How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less

by Melissa de la Cruz

  The night of the benefit, wedged next to the dozens of celebrity smudges, was the following display: Win a night out with Cat’s Meow author Melissa de la Cruz! Dinner for four at the trendiest restaurant in town! Attend the glitziest private parties for a real New York City experience! My 8-by-10 author photo was displayed prominently, as was a “personally autographed” copy of my book. But like Sharon Stone, who “hosts” the event every year without actually being present, I was nowhere near Central Park the night of the party. For one thing, I didn’t even merit a free ticket! And as a struggling freelancer, there was no way I could swing the $250 entrance fee. Much worse, the woman who handled the press list never called me back.

  No matter, Mike and I were invited to spend that weekend at a swanky hotel out of town (I didn’t merit a free dinner at the benefit ball but I was good enough to send on a $5000 junket? Such are the contradictions of “fame”). When I returned, there were dozens of messages on my machine from friends and colleagues who had attended the bash. “Wow! You’re such a star! Your display looked great at Boathouse!” “I wish I could have bid, but the starting price was so high!” “Can I hang out with you for free instead of paying five hundred dollars?” “You really are famous!”

  I took a perverse thrill in being auctioned off for an evening. Page Six reported that a night out with Candace Bushnell had been sold for $3000. I was in good company. I was all set to bask in the admiration of the fan who had stepped up to the plate for the privilege of spending an evening with me. Plus I was doing a good thing for charity! I was virtuous and fabulous all at once—a heady combination.

  It’s been six months since the Boathouse benefit, but no one has yet to claim the prize. A night out with Melissa de la Cruz is still available for the low starting price of $500. Tom consoled me by saying, “Don’t worry. A lot of our ‘night out’ things never get followed up on. People do buy them, but they’re too shy to call the person to take them out for a night. They probably just took the copy of your book.”

  To whoever won—$500 is way too much to spend on a $13 paperback! Call me! I’ll take you out for the night! I know a great restaurant….

  CONNECT THE DOTS

  • Networking 101: Develop a group of contacts who can help you get what you want.

  • Attend every social event (even personal parties) as if they were conventions, and dole out your card to everyone you meet.

  • Go out even when you don’t want to. Sometimes you make the best, most unexpected contacts during these off nights.

  • Establish a reputation as the person with the plan, the right reservation, and the party invitations. In time, people will flock to you.

  • Don’t “work” too hard or you will seem obnoxious. Networking is a delicate art, and the key is to reciprocate and be there for people who need you. People always want to associate with those who are good to them.

  • Hang out with famous people. Being involved with them, as a friend, hanger-on, or “extra,” will enable you to build a name for yourself as an individual over time. Lil’ Kim got started as just another girl in the late Notorious B.I.G.’s crew.

  • Get a gig as an assistant to a superfamous personality. It will give you the opportunity to get to know that person’s contacts, friends, and colleagues and might bring you close enough to the limelight to eventually claim it for yourself. Trust us, after paying your dues for a year or two, you’ll be movin’ on up. Look at Anna Wintour’s old assistant, who parlayed her stint at Vogue into a six-figure book and movie deal.

  • Be bold. Don’t be afraid to ask someone you just met an itsy bitsy favor that “only he or she can help you with.”

  • If you make casual social plans with acquaintances, always follow through; don’t be one of those people who always promises social engagements but then cancels later. You never want to be known as a flake.

  • Always get credit for whatever you do, so you can call in favors later. If you hook your girlfriend up with something, anything (a job interview, a free drink at the bar, a discount at her favorite boutique, an introduction to her new boyfriend), sweetly and subtly remind her that you’re responsible for her sudden good fortune.

  • Send “it was so lovely to meet you” notes, handwritten on your letterhead or monogrammed correspondence cards, to people who are influential, powerful, and above you on the totem pole.

  • Throw an intimate party and always invite a few “reach” guests, three people you want badly to be part of your network—even if you don’t know them well. This will familiarize them with your brand, name, and profile.

  • Always keep in contact with people you meet. You never know where people will wind up and what the future will hold.

