internal workings of the publication. They know what theme issues are coming up, where story holes are, and how to get the editor-in-chief to give the go-ahead on a project. Be warned: they rarely answer their own phones and they will probably take a few months to get back to you, if they do at all.

  Features Director: This person is in charge of pulling together all of the features that will be published in each issue. He or she makes sure the underlings (the senior features editors, features editors, and associate features editors) are doing their jobs, coming up with ideas. This person does not work with fashion or beauty, but rather, the rest of the meat of the magazine. They’re overseers, not necessarily the ones to talk to.

  Entertainment Editor: This person is way too busy, trying to convince Jennifer Aniston to be on the cover of the magazine to deal with you. EEs have cozy relations with the who’s-who of Hollywood, and their job is to get the stars in the magazine pages—and sometimes write about the stars. They are often socialites themselves or the offspring of someone famous. Warning: they can be hazardous to your self-esteem.

  Fashion Director/Fashion News Director: Fashion directors handle what clothes get in the pages of the publication, and they often do some styling. The fashion news director is the one who writes about fashion—up-and-coming designers, new stores, labels, and trends. If you’re an aspiring designer, send your samples and photos to these people; if you want to be a socialite or muse, you may be able to work your way into the magazine as a mannequin (they sometimes photograph “real” women instead of paid models).

  Beauty Director: This girl gets to try out all the new lipsticks, creams, and nail polish colors under the sun. She often gets free massages, haircuts, and spa visits. She covers all of the beauty-related trends and makes sure her underlings are doing the same. If you are an aspiring aesthetician, eyebrow waxer, or dermatologist, this is the department to hit.

  Associate Editors of Any Kind (Beauty, Fashion, Features, Entertainment): Associate editors work directly with senior editors and directors. They are often pitching the ideas and convincing their superiors of their value. They weed out the mail, pitches, press kits, and ideas for their bosses and decide which ones to push. They are not too big for their britches (yet), so they will have time to hear your pitch. This is your ticket. Send them your material and be kind. The nicer you are to them, the nicer they will be to you. Unfortunately, they don’t have any decision-making powers, but keep in touch with them. They are usually on their way up the masthead, and who knows? In three to five years, they may be directors. If you play your cards right, they’ll remember you.

  Editorial Assistants: They hand out mail, fold clothes, file, fax, and get coffee. They answer the phones for the bigwigs, but sadly, they can’t do a thing for you. Still, remain polite. Today’s editorial assistant is tomorrow’s associate editor.

  Who else can’t really help you:

  Bookings Editors: They book models. So don’t even bother with them unless you’re six feet tall, 110 pounds, and already repped by the Ford Agency.

  Art Directors: They’re in charge of what the magazine looks like—photographers and such.

  Market Editors: They go into the fashion market to pull clothes for photo shoots. Only bother with them if you’re a wannabe designer.

  Anyone on the Second Masthead Page That Deals with Ads and Promotions: Skip it. They have no editorial control … unless you become a big advertiser in the magazine. Come to think of it … that’s not a bad i
dea.

  Note: Befriending anyone at a magazine, even the copyeditors (those who check for dangling participles), is always smart. You never know who they’re friends with on the inside.

  THE MAIN EVENT

  CELEBRATE YOURSELF!

  “We are not labeling envelopes,” we declared, blanching at the sight of 850 invitations.

  It was the first sign that “fame” had finally gone to our heads. Two weeks before the Tattinger champagne, Alizé-cocktail enhanced, Marie Claire-sponsored extravaganza, complete with Krispy Kreme doughnuts and cotton candy from a restaurant called Aix, to celebrate this book, we pulled a diva act. “Can’t an intern do this?” we begged someone at Full Picture, the PR firm we convinced to produce our affair.

  The party’s guestlist provided a succinct snapshot of New York nightlife: “Columnist” (Page Six, Rush & Molloy, Intelligencer, Women’s Wear Daily), “Social” (Ann Dexter Jones, Alexandra Lind, Shoshana Lonstein), “Art Social” (Damien Loeb, Julian Schnabel, Ahn Duong), “Actor” (Sarah Jessica Parker, Parker Posey, Liev Schreiber), “Television” (George Whipple, Roshumba from Entertainment Tonight), and “Model” (Stephanie Seymour, Karen Elson, and Kylie Bax). So we thought ourselves superior to the mundane task of stuffing, labeling, sealing, stamping, and mailing their invitations. Weren’t we on their level?

