“They’re totally trying to crash your party,” Shawn cooed. We had such a laugh. And, of course, she informed them that it was impossible to RSVP, as invitations had yet to be mailed!
We were actually flattered. It was just the kind of stunt we would do!
THE CRASH COURSE
There is a breed of people, unconnected nobodies, who always seem to get into all the right parties, despite the fact that they know no one and are not socially distinctive in any way. We very much advise that you do not become one of these people. But sometimes (i.e., before you “make it”), you can’t help it. If you must crash a party, these are the tricks:
• Slip in with the caterers, barbacks, and delivery people. Wait in the bathroom until the party gets going and then make your presence known.
• Get a job at the location—or with someone who is working at the party.
• RSVP to the phone number on the invitation, even if you didn’t receive an invitation yourself.
• Learn to read upside down. Point to the person on the list and say, “Look, that’s me.” If that person’s name has been crossed off, say you’re that person’s “plus one.”
• Pretend to be a journalist, one who isn’t famous enough to have face recognition—no one knows what the editor of the Styles section of the New York Times looks like, but they’ll always let him in. Another trick is to find out who’s been invited but isn’t going. Show up and pretend you’re that person.
• Find out what the party is for and concoct an appropriate identity that will facilitate an entrance. If it’s a film party, say you’re a producer who works with De Niro, or an agent with CAA.
• Arrive at the party with a town celebrity (i.e., a dog that resembles a famous dog that stars in the latest movie—say it’s the celeb pooch!)—a person who would have been invited or would never be rejected.
• Say you’re the entertainment. If you act like a seductress and talk with a sultry bedroom voice, they might actually believe you’re a burlesque dancer.
• Find a back door or window. Knock. Pretend you just stepped outside for a cigarette and got locked out.
• Plead to use the bathroom. Leave collateral, something you don’t care about, and promise you’ll be back. Don’t return until the end of the night.
• Bring different-colored pens and smudge your hand to approximate the stamp. When you approach the doorpeople, say you’ve already been stamped, and are just returning.
• Create a diversion. Bring a friend who doesn’t want to get in and have her pretend to foam at the mouth (Alka-Seltzer will come in handy). While she’s writhing on the floor and all the doormen are freaking out, you can sneak by without a hitch.
• If all else fails, make a scene, storm out, offend someone. If you don’t get in, you can at least ruin everyone else’s night.
Day 14—Forever, If You’re Lucky:
SWAG-A-LICIOUS, BABY!
John Cusack enjoys the perks of movie stardom. The affable actor is particularly fond of “celebrity looting.” During an interview with Black Book magazine, Cusack pointed out a Roots clothing store and said, “We did celebrity looting there…. They asked me to come over, patronize the store, pick up some stuff. So I took all my friends over, and we went straight for the $8,000 rack of leather coats and took a bunch. The managers, they get all nervous and twitchy. They freak. But you just look at ‘em really hard and walk out. That’s celebrity looting.”
—New York Post, Page Six, Sunday, October 13, 2002
Civilians (i.e., we who are not famous) want what the famous have—beauty products, hotel rooms, spa treatments, lingerie, watches, handbags, shoes, clothes, pens, meals, hairstylists, furnishings, cell phones, sunglasses, even a dinky little votive candle, for God’s sake. So it’s no coincidence that the first question reporters ask red-carpet-walking gods and goddesses is, “What are you wearing?” We, as a culture, want to know what celebrities don, decorate their homes with, eat for dinner, keep in the fridge, and put on to moisturize. The theory behind the phenomenon is simple: if they have it, it must be good … and so we should have it, too.
“Life on the ‘free’ way.” Swag at its finest.
The most popular section of magazines is usually the part where they tell you which celeb owns what. It often inspires shopping sprees. For manufacturers, store owners, publicists, and designers, celebrity approval means dollar signs. Their hope is that if she (or he) is seen wearing/eating/buying it, the consumer will run out and buy it, too. (Case in point: Once, Karen was trying on a pair of boots that she felt iffy about, but when she heard that there were only two pairs in stock and Claudia Schiffer purchased the other one, she instantly forked over her AmEx. Sad, but true!)
