• Don’t ask for gifts for your friends or relatives. (See above.)
• Don’t forget to send a thank-you note.
• Don’t announce (in public) that it was free. Keep a low profile and brag in private.
• Don’t take anything for granted, behave like a diva, complain, send back food, or cop a ‘tude. Remember, free stuff is a privilege, not a right.
• Don’t be late for your appointments or returning things to the lender.
• Don’t pull the “dirty return” routine, which is when you bring back the free item to a store for either credit or cash money. Often free gifts are marked in some way or not even available in retail stores (we know people who have been busted—and it has tarnished their image).
Two Weeks and Onward:
LIFE BEYOND THE FIRST FIFTEEN MINUTES
Fame is often fleeting. You can be the hottest thing on the planet one minute and a distant, fading memory the next. In New York society, there is a famous story about a no-name shop girl who became famous because she met up with the right publicists, who dressed her in designer clothes, pitched stories about her to the media, and invited her to fancy parties. She became the darling of the tony uptown subculture. She was in beautifully art-directed pages of the fashion magazines. Everyone thought her star would burn brightly forever … until she slept with the wrong person. She was banned from society, blackballed from parties, and completely ousted from New York life. No one has heard from her since.
If you don’t want to be a flash in the pan, yet another Warholian statistic—here today, gone tomorrow—then brush up on your marketing skills and learn how to constantly surprise the world by reinventing yourself wisely and continuing to practice the fame moves we have taught you. First things first: you must never take fame for granted or else you will lose it. If you think climbing, begging, faxing, bribing, lying, crying, and schmoozing your way to the top was hard … get ready to work even harder to stay there.
Once you reach the limelight, you have to learn to withstand the test of time. Any celeb, celebrity manager, agent, or publicist will tell you there are a few rules to follow: Manage your image strategically. Think before you say or do anything marginally offensive in public. If you do run off at the mouth, be prepared to deliver a public apology to facilitate your return to glory. Surround yourself with the “right” people. And don’t let things go to your head.
That said, this chapter includes details on dealing with the public (when you’re no longer a nameless, anonymous person, life changes drastically and you’ll need to know how to handle it elegantly), ideas for reinventing yourself (can you say Angelina Jolie?), comeback tips that will make your second act better than your first (Hugh Grant is so much better post-Divine Brown, don’t you agree?), and all the sneaky tricks you’ll need to stay in the picture, kid.
DEALING WITH RECOGNITION—YOU’RE NO LONGER ANONYMOUS
HERE’S MY CREDIT CARD—AND AN AUTOGRAPH
After the Marie Claire article came out, my phone rang like crazy. Childhood camp friends called me. My parents refused to stop referring to me as “our famous daughter.” A publicist informed me that “everyone” was talking about Mel and me. Invitations flooded my mailbox—a private Oasis concert, some kind of gala for the Rolling Stones in Vegas, Art Basel (the biggest modern art event in the states), a party for Kevin Spacey, charity balls, a trip to Brazil. I was even asked to host a benefit for breast cancer at a chic gallery space. (“Can we please put you on the invitation?” the event planner asked. “Anything for a good cause,” I said.)
My mother’s friend’s twenty-four-year-old son mentioned my name to one of his friends in casual conversation. “Karen, a close family friend, had a party at Bungalow 8.” When his friend heard it was me, she yelled, “You know Karen Robinovitz! The famous writer!” It was madness. On the one hand, it was amazing, as if it were a sign of universal acceptance. I had never experienced anything like it. A part of me felt like tossing my hat in the air and singing, “I’ve made it after all.”
On the other hand, it was all so overwhelming, uncomfortable, and seemingly fake. I couldn’t imagine what the “real” stars must go through. People I never met were coming up to me and saying, “I love that you did all of those things!” Old friends reconnected with me … to see if I could help them get things for free or reservations at certain fully booked restaurants. Someone even asked me if I’d call “my people” at Harry Winston to get her a diamond tiara for her wedding! It made me feel used. What did people want from me? I was really just the same girl from New Jersey whose favorite pastime was popping blackheads in the mirror. (Yeah, I know, I’ve been practicing that line.)