  • Donate a significant amount to a popular charity. Open-checkbook socializing gets your foot in the door and lets people know you’re a serious player. If you want to get close to Meryl Streep, for instance, get on the Apple Safety bandwagon!

  • Congregate at powerhubs—for instance, in New York City, lunch at Michael’s is the surest way to indicate you’re moving in the media world, Da Silvano is where the Hollywood establishment likes to dine, and art-world power players hobnob at Bottino.

  OVERSCHMOOZING

  ATTACK OF THE KILLER DENTIST

  On a warm spring Thursday night, we attended a book-launch bash for a plastic surgeon at a groovy club in New York. The amber lighting was sultry (the better to hide your wrinkles, my dear). The vodka was flowing. And a gaggle of publicists were squeezing the doctor in the middle of paparazzi moments with models, B-list actors, and Chloé-clad socialites who put the doctor’s night of honor on their party-hopping schedule. We were on our way to the bar for a refreshment—and a much-needed break from the frenzy of the breast-implant mob who schmoozed the doctor in the hopes of a discount—when we were stopped by an attractive brunette who had a budding dental practice uptown.

  “Oh, my God, you two are writers. Melissa and Karen, right?” she said, leaning forward (cleavage and all) to introduce herself with a friendly hug.

  At first we were flattered. “Yes, yes! We are,” we excitedly said, thrilled that someone recognized us for our work.

  She went on to tell us that she liked our articles. She even listed a few of them, including our piece about becoming famous for Marie Claire. After complimenting us, she wanted to show us how fabulous she was. In fifteen minutes we learned that she was wearing a “conservative Gucci” ensemble even though she would rather dress in a sexier manner but can’t because of her job; was “best friends” with a well-known fashion designer; eligible for discounts at Manolo Blahnik; invited to the next Chanel sample sale, vacationing to St. Bart’s next week; hiring the interior designer who did Anna Wintour’s home; a client of ritzy celebrity hairstylist Frederic Fekkai; and the brains behind the smiles of three heiresses who were fixtures of the society pages in Vogue and W. She went from charming and sweet to painfully annoying name-dropper in sixty seconds flat.

  During her monologue, we didn’t get a word in. She invaded our personal space by displaying unwarranted physical affection. (When she told us about her invitation to the Chanel sample sale, she hugged us again and said, “I’ll try to bring you.”) She even told us our smiles needed work! We spent the entire conversation clutching each other’s hands, nodding, and faux smiling, even when she informed us that we needed to get our teeth bleached. All we wanted to do was lose her!

  We knew she was trying to schmooze us because she wanted some press. That, of course, was confirmed when she flat-out said at the end of the conversation, “I would love you guys to write about me.”

  We graciously took her card and claimed we didn’t have ours on us. We later tossed her card in the trash—but now we’re wondering if we should have kept the contact. Our teeth are kind of yellow.

  SCHMOOZE, DON’T OOZE!

  ONE FALSE MOVE AND YOU’RE HEADED STRAIGHT FOR THE D-LIST

  • Don’t act too chummy with someone who’s “higher up�
� than you by calling them “honey,” “darling,” or “love” during your first meeting. Keep a respectful, professional distance at all times unless the person decides to bring your friendship to the next level in a platonic way.

  • Don’t overstay your welcome. Exit conversations in the middle of something good, so people will crave a bigger dose of you later.

  • When you see people nodding at you, flashing a fake smile and raised eyebrows as you talk, it’s time to excuse yourself immediately.

  • Never do the neck crane to see if someone more important is in the wings. It’s the telltale sign of the social climber.

  • Don’t promise things you can’t deliver on—if your check to that charity ball bounces or if you guarantee press for the bracelet some designer gave you and you don’t get press, you will suddenly become infamous … and possibly a jewelry thief!

  • Don’t bring up work at a social event unless the person you’re talking to mentions it first. It’s best to spend your time building a friendly rapport first—and making a time to have a meeting to discuss business at a later date.

  • Don’t be disloyal. If you are, be prepared to feel the wrath of the karmic boomerang.

  • Don’t drop your friends when you’re on the road to fame and fortune. Bring the trusted few up with you for the ride and work toward the higher purpose of fabulousness in unison. If you stick together, you will be able to help one another in the long run.

