How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Still. We pulled it off. The party received rave reviews. We should have been over the moon. We weren’t. We couldn’t shake the empty pits in our stomachs.

  POST-PARTY DEPRESSION

  I had a great time at the party and loved every second of it, especially the cutie who drove my Vespa. But during my cab ride home, alone, I was sad. Really, really sad. I wanted to have someone to share it with—and I didn’t. All of the glitz and excitement is an amazing thing that I have been lucky to have, but the truth is, when you don’t get to relax and have soulful downtime with someone you care about, it means nothing. Sure my best friends were there, but I hardly talked to them—or even saw them—I was so busy flitting about. During the party, everything was so superficial and “for show” that I didn’t get to experience genuine connections with anyone.

  At the end of the night, when things were calm, I went to look for some friends to catch up with them. They were gone. And I hardly had a moment to even say hello. I stayed in bed late the next day. It was as if I had a really bad hangover (and I didn’t have a sip of anything harder than water). I couldn’t work. I couldn’t eat. And I couldn’t believe what I was feeling: lonely. It took me two days to shake the emotions, the crash after the high, which was so intense that I didn’t even care when I had to return my (sinfully unworn) Dior threads.

  When I called Mel for some sympathy (she was feeling similarly, minus the lonely thing, as she has a fabulous husband who loves her—and lets her shine), we talked about having a low-key book launch party in September 2003, after we hit the shelves at Barnes & Noble. Then we thought better of it: naaah! What’s glamour without a little tragedy? Seconds later, we were thinking about wearing Versace and wondering which pop star we could get to entertain us!

  It was all a little too much to deal with—and I was so relieved it was over. During the party preparations, I felt terrible about forgetting my husband’s birthday. While I was excited for all the hoopla, I also wished we were spending the day together and celebrating his birthday properly. The best part of the evening for me was when Laura asked us up on stage to sing “Happy Birthday” to Mike. He had no idea that was going to happen and I was so glad to have pulled off the surprise.

  All the attention is gratifying, but if you live by the scene, you die by the scene. While we were able to generate all this hype for one night, with a wave of a wand (or a flash of a camera), it was all gone by morning. Like modern-day Cinderellas, our diamonds and couture gowns disappeared in a poof, courtesy of messengers who came to claim the borrowed wares the next day. I wonder if I would be able to keep my head on straight if everything was happening for real, and not just as the hoax that we pulled off. The party was a fabulous dream—but like everybody else, I have to wake up and take the subway in the morning.

  Our invitation for the party.

  HOW TO PRODUCE PRESS-WORTHY EVENTS

  • Turn your birthday party into an extravaganza. Be over the top. When it comes to parties, less is never more. Make a grand entrance on a horse, just like Bianca Jagger did at her Studio 54 bash.

  • Invite every media person you can think of, whether you know them or not. Have your “publicist” follow up with them to make sure they come—and pitch them a story about your party. Just make sure you have an angle for a story about your party, a newsworthy hook. Do something different at your party that no one else is doing in order to make the angle appealing (i.e., have a silent party, where no one can talk and communication occurs via note passing).

  • Send out a tip sheet, a one-page memo to editors everywhere that details the highlights of your party: performances, noteworthy guests, what you’ll be wearing.

  • Don’t spare a single expense while celebrating yourself. Charter a yacht. Fly friends to a destination on a private jet if you can arrange it.

  • Get ambulances to shepherd guests home (Pamela Anderson did this for Tommy Lee’s birthday).

  • Roll out a red carpet. Install velvet ropes. Produce a laser light show outside. It draws a crowd.

  • Hire dancers, naked waiters, celebrity look-alikes. Then leak all the juicy details to gossip columnists and press people. Have your publicist call newsmagazine shows and pitch the idea of extravagant birthdays of the fabulous.

  • Piggyback with a charity. Make a baby shower a fund raiser for poor orphans in some third-world country. You’ll be able to have a good time while doing good. If possible, hook up with an organization that has star power, like amfAR and DIFFA. Maybe you’ll be able to swing a celebrity cohost and you can both tell people, “I just want to give back.”