Months after the piece ran, I was shopping at my favorite store. While I was trying to concentrate on whether or not to splurge for a beaded tunic with kimono sleeves, two women asked me if I was that girl who did that famous article. When I told them I was, they said, “I knew it! You’re so cool!” They grabbed my hand as if we were best friends, and began to fire a million questions my way. They wanted all the juicy details—how I got into parties, appeared on television, borrowed furs and Harry Winston jewels—so they could pull off the same “act.” I gave them the scoop, thanked them, and bought my new favorite top. As I signed my name on the dotted line of my credit card bill, the girls came up to me and asked me for my autograph.
My autograph! Hello!
It was my first true celebrity moment. I will cherish it always.
UNDERCOVER BACHELOR
In the winter of 2001, a young man tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I was Melissa de la Cruz. Unfortunately, instead of asking for my autograph, which I was more than ready to provide, he handed me a stack of bills instead. “These were mistakenly put in my mailbox,” he explained. Apparently, even if the London Telegraph once dubbed me a “minor celebrity” in New York since the publication of my novel, I was far from famous, and slightly delusional as well.
So when my Marie Claire editor asked me if I wanted to take on the challenge of “becoming famous” in two weeks, I jumped at the chance. The reality-show fan that I am, I don’t even want to live off camera. What’s the point? These days, you don’t even have to have talent or looks to become famous. You can be famous just for being famous—like the plethora of socialites who are photographed at parties simply because they attend a lot of them.
It was a grand two weeks. From the borrowed couture to the glamorous parties, I lived the kind of life that is bestowed on only the very, very lucky. I didn’t have to pay for a meal or a drink during the whole experience. And afterward, my social life transcended to a higher level. Instead of my having to fax, cajole, and beg my way into events, my mailbox is now crammed with thick, gold-bordered invitations, and my phone hasn’t stopped ringing. I’ve been asked to the film premiere of Unfaithful, hosted by Richard Gere; the Whitney Museum’s annual Art Party; a private theater benefit with Julianne Moore, and openings of hotels in Paris and Sao Paolo. I was invited to host private parties in restaurants and to appear on local and national television. Not mention all the designer clothes I got to actually keep.
I got effusive fan e-mails from as far away as New Zealand and good wishes from acquaintances from high school and beyond who made an effort to get back in touch. “You were on Extra,” a friend e-mailed excitedly the other day. Well, no, not really, but close. I never received as much notice for my novel as when my name appeared in Page Six. The story even took a life of its own. Gotham magazine even used our little stunt as a kicker to their fame issue: “Fabulous or frightening?” the editor’s letter asked. A worthy question indeed.
I’m so famous that I got tapped on the shoulder while I was waiting for a table at a neighborhood restaurant. “Are you Melissa de la Cruz?” a young woman asked. “Why, yes,” I answered, thinking she must have seen me in all the magazines and gossip columns. She just laughed. “You’re the one who crashed her fiancé’s bachelor party as Judge Ito!”
So as m
uch as I wanted to style myself as the next It-girl-about-town, I realized that to achieve true celebrity, good hair, great clothes, and fancy parties are nothing next to looking like a frumpy Japanese judge in drag. In other words, Michael Musto was right. I’ve become famous because I’ve done something embarrassing. And I have the photographs to prove it.
FACING THE PUBLIC
NOW THAT YOU’RE FAMOUS, PEOPLE WILL WANT A PIECE OF YOU. GO AHEAD, MAKE THEIR DAY!
• Be gracious and modest. Nobody likes a sulky or arrogant celebrity who punches out paparazzi photographers.
• Look your best—even if it’s just for going to the supermarket. You don’t want to disappoint people or hear them say, “You look so much better in your photographs.”
• Always sign autographs if you are lucky enough to be asked.
• Never complain in public—it will be gossiped about.
• Have confidentiality agreements for those who are close to you. You don’t want them turning on you one day and ruining your image to make a quick buck.