The irony is that celebrities don’t always do their shopping themselves! Often, when you read that so-and-so owns a certain handbag/pair of earrings/lamp/tampon case, it is because the designer sent the item to the celeb as a gift—then the publicist reports the “news” to a reporter, who prints it, tempting unknowing readers to run out and buy the same thing, even if the celeb had almost nothing to do with it.
This is swag.
Swag is what insiders call “free stuff.” It’s the loot, the ultimate perk of stardom, and a surefire sign that you’ve made it, after all. And in the land of fame and fabulousness, there’s plenty of swag to be had. Daily, stars, socialites, models, and people who possess a commanding brand name are blessed with boxes upon boxes of luxury gifts. They are invited to stores to pilfer whatever they choose. When they show up to parties, present awards on television, or get settled in their trailers on film sets, they are thanked with the most lavish gift bags imaginable—up to $20,000 worth of merch.
PRESENTERS AT THE 2002 OSCARS HAD A GOOD REASON TO THANK THE ACADEMY
THIS WAS IN THEIR GIFT BAGS
• Tempur-Pedic mattress, any size. Value up to $1,700
• La-Z-Boy recliners, choice of four. $539 to $1,199
• Three-night stay at Esperanza, a luxury resort in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. $3,000
• Allsteel #19 office chair. $1,195 to $1,495
• Hewlett-Packard PhotoSmart 715 camera. $499.99
• Sama sunglasses designed for the Oscars, for women only. $300
• Stainless-steel Ebel watch. $1,600 for the women with a mother-of-pearl dial, $1,450 for the men with a white roman dial.
• Flying Fig scarf. $300 to $1,100
• 90-minute Godiva chocolate body wrap at Ajune, a New York spa. $175
• Jenni Originals VegeSoy candle, handmade from an exclusive blend of soybean and vegetable waxes. $12.95
• Lancôme gift certificates. $200
• Gift certificate for Sonya Dakar, a problem-skin specialist. $500
• Complimentary teeth whitening at BriteSmile. $600
• Birkenstock gift certificate. $300
Receiving swag not only confirms your high-profile status and makes you feel special, but it also catapults your image. Why? Because it affords you glamour, grandeur, glory, and the right to boast, “They gave this to me for free.” It’s a fact of life that once you attain Julia Roberts status, you’ll never have to pay for anything ever again. Cartier watches, Christian Dior wardrobes, Louis Vuitton luggage per gratis are part of the lifestyle. A documentary estimated that Madonna has received $10 million worth of free designer clothes in her career. But it took her a long time to reach that position in life. Our advice to you is this: be patient. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Neither was your star on Hollywood Boulevard, baby. It may take ten, fifteen, even fifty attempts to secure your placement in some kind of hall of fame, but fret not, because once you do, the swag will be yours for the taking.
This chapter offers detailed instructions and tips for obtaining swag, including: how to secure a goody bag at the end of a party (this means, of course, getting invited to the kind of party where there are goody bags to be had—and we covered the party circuit in great length in Step VI), getting your little mitts
on free clothes, turning all favors into material rewards, how much free stuff costs (there’s always a catch), and what not to do if you’re trying to avoid the blacklist. Read it—and start making space in your closet. Trust us, you’ll need it!
GOODY BAGS, THE BEST PART OF ANY PARTY
THE SIDEWALK IS NO PLACE FOR A LADY
There I was, a respectable fashion journalist at the star-studded opening of a new designer boutique. Except, instead of being inside the party and living it up with the rest of Manhattan’s party faithful—the usual crew of models, socialites, publicists, magazine editors, artists, DJs, and trendoids who populated the scene—I was nursing a bruise from being shoved out the door by a particularly overzealous security guard.
My crime? I was caught stealing nineteen gift bags.
Okay. So nineteen gift bags sounds like a lot—like grand theft burglary, in fact. But I had a good excuse. Everyone else was doing it!