  Planning the party began as something of a joke, a hoax, just to see how much we could get away with. No one has a book deal party, just a book launch party. So the entire thing was a bit self-indulgent, which, we rationalized, is just what celebrity is all about. Plus, the fastest way to get press for yourself is through a glittery event. So our goal was to do something as glittery—and obnoxious—as possible. (After all, we wanted to write about it in our book! In this very chapter!)

  Could we ride in on a horse, à la Bianca Jagger, circa 1978, Studio 54? “Heidi (Klum) did it last year,” yawned Ereka Dunn, our swan-necked point-girl at Full Picture. Apparently horses were passé. “You need a grand entrance that’s fresh,” Dunn said, suggesting we arrive by Vespa—nay—a fleet of Vespas, twenty Vespas—driven by male models! A Vespa motorcade! Eye candy and Italian scooters!

  Perfect. But we wanted more. If possible, a famous performer who would add luster to the whole enterprise. But who could we wrangle? As we contemplated, we got a random call from Steven Laitmon, Karen’s college friend, a music manager. He wanted Karen to write about Laura Branigan of eighties top 40 “Gloria” heyday, because the songstress was trying to make a comeback. “I have the perfect opportunity,” Karen yelled. “Our party!” We had just seen her on VH-1’s Behind the Music tearfully recounting her grand past.

  And just like that, Laura was in at no cost, as long as we got her a complimentary hotel room, designer outfit, and hair and makeup. No problem! By dropping Laura’s name during calls made to the Regent Wall Street Hotel, Alvin Valley, a designer known for the slim-cut pants worn by Gwyneth and Cameron, and Warren Tricomi, she was all set. When we mentioned our idea to Mr. Laitmon to round up the Vespas, he yelled, “My father is the marketing guy behind the brand!”

  Now all we needed were the models. Luckily, when we broached the subject to our work associate Bill Ford of Ford Models, he was feeling generous. Days later, we received a fax with a list of our future chauffeurs. We fought over who would ride with Travis, as in the Calvin Klein-underwear-model-on-Times-Square Travis, and were devastated to learn it was the wrong Travis. Apparently there are six male models named Travis, in Manhattan. Regardless, everything was falling into place and we even locked in celebrity DJ prodigy to spin at the party: fourteen-year-old Jonathan Shriftman, fresh from filming Fast and the Furious II and brother of PR princess Lara Shriftman of Harrison & Shriftman. Lara is a friend, and she flew him in from Florida—on a school night.

  Buzz was starting. Rush and Molloy gave us a mention, offering NYC proof of our event. (If no one writes about your party, did it even happen? we wondered.)

  So there we were in Karen’s kitchen, attacking the invitations, papercuts and all. It turned out to be propitious, as there were three hundred more labels than invitations and serious reprioritizing was in order. The Topeka News Herald had merited one, but Pia Getty’s label lacked a home. Clearly, things were awry. We barked names to each other as we decided whether to “peel-and-replace” or “keep-and-seal.” “Does Magnus deserve an invitation?” “Who’s Charles von Mueffling?” We banished non-New York press to the trash (they wouldn’t be in town anyway), while models whose names we recognized made the cut. Malgosia, Sienna, and Karolina were welcome, but Ania, Kemp, and Kansas were not.

  As for our personal friends, who would actually attend the party, they got an e-vite, while A-listers like Molly Sims received the prized black cardstock in the mail. We begged PR pals to celebrity-wrangle for the event. “Please, can’t you make Courtney Love come?” we whined to her rep. “No, she’s filming Macbeth,?” she replied. We were crushed to learn Angie Harmon’s flack did not return calls and that party perennial Moby was out of town. But actress Dina Meyer (who had an affair with Brandon on 90210, to our mutual delight), socialites Ann and Anabelle Jones, Fabian Cousteau (grandson of Jacques, and according to People magazine, one of the sexiest men alive), somewhat made up for the loss when they RSVPd.

  In our social-climbing fervor (Rob and Marisol Thomas! Russell and Kimora Lee Simmons!), we completely forgot to send an invitation to our literary agent. And two days before the party, Tanya Braganti, the photographer who was documenting the event for our book asked, “Um, do you think I’ll get in? I didn’t get an invitation.” Worse, Melissa’s husband was still sore that the party was scheduled on his birthday.