• Realize that your every move will now be scrutinized, from your breakups and heartaches to your tipping habits and doctors’ visits. So be sure to be a good tipper! There is nothing worse than being seen as cheap. It will make people resent your success.
• Put a positive spin on everything. Not getting much attention lately? Claim you’ve taken a much-needed, well-deserved hiatus.
CH-CH-CH-CHANGES: THE ONLY WAY TO KEEP YOUR PROFILE FRESH
THE NEXT PHASE?
I started life as a geek. Then I was popular. Then I was a computer programmer with a serious job and real money. When I switched careers to write full time, I had to be “popular” again. I wrote a humorous novel about fashion and society. I was frothy, cotton-candy, cream-puff girl. I was a fashion journo, a glossy magazine chick, someone whom former boyfriends likened to Cher on Clueless. But it’s time to say good-bye to the popular-girl personality, to bid au revoir to the cute ditz. While these personas worked well for me in my attempt to rid myself of the unglamorous stigma of actually knowing how to program in Visual Basic, they sometimes mask the real person and the real writer underneath.
Sometimes the smartest thing to do is to act dumb. I think Marilyn Monroe was the one who said that, and she should know. Playing shallow and affecting frivolity is one thing, but I want to show the world there’s more to me than five-hundred-word articles about the latest Marc Jacobs jacket (admittedly, it might not be much, but it is there). I grew up in Manila, and immigrated with my family to San Francisco when I was twelve. Growing up in America as an immigrant has strongly affected how I see the world, and I have yet to write about my perspective. When I first started my writing career, I made a name for myself as “the Angry Asian Girl.” I wrote rants and screeds in wonky journals and controversial local newspapers. I wrote articles entitled “Gook Fetish” (about white-man-and-Asian-woman relationships) and “Single White Female: A Second ‘Banana’ Speaks Out” (about my relationship with a privileged white friend). But I gave it up once I stopped being so angry, and I devoted my career to the lighter side of life.
I loved trying to become famous, and I’ll always have a soft spot for fashion, celebrity, and frou-frou. I’ll always be up for assignments that ask me to “figure out what it takes to get fired” or to “round up the gold diggers.” Yet even as I make an effort to produce works that are maybe a little quieter, maybe a little more introspective, and, dare I say it, maybe a little more serious, I’ll always remember what my mom told me: “Just be yourself!” And man, I just can’t keep a straight face—even as I write this solemn and self-indulgent creed. Heh, heh, heh.
LIFE BEYOND INSANITY?
I have mentioned more than once that I built a name for myself for somewhat sensationalized journalism, that people knew me for being naked or doing something crazy—like injecting non-FDA-approved drugs into my body to dissolve fat and smearing human placenta on my face to clear up my skin (such a trend in Hollywood and jet-set society circles that the placenta woman actually books a suite at the five-star Peninsula Hotel before the Oscars to do celeb skin with purified placenta, shipped from Russia, for the big night)—for the sake of an article. “What won’t you do?” people often asked. (“Well, I wouldn’t fake my own death,” I tell them.)
After a while, I got sick of being seen as “a crazy.” Truth is, I may be a ballsy, brazen, bold, open-minded person who likes a bit of attention from time to time and appreciates the art of shocking others, but I am actually quite wholesome at heart. I don’t booze up. I don’t smoke. I don’t do any form of drug. Even if some of the stories I’ve written about sex (the one about the orgy scene in Manhattan or my day in the dominatrix dungeon come to mind) lead people to believe otherwise, I don’t sleep around. I avoid white flour whenever possible. I don’t even drink caffeine. After hearing enough people say, “I cannot believe that story! It’s your most insane one,” I became determined to alter my image and be more than just “the naked girl who will do anything.” I am more profound than that—and I have a $100,000 college degree from Emory University (where I was pre-med and interning for a neurosurgeon) to prove it!