  • Stop name-dropping. You never want to hear yourself say, “When we were at a meeting with Sting’s yoga instructor and his publicist, who was watching Heidi Klum’s dog, we wound up talking to Chloe Sevigny’s brother, who’s a very big DJ, like Mark Ronson, who dates Rashida Jones, who’s on that David E. Kelley show and is the daughter of Quincy, who’s doing a deal with a friend I introduced him to.”(Unless it’s true!)

  • Don’t burn bridges. Keep your friends close but your enemies closer.

  Days 12–14:

  INSIDE THE VELVET ROPES

  No one ever became famous by sitting at home watching the latest chick show on the WB (and repeats of it at eleven P.M.) in flannel pajamas with a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. No, you, my friend, are going to have to go out. And going out doesn’t mean to the take-out Chinese restaurant around the corner. Cozy neighborhood, no-name establishments are not on the agenda anymore. You are going to have to be part of the scene where people like to be seen. Of course, the best parties are often private, invitation-only events with the kind of guest list that reads, Aristocrat, Fashion, Media, Socialite (Sr.), Socialite (Jr.), Art (Social), and Entertainment on a PR agent’s Rolodex. If you are none of the above, don’t worry—you can still make your way inside. We know. We’ve been there.

  See, it has always been a dream of ours to become the kind of people who are allowed past the velvet ropes of snooty nightclubs. It’s a small, petty, and laughable ambition, we must confess, and one that definitely doesn’t reflect well on our goals. We can assure you that we also love babies, home-cooked meals, and shopping at Target, but the point is moot. As girls who started out life as the chunky kids in junior high, the type the boys didn’t ask out, being able to waltz past the velvet ropes is a rush. A thrill. A high. A sign of acceptance. It’s the world saying, You belong inside with the fabulous people! It’s a mark of approval and a stamp of recognition … or a highly effective ego stroke designed by nightclub owners to make people believe a $10 cosmopolitan is worth something.

  But we prefer to see it as the first baby step to fame.

  The fame game is all about climbing the ladder. Getting inside a nightclub might not mean much at first, but becoming famous is about building on these steps toward the big picture, i.e., the Photo Shoot in the Sky—otherwise known as two pages in Vanity Fair. But before Richard Avedon takes your close-up, you’re going to have to conquer the nightlife. How can you become famous if you can’t even get past the doorman of a nightclub? We rest our case.

  Step one is getting past the doorman. Step two is getting into the VIP room. And step three is hosting a party at the club itself—being in charge of the list rather than being just another name on it. This chapter will teach you the tricks that, if used properly, will grant you access to the inside hangouts of the glitterati. We will cover how to befriend the velvet-rope Nazis, the gatekeepers who pick and choose who can come into the club and who has to go home, feeling rejected. We’ll show you how to sniff out the best parties, become the ultimate host, and—for those who are having trouble mastering all aforementioned activities—we will teach you the devilish art of crashing parties, a skill that, once mastered, will enable you to go anywhere, anytime. So … here’s to many late nights and more glasses of champagne than you can drink!

  GETTING IN

  MY FIRST NIGHT AS A CLUB CRAWLER

  In 1989, the hottest club in New York City was called MARS. It was located in the far West Twenties, on a desolate stretch of abandoned lots and industrial buildings, and was favored by a host of transsexual prostitutes. The first week I arrived in New York I wanted to go to MARS. Unfortunately, I had nothing to wear.

  I arrived in New York City with twelve oversize seventy-five-pound cardboard boxes. I packed so many things for my first year in college that my mother asked me if I ever intended to come back home. Inside these boxes were print dresses from Contempo Casuals, Outback Red button-down camp shirts, and quite a selection of slouchy leather boots from Payless. Even if I had yet to step out of the bunker of the college campus, I knew that nothing I currently owned would ever pass muster with the snobby door mistress of MARS, who famously said, “We won’t let you in if you’re not wearing the right shoes.” I would have to find something else to wear other than a Gap turtleneck.