In New York, gift-bag culture dictates that the party aficionado affect uninterest in the contents of the goody bag handed out to guests at the end of the evening. It’s considered déclassé to root in your bag in front of fellow hipsters while you’re still at the event. The appropriate attitude is: I’m so above all this, I don’t even care about the free loot. Too cool for school. But at heart, everyone loves a gift bag. Even if its contents include only cheap-smelling lotion, a magazine you’ve already read, and a CD of a band that you’ve never heard of, leaving a party without a gift bag is a form of social defeat. I once arrived at a shopping party at an upscale department store too late to obtain the hundreds of dollars of free gift certificates that were handed out early in the evening. It is still the biggest regret of my life!
The holy grail … otherwise known as the gift-bag table!
The night I tried to steal nineteen gift bags, a well-known boutique on Fifth Avenue was celebrating its launch by producing a line of limited-edition designer shirts that would be available only through the gift bag. There was an electricity in the air as the crowd tingled with anticipation at receiving the coveted loot. As I kiss-kissed people I knew and partook of the hearty hors d’oeuvres, I eyed the gift-bag station like a hawk, just to make sure they would not run out of bags before I left. Near the end of the evening, it appeared that the boutique staff was having trouble keeping up with the demand as everyone began to leave. Boxed shirts littered the shelves, the table, and the floors. When the woman in charge of parceling out the gift bags left to bring more, a kind of mania exploded as the crowd pounced on the unmanned table.
Guests began to take up to four, five, ten gift bags each. Greed quickly took over as we all indulged in this unexpected liberty! It was gift-bag nirvana. We could take as many gift-bags as we wanted! I was out of breath and furiously cramming shirts into my oversize Prada tote bag as fast as I could manage (although I was still checking to make sure they were all the right sizes). At one point I was on my hands and knees, with six shirt boxes crumpled beneath each arm, frantically exhorting my boyfriend (now husband) Mike to “get down here and help me, for godssakes!” We could get more! One for my sister, one for my friend, one for my editor, one for my mom, et cetera. Suddenly I felt a tap on my arm.
“Ma’am! Ma’am!”
“What?” I asked, my arms bulging with boxes of the coveted shirts.
“Only one per person” the bouncer roared.
“But—look, everyone’s taking so many!” I pointed desperately to the guests who were merrily walking away with a dozen shirts each.
“Put the shirts down!”
I stared at him defiantly. These gift bags were mine!
“All right, that’s it! You’re out of here!” he said, forcibly removing the shirt boxes from my arms and marshaling me out the door.
The next thing I knew, I was standing outside the boutique, bereft of all but one gift bag. Through the glass doors I saw Mike, who was still inside, give me a puzzled what-are-you-doing-out-there look. He sauntered out of the party, and I told him my woeful tale. He grinned. “Look,” he said, opening his coat. Inside were seven shirt boxes. We ended up eleven short of my original goal, but at least I left with more than one!
GIMME, GIMME, GIMME!
“Are you going to the Chanel party?” I asked my friend.
“Totally. I hear the goody bags rule,” she said back.
There are some parties you go to just to get the goody bag, a parting gift that usually involves a gaggle of good swag. I’ve left events with fleece sweatshirts, Nike down jackets, iPods, Puma sneakers (anytime an invitation asks me to RSVP with my shoe size, I sure do RSVP, and add proudly, 6 ½ or 37 ½ European), gift certificates for chemical peels, cashmere wraps, kitten-heel Swarovski crystal-studded shoes. At a Mercedes launch for the new coupe one year, I was given a little red car for a free weekend in the Hamptons. When I sank comfortably into my leather bucket seats, there was a welcome (leather tote) bag, overflowing with CDs, driving gloves, a Mercedes beach towel, flip-flops for the beach, SPF 15 lotion, an Inca bikini and sarong, Hugo Boss sunglasses, a leather journal, beach-themed stationery, packets of Altoids, and snacks. Over the course of the weekend, each morning my car was cleaned and filled with gas and there was also a new gift bag, each better than the next. I must have taken home $3,000 worth of stuff—a Betsey Johnson denim jacket, Juicy Couture T-shirts, Kiehl’s products, tickets to the polo match, Michael Kors perfume.