So I began to cover more serious stories—women’s issues, private anticounterfeiting investigations of Chinatown lairs where fake Chanel and Louis Vuitton bags are illegally stored and sold and often made in sweatshops, a ring of kidnappers in Mexico who peddle children for kiddie porn, the new wave of spirituality in America (and the models who subscribe to it). I turned down the kind of assignments I used to kill for—making out with someone in a church just to see how long it would take before we got in trouble, and taking an oral sex class.
Although it became relieving to stop getting calls from my father about the latest article about the clitoris, it was also a hard adjustment. I actually had to mourn for the identity I once had before I could fully embrace the new one: serious journalist. I began to get complimentary phone calls and comments from people who appreciated the change of direction of my work, but at the same time, I dealt with frustrated editors who were not that pleased with the fact that I was no longer their go-to girl, the writer who would do anything no mere mortal would attempt (i.e., walk around the city wearing a wrap dress that purposely unwrapped … just to see who would tell—and help—me). I didn’t have as much work at first, as it took time to build a new reputation. But I got there slowly and wound up in a better place than I was before (I got this book deal, after all).
Life in the more conservative lane, admittedly, is not always as exciting. I don’t wind up in strange subcultures of New York City, reporting on funky lesbian S&M parties. I haven’t met a drag queen who sells Tupperware in months. There may be no more assignments that require me to be kidnapped by a company that offers abduction-experience services, but in a few more years I expect that everyone will be sick of my straitlaced self and I can go back to my wicked, randy ways.
REINVENT YOURSELF
PEOPLE ARE FICKLE. IF YOU DON’T GIVE THEM SOMETHING NEW EVERY TWO YEARS, YOU’LL BE IGNORED AND THEN FORGOTTEN
• Change your personal style. Go from stiletto-wearing vamp to tree-hugging bohemian, or tattooed rocker to sophisticated uptown lady. If you’ve always been buttoned-up, let it all hang out for a change and channel Christina Aguilera’s dirty spirit.
• Get on a health campaign. Eat only macrobiotic food. Hire the most famous Hollywood chef to help support your cause. Tell everyone who will listen. Eventually, when you’re a svelte size four and palling around with Donna Karan’s entourage of helpers (trainers, yogis, healers), they’ll start paying attention.
• Drastically alter your haircolor or haircut. A new look will always give you a fresh image.
• Take up a new lifestyle. If you were a playboy, settle down and declare that you’ve “fallen in love” and adopted a new Cambodian baby.
• Constantly find a new cause to defend. Support PETA with a vengeance. (Try to do an ad for them if possible, but if you do,
don’t run around soon after wearing a fur jacket, like Cindy Crawford did.)
• And while you’re at it, take up a new religion and promote the hell out of it.
• Consider changing your accent—even if you don’t move out of the country.
• Remove your breast implants. You’ll be lauded as a brave martyr.
• Announce that you’re retiring, Michael Jordan style, or giving your very last performance, à la Babs. Have farewell parties. Make a big hoopla over the fact that you’re leaving the limelight. Change your mind six months later. You’ll have been gone just long enough for them to start really missing you.
THE SECOND ACT
ROLLER-COASTER RIDE
If you mapped out the life of a famous person, it would look something like an EKG. There are many ups and downs. You’re hot one day and obsolete the next, only to return, sometimes twenty years later, because some new film director wants to take a chance on an oldie but goodie; you wind up a star again when you come out about your bipolar disorder (and the fact that you were found wandering barefoot in the desert of New Mexico); or you pioneer a suddenly popular charity, benefit, or cause. If cats have nine lives, celebrities must have a dozen.
They can go from superstar child actor to drug-addicted petty-thief leper and return to the public eye by cleaning up, getting in shape, writing a tell-all book, and posing for an ad campaign—or even Playboy—to get their name back on the map … and eventually parlaying the attention, strategically, into superstar status. This is also known as “the comeback,” the time when someone who has lost their fame reemerges with a new attitude, vibe, and brand name. Just look at John Travolta, Drew Barrymore, and Rob Lowe. They’ve all successfully gotten famous, lost fame, and regained it again.
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