  • Get a corporate sponsor, which is when a company backs the party (financially) and gets kudos on the invitation. They may even help find a charity to partner with and make a donation in a celebrity name, thus ensuring the celebrity will appear at your party. This will elevate your event to a new level of glory.

  • Hire a company that specializes in getting celebrities and well-known figures to events. These are called talent booking agencies. They do wonders, but they charge a pretty penny.

  • Stage a guerrilla renegade party, where your soiree takes place at the same time and location as a highly hyped and anticipated event. You’ll upstage it and everyone will talk.

  • Throw your party at a space before it opens. People always like to go to the latest hot spot before anyone else. The press will be all over it.

  • Be a culture vulture. Organize readings, plays, performances, and art openings. The arts are a great way to get involved and in print, as journalists always cover such happenings.

  HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT

  STRIKE A POSEUR

  At a party for the launch of the Mercedes Maybach, a limited-edition $250,000 vehicle, Lara Shriftman of Harrison & Shrift-man, the company that produced the event, introduced me to Michael Michele, the actress from ER. After a few minutes of chitchat, I cut right to the chase: “Michael, what’s the secret to getting famous?” I asked her. Her biggest tips included: surround yourself with good people; go to good parties; and get photographed as often as possible. If that was all it took, I felt confident that I could do the job. I was already at a good party, surrounded by good people. I just had to be seen and immortalized on film with some of them. Sadly, I wasn’t photographed with Michael because the paparazzi mafia pulled her away from me and asked her to stand alone at the top of the spiral staircase for some pictures. Damn them! As I took notes on her posture, in awe of her poise, grace, and Carolina Herrera ensemb, a commotion began: Jay-Z was in the house!

  Camera flashes flickered so wildly at him, you would have thought we were at a Pink Floyd, “The Wall,” show. I forged ahead by elbowing a few innocent bystanders out of the way and managed to stand right next to Jay-Z. He put his arm around me, as if we had been friends for years, and the cameras kept on snapping. After our intimate interlude, I told him my name. Within seconds we were canoodling. (Okay, we just shook hands, but at least it was skin-on-skin contact, which has catapulted many others to the top.) I surveyed the room in search of more paparazzi moments to crash. I spotted Kimora Lee Simmons, the model wife of music mogul Russell and a favorite subject of camera crews. She was talking to someone I knew, so I went in for the kill. Before I could say, “Hi, I’m Karen,” the photographers caught wind of the situation and attacked. I did the same with Eleanor Lambert, the doyenne of fashion publicity, and once again, a lensman noticed and hit the almighty red button of his camera. I successfully pounced in on four other Kodak moments and gave my name and card to the photographers, so they’d know exactly who I was in the future.

  The climax of the evening was slated for ten P.M., when the Mercedes-clan unveiled the actual car, which was to be dramatically revealed by airlifting a velvet tapestry from the specimen’s frame. At precisely nine-forty-five, I smooth-talked a VP of Mercedes, informed him of my plight for fame, and begged him to let me see the car before anyone else. I thought that if someone witnessed the fact that I was getting a specia
l sneak peak, then they’d think I was someone. It worked. As he escorted me to a roped-off back area, where the car was on display, a herd of camera wielders followed. Dozens of photos were taken of the Mercedes bigwig and me shaking hands in front of the car, which I saw before anyone! By the time I exited the party thirty minutes later, I heard a paparazzi guy yell, “Karen, over here. Karen!” as if I were the main event. I turned around to flash a smile, thinking, They bought it! I’m on my way! Then I realized he was holding my wallet, which had fallen out of my bag.

  CHINK IN THE ARMOR

  I know I’m Asian. But I’m also Filipino, which means I’m a mutt—one-sixteenth Spanish, a quarter Chinese, and who knows what else. Some people can’t even gauge my ethnicity correctly. They ask if I’m “mixed,” which to a Filipino is always a compliment. Ah, we do like our mestizos. A lingering colonial mentality has made this so. Generally, I approve of my looks. I don’t attempt faux insecurity about them. The problem is my eyes. They tend to slant when I smile. Not just slighly upward, no. They turn into tiny folded slits, pushed up by my cheeks, making my face resemble that of a chortling Buddha.