  Why bother getting ready if the world isn’t watching!

  P-Day: we decided to capitalize on every aspect of the night, even getting ready. So at five P.M., Edward Tricomi himself and Douglas Bielanski, a Sue Devitt makeup artist, arrived at Karen’s apartment to doll us up for the night. They brought along a photographer, who posted pictures of our primping on www.beauty.com (God forbid we get ready without a fleet of cameras!). Edward, who is something of a celebrity himself (clients pay upwards of $300 to have him personally do their hair, and he’s flown via private jet to tend to the stars’ Oscar preparations), made quick decisions. “We’ll do waves and a flip,” he said, fluffing Melissa’s hair. “And for you,” he told Karen, “we’ll do big and wild! Dynasty!” When Edward was done with us, we placed ourselves in front of Douglas, who promised smoky eyes, elegance, major drama, and the juiciest lips!

  At eight-forty-five P.M., forty-five minutes after the party started, we met our model posse at the corner of Tenth Avenue and Twentieth Street. It was straight out of Zoolander: twenty poster boys on bubble gum-hued Vespas, lined up in a row, madly honking their horns and trying to pop wheelies (and failing). We hopped on the back of our designated scooters, posed for the camera crew who was tipped off (by us!) about the happening, and then made our way to the club … driving west on an east-bound street. (Nothing gets attention like going the wrong way down a one-way street!) It was the rush of a lifetime. Especially when we zoomed inside the center of the club, as our fourteen-year-old DJ blared Sheila E’s “Glamorous Life” (he had to download it from the Internet the night before). Not bad for a girl who never had a date in high school (Melissa), or for one whom the boys nicknamed “Meatball” (Karen).

  Flashbulbs exploded. Papparazzi yelled at us as if we were Lizzie Grubman, the uptown PR girl who pleaded guilty to mowing down sixteen people at a Southampton nightclub, making the first post-jail appearance. We were blinded from all angles. It was exhilarating to command so much attention. If this was life in the celebrity lane, we were never getting off! People treated us as if we were truly famous. Publicists propped us next to their famous clients for the cameras. Victoria’s Secret ingenue Ingrid Seynhaeve put her spaghetti-thin arms around us. Impossibly blond Janice Combs (mother of Puffy) held court at our corner banquette (her publicist drove all the way to New Jersey
to fetch her, and we bribed her with a free Elisa Jimenez couture gown to get her there!). Halfway through the evening, we were ushered to the front of the club in order to welcome Foxy Brown, who agreed to make a cameo. (We begged her publicist, a friend of Karen’s, to drag her and it worked.) Our friends wanted to hug us, but they were unable to penetrate the paparazzi barrier.

  Looking back, the entire night was a blur. We were pulled in a hundred different directions and we can honestly say that we don’t recall one conversation or sitting still for a moment. So much for the free alcohol—we hardly had a sip. We didn’t even get to eat one doughnut, though we posed holding a glazed number for a picture with Gap model Ralph Jacobs, who was eating one!

  The biggest thrill of all was Laura Branigan, even though she had a diva moment or two before she performed (there was a fuss about how we had to hand her the microphone, as if we were going to hurl it at her). The woman hasn’t been in the spotlight since the early ‘80s, but man, could she kick it! Everyone was dancing and singing along (“Gloria, Gloria. I think they got your numbah, Glo-ri-ah!”). She even pulled us on stage to sing “Happy Birthday” to Mike (Mel made up for having the party on the eve of his twenty-ninth year by surprising him with a cake and sparklers).

  We were the belles of the ball. Until celebrity photographer

  Patrick McMullan dashed in and snapped shots of designers/media darlings Richie Rich and Elisa Jimenez—and completely ignored us. He had no idea who we were, even though we’ve both met him dozens of times!

  Our B-list status was confirmed the next day when www.people.com ran a photo of Foxy Brown on a Vespa outside our party … without even a hint of our faces, let alone our names. Page Six ran the same photo of Foxy (they at least put our names in bold, although we were secretly bummed that there was no photo). TimeOut New York wrote about our Vespa entrance, but once again, without a photo. The New York Post party section also printed a blurb about us, with no photo in sight. And in the piece, our DJ merited an entire paragraph. We were trumped by a fourteen-year-old from out of town!