So it’s easy to understand why a girl can get caught up in the party circuit and leave home just for the goody bags. And one brisk fall evening, I was no different. There were about a dozen fashion-world happenings that night, and I made it my duty to make it to each and every one, just to collect some swag. I left Bendel’s, my first stop, with four shopping bags of products (it was a take-whatever-you-want beauty party). I exited the Chanel store opening with a groovy, chunky floral ring that people compliment all the time. (I love saying, “It was in a gift bag.”) I walked out of a dinner party for a designer with a gift certificate for a suite at the hotel where the party was held, as well as a bottle of bubbly. I was so loaded with gifts that I had to ask friends to help carry my things. I closed the night at artist Damian Loeb’s loft, where he was hosting an intimate cocktail party. After downing three plastic cups of red wine and making a few social rounds of schmoozing, I was eager to get home and admire my loot.
As I walked out the door, I saw it—a table covered with gleaming silver tubes. “What great goody-bag packaging,” I yelled with delight, pocketing the goods. (Gift bags are usually placed on tables near the exit door.)
I was thinking that I couldn’t wait to see what was inside when Damian suddenly jumped off a sofa and pounced. “Those are my paints!” he shrieked, grabbing the shiny silver item from my hand. “They’re a hundred dollars a tube! They’re not gift bags!”
“Oh, my God!” I yelled. I apologized profusely. I was so embarrassed. I was so used to getting a little token at the end of a party that I had automatically mistaken his personal property for the coveted booty.
It was that night that I learned a very valuable lesson: there are no goody bags in the art world.
WE ARE, TOO, ON THE LIST!
We were having a drink at the chichi Chambers Hotel on West Fifty-sixth Street. And we couldn’t help but get distracted by the hullabaloo nearby. At the bottom of an architecturally designed staircase, a wealth of bags, overflowing with what appeared to be some very good stuff, resided on a table. “Karen, it’s a goody-bag table,” Mel said under her breath, jerking her head to the side to subtly point me in the direction of the aforementioned plunder. It was as if she were an undercover cop, narrowing in on a drug dealer. “Let’s go in,” I said. She nodded. Our goal: to get into the party and leave with loot in hand. Before approaching the two blond gatekeepers at the entrance, we did a spot of research … we followed a woman who was holding a goody bag into the bathroom and found out what the party was for. We figured, if we seemed like we knew exactly what was up, we’d be able to get in. On
ce we had the logistics, we marched toward the staircase, affecting a VIP posture (shoulder blades melting down the back; head high; navel in; chest out). We smiled, said hello, and walked right upstairs. “Excuse me,” one of the blonds said, just as we hit the third step, “it’s a private party.”
“Yes,” we said, spewing out as many details as we could remember. “We’re on the list,” Mel said.
“Under Cohen,” I added, as we continued to ascend to our rightful destination. They didn’t stop us. We indulged in a few free drinks and pastry puffs, did a lap, surveyed the scene, and left soon after.
“Not really in the mood to be out,” we said to the blonds when we walked back down to the lobby.
“I understand,” one said, handing us each a gift bag. Mission accomplished.
OUR VERY OWN GIFT BAGS
If a party isn’t a party without a gift bag, there was no way Mel and I were having a bash without offering a token something at the door. And because we’ve become gift-bag snobs, ungrateful receivers who have often left unwanted items in taxicabs, we were going to make it a damn good one. We got on the phone to our network of publicists, who helped us round up the following (for free, of course, as gift bags in the right hands is just a way of getting certain products brand exposure. It’s called grass roots marketing):
• The latest issue of Marie Claire
• A 15 percent discount card to Language, a hip downtown store that sells Chloe, Marc Jacobs, Stella McCartney, and Pucci
How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less Page 18