  When I first received the proofs of the photographs taken during my two weeks of fame, I was appalled. I looked ghastly in each of them. There I was laughing over a glass of wine at a restaurant, or else mugging for the camera while flanked by two models, or greeting guests at my dinner party, and in all of them I flashed the Buddha smile. When I have a lot of fun, I show it. I don’t stop and “pose” for pictures. Instead, I carry on just as usual, laughing, smiling, my eyes steadily getting smaller and smaller in each successive shot.

  Why do famous people always look good in pictures? Because they have learned to restrain their impulses—to present an artificial, more attractive version of their face to the camera. No one naturally smiles with big eyes, flashing teeth, and their chin thrust down and forward in a flattering angle. Maybe those who are blessed with photogenica do. But most of us, when happy, let down our guard. We smile naturally, eyes crinkling, chin wobbling, letting the cameras click away without paying attention to what we look like. And that’s where the unattractive photographs come in.

  As you can imagine, it’s not much fun trying to look like you’re having fun while you’re really trying to remember to open your eyes wide, keep your chin down, and shut your mouth so you don’t flash your crooked teeth. For two weeks I concentrated on being alert at all times, so I could present the “face of fame” to the camera.

  Sometimes, though, I couldn’t do the game face. I decided that I didn’t really care all that much. As narcissistic as I can be, at the end, I didn’t want to sacrifice a good night out at the altar of vanity. Even if I knew that when the pictures were published, I’d complain, “I look terrible! My eyes are slits!” at least I’ll look at them and know that I was having a blast. Even if I looked constipated.

  PHOTO SHOP

  EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT SMILING FOR THE CAMERA

  • There is no such thing as being ugly—only badly lit, as Barbra Streisand will attest. (The diva brings her own lighting and camera crew to everything—even the Oscars—to make sure she is dewy-looking at all times.)

  • Consider carrying low-wattage lightbulbs wherever you go and pull the ol’ switcheroo on the sly. Dimmer lights are more flattering than bright fluorescent ones.

  • Clench your teeth together for all photos. It enhances your jawline and makes it appear more pronounced.

  • Use Visine before posing. It will make your eyes look whiter.

  • Stand at an angle with one leg slightly in front of the other in order to narrow your silhouette.

  • Stand on the left of any photo opportunity. In magazines, when they print pictures, they always name names from left to right. If you can, force your way next to the person whom the picture is really about. That way, your name will have top billing.

  • Cozy up to paparazzi photographers who cover the best parties. As they get to know you, they will start to take your photo.

  • Look your best. Don’t leave home without full hair, makeup and the latest coup of your shopping excursions. Studios yell at actresses who show up at premieres with sloppy suits and bad hair. Do not let that happen to you.

  TV OR NOT TV, THAT IS THE QUESTION

  NO DOUGHNUTS IN THE GREENROOM?

  As I mentioned earlier, I had crashed my fiancé’s bachelor party dressed as a man for an article in Marie Claire. This nefarious activity transformed Mike and me into must-have guests on the daytime television talk-show circuit. Producers from programs of such caliber as The Ananda Lewis Show and The Other Half begged us to appear on the air. With great reluctance, we agreed. (Actually … we weren’t that reluctant. We couldn’t wait to see ourselves on TV!) We called everyone we knew, telling them about our imminent appearances, only to be met with puzzled glances. “Who’s Amanda Lewis?” “The other what?” Nobody I knew had ever heard of these shows. “What happened to Good Morning America?” my mother would ask in an indignant tone. (We had been scheduled to appear, only to be bumped at the last minute, and my parents were still sore because they had spread the word to all of their friends and coworkers, only to be shown up as liars when the segment got cut. They have yet to live down the shame.)