  Fortunately, I did have one thing. It was an outfit I never dared to wear in South San Francisco, California. It was a pleated black Lycra miniskirt with matching biker shorts sewn underneath, a combination of skirt and shorts, but by no means a “skort.” It was, in fact, an outfit I had noticed Debbie Gibson wearing in a music video, and one that Christian Lacroix had popularized on the runways of Paris. I bought it at the mall for $25. I wore it with a black tank top, oversize black matte hoop earrings, and a pair of Doc Martens. I left my dorm room.

  “Cool outfit,” a friend said. “Where are you going?”

  “Clubbing,” I answered smoothly. Already I was saying good-bye to the preppy suburbanite in the fluorescent T-shirt and Fergie clip-on bows.

  “Wow. Have fun,” she said. She was wearing pajamas. It was almost midnight.

  We arrived at MARS, where a huge crowd had already gathered in front of the velvet ropes. Inside the sanctuary, an Asian woman wearing a baseball cap sat on a high stool, surveying the crowd with pursed lips. “You,” she said, motioning to me.

  I had the presence of mind not to balk. Instead I sauntered forward, my plastic earrings trembling.

  “How many?” she asked.

  “Three,” I said smoothly, pointing to my two friends, who had affected a manly slouch. She nodded her head to the gorilla in the velvet suit. He unhooked the velvet rope.

  We walked through, our heads high and our hearts beating. When we were finally inside the club, we hugged each other and giggled. “We got in!” we said to each other. “We! Got! In!” we had done it! We were cool! We were hot! We were beautiful, good-looking, and supreme New Yorkers! We laughed. We paid the twenty-dollar admission fee.

  Then we looked around.

  The nightclub was empty.

  THE PASSWORD, PLEASE …

  There was a lot of talk about a new bar on the Lower East Side. The word on the street was, it was the new hot spot. The problem: there was no listing in the yellow pages, no sign on the door, and no phone. The only way in was to have the password—or know the owner. Access was reserved for the fabulous set of actors, emerging musicians, important artists, chic designers, partying socialites, and progeny of any of the above. That did not include me. However, I was determine
d to enter that glamorous world. (In fact, one of my editors gave me the highest compliment I’ve ever received: “You built an entire career on being fabulous.” In my eyes, he was far from the truth. But I promised myself to believe him if I was able to gain access to this mysterious bar.)

  I spent weeks calling editors, stylist friends, agents, publicists. No one had the dirt, or admitted to knowing it. I closely inspected every street in the neighborhood, combing Allen Street, Essex, Clinton, Ludlow, Stanton, and Rivington in search of this so-called gem. There were articles in newspapers about it, and in each one the address and any information leading to entrée was carefully obscured. That was the only way the owner would even grant an interview with the press.

  I felt tortured that I was left out in the cold, clearly not cool enough to know the inside story. So I researched like crazy. But the more I dug, the less I found. And the less I found, the more I heard about this place. It was open whenever the owner felt like having it open. And they served caviar and pancakes after two A.M. It sounded absurd and pretentious. Everything I dreamed of … and more.

  It was the talk of the town, but no one I knew had ever gotten in. There was supposedly a waiver that all patrons had to sign, agreeing that they would not tell anyone about the place “unless you trust this person enough to have keys to your apartment.” There were rules and regulations posted that forbade men from approaching women they did not know (only a bartender could introduce you; this was the owner’s method of keeping his place private and not a typical meat market of pickup lines).

  One fateful afternoon, three frustrating weeks later, I was having lunch downtown and two arty looking men, both wearing fedoras, were in a deep discussion about this place. I have excellent hearing and adept eavesdropping skills, which I instantly put to use. I found out the name of the street (which I am not able to disclose, though I can say it begins with an E and ends with an E) and the owner’s name (again, something I am not at liberty to share, but it’s one of those names that sounds modely and glam if you’re a girl and pompous if you’re a guy, like Sasha). So the next night I put on my best boots and denim skirt and made my way down to the desired location. On a gritty block, where I stepped over two vagrants sleeping with empty bottles of gin, I came across a black door. There was no number. There was no window. There was no sign that this was the place, making it quite obvious that I was there.