  For some reason, I was under the delusion that as honored guests of Ananda Lewis, we would be treated with first-class service all the way. In the beginning it boded well—Mike and I were thrilled when the black Town Car appeared at our door. We eagerly flipped through the free magazines tucked into the back seat. People! Vanity Fair! This was the life! When we arrived at the studio, housed in a bunkerlike warehouse building with CBS engraved on the front doors, a gloved doorman opened the car door, and a headset-wearing production assistant escorted us to the Ananda floor. Each guest was “assigned” his own PA (production assistant), as we were not allowed to wander around freely on our own.

  Our first inkling that appearing on Ananda was not going to be as glamorous as we’d hoped was the contents of our greenroom. Where were the bouquets of flowers I’d heard Today show guests always received? The platters of appetizers, hors d’oeuvres and doughnuts Oprah’s stars chomped on? In my imagination, greenroom doughnuts of the celeb talk-show circuit had assumed mythical status. But it was not meant to be. Instead, we had to make do with two dry turkey sandwiches, a few wan grapes, and a minuscule chocolate square. Plus, we had to buy our own Cokes from the soda machine down the hall!

  After we were suitably coiffed and pancaked at the hair-and-makeup stand, we were called to the set, where we spent another hour watching the “preshow” from backstage. A dancing midget—apparently a “professional audience member” who is paid to attend daytime talk shows and clap herself silly—performed a lip-synch version of Britney Spears’s “Oops! I Did It Again” to warm up the audience. Mike and I turned to each other in horror.

  We had been there for four hours and had yet to meet Ananda. Five minutes before the show started, she swooped through and gave all her invited guests a brief hello, without even stopping to shake our hands. She looked fantastic—creamy mocha skin, perfect hair, and vertiginous heels—every inch the aloof star.

  Mike and I were the first segment, and after a brief introduction (“What really happens during the groom’s bachelor party? Woo hoo!”), we entered the shabby set. I am still amazed at the power of television. Everything looked so much better on the monitor. In real life the set is small and dirty. The carpet looked like it had never been vacuumed. In fact, the only thing that doesn’t look good on TV is real people. Mike and I looked chunky and pasty on the monitor. Ananda looked like a goddess. No wonder she was famous.

  “So, Melissa … tell us about what you saw at the strip club!” she said, widening her eyes. The audience made a scandalized “Ooooh” sound. I stared back at her in absolute terror, my mind blank, stammering my answers. I was stricken with stage fright, my eyes wide as saucers. My answers were curt and incoherent. I mumbled something about be
ing “too numb to understand what was going on” and I failed to follow the one directive we were given by the producers (“Never stop talking … dead air kills”). Mercifully, it was over in a few minutes.

  We were escorted out of the building by our production assistant, who cheerfully deposited us on the sidewalk. The Town Car was nowhere to be seen. We didn’t even get a free ride home. So much for being “invited guests.”

  A month later, when we appeared on The Other Half, we prided ourselves on our lowered expectations. But sadly, we did not lower them enough! The greenrooms were again lacking in doughnuts, let alone soggy turkey sandwiches. For refreshment purposes backstage, there was a half-eaten bag of pretzels and bottled generic-label water. I had also been told that the show would provide hair and makeup for us, but when we arrived in the dressing room, the two beauticians scolded us for not showing up camera-ready. They chewed their gum and boasted that they had been nominated for an Emmy Award for their work on the show. We congratulated them and wished they wouldn’t smoke in our faces while they blow-dried.

  Mike and I were also a little uncomfortable with the tenor of the program. The producer of the show had sold it as a fun morning show, but backstage was populated by a roster of freaks, including particularly unattractive young couples who were on the segment on “the disadvantages of reproduction.” I guess we should count ourselves lucky.

  When we were brought onstage, we noticed that the studio audience held fifteen people—and five of them were my relatives! (I had assuaged my parents by getting them free tickets.) On the bright side, Mario Lopez (formerly “Slater” from Saved By the Bell) and Danny Bonaduce were a lot warmer and friendlier than Ananda, and Mike and I, clocking in our third television appearance, were chatty and glib like two old pros. Mike even made a joke that got the whole audience laughing. At the end of the segment, we were rushed out of the studio—but not before my aunt tracked down Dick Clark for an autograph.