So before you decide to do the walk of fame, you should make sure you have a comeback plan in the back of your head, a strategy you can rely on when you lose favor in the public eye or do something awful that makes the world shun you. The key to the comeback is, you need to remain insignificant for a while. People have to sort of miss you, wonder what happened to you, and want you back by the time you return to grace. Your timing has to be perfect. If you wait too long, you might wind up like David Lee Roth, which is not good. But if you hit it right, you’ll be cruising, Travolta-style (even if he hasn’t made a good movie to save his life since Tarantino resurrected his career).
Luckily for us, we have not been playing this little game for long enough to speak from experience. But we can tell you this—we know exactly what we’ll do if we’re ousted from society. And next, we’ll give you some thoughts that will do the trick for you, too.
COMEBACK TIPS
THINGS ARE ALWAYS BETTER THE SECOND TIME AROUND
• Have a much-publicized accident. If you almost die, people might start to care about you again.
• Come out of the closet about a deep, dark, tragic secret in your past: an eating disorder, alcoholism, a jailbird daddy. You’ll be on Oprah. Everyone will want to know how you survived.
• Change your sexual preference. Look what it did for Anne Heche, who went from obscure to fabulous (Ellen years), incoherent Ecstasy freak (post-Ellen rampage), to a happy working mom (Coley Laffoon years).
• Lose weight or stop starving yourself and embrace your “real” size, be it an eight or a fourteen. The public loves nothing more than a good makeover.
• Publicly apologize for any bad behavior that may have caused your star to dim. If you’ve been in jail, have your publicist contact Barbara Walters to offer her the exclusive interview.
• Plan to get caught doing something disgraceful, like picking up a transvestite prostitute to get the public’s attention. Deny it (you were just helping someone get a ride, for heaven’s sake!) and use your newfound spotlight to make an announcement (a career change), reach out to your old publicist friends, or do something positive for the good of humankind.
• Write a tell-all book and have no fears about dragging names through the mud.
IN RETROSPECT …
I MISS MY MTV!
While life in the fabulous lane led me to many extreme highs—glittery parties, free couture dresses, VIP courtside seats at Knicks games, dinners with people who have said, “I’d like to thank the Academy” without irony, glorious trips abroad—it was also incredibly tiresome. I “worked” eighteen-hour days. I hardly slept. I bickered endlessly with my (then) boyfriend. I didn’t have time to sit on my sofa and enjoy a little “Must-See TV,” let alone go to the bathroom in peace. I constantly had to be “on” and “dressed.” And I was exhausted, beat, and desperate for a full eight hours of sleep. And half of my friends wanted to fire me for being MIA. Don’t get me wrong—it was so much fun. But living that way full-time … well … that’s another story.
My life would have been easier with ten assistants, a personal chef, a masseuse to work the kinks out of my neck between appointments, stylists who shopped for me around the clock, a team of managers, and full-time publicists who weren’t helping me as a one-time-only favor. But the upkeep of all of that is so unmanageable that I’d need a whole separate entourage to handle the business of it all. Truth is: I longed for calm days of hanging out with a friend at lunch without spending three-quarters of the time on my cell phone. I missed not being so frazzled morning, noon, and night. I craved some bonding time with my sofa! And I was ready to return to my (somewhat) mellow life behind the scenes (at least on a part-time basis) … even if it meant never wearing $2 million of diamonds again.
BACK TO THE SHADOWS?
Living under the spotlight is a strange thing. While I’ll always feel a special thrill from seeing my name in the paper, receiving invitations to the kind of parties I never would have been invited to in the past, and the hordes of free gifts, I can live without the gossip-column brouhahas, the fake conversations with people I barely know, and the underlying resentment from the staff for complimentary services rendered. (“Who does she think she is?”)
I realized one very important truth: I actually like my anonymity. I don’t like being fawned over (it makes me nervous) and I don’t like salespeople at boutiques to know exactly who I am and how much I’m paying. While I enjoyed getting great tables at the newest restaurants, I was uncomfortable with the scrutiny that came from such “celebrity” treatment. All the stuff can really go to your head—at one point Karen and I thought we were “too famous” to stick labels on the seven hundred-plus envelopes for our own book deal party. We were so used to people doing things for us that we sat in her kitchen, sighing and moaning and complaining about not having a team of lackeys to do the deed for us. It was then that epiphany struck: we needed a reality check!
While I’m more than happy to be invited to parties where I can guzzle free champagne, after reviewing all the unflattering photos of me in public, having to be “on” all the time was exhausting, not to mention the toll it took on my marriage (I’m still sorry I planned our gratuitous book deal party on my husband’s birthday …). I now realize I’d rather be in a quiet corner with a lot of hors d’ouevres, and far, far away from the flash of a photographer’s camera. Like Greta Garbo, I just vant to be alone. Until the next party, anyway!
PLEASE TRY THIS AT HOME!
AN IMPORTANT REMINDER
The real secret to fame is more fame. It’s a snowball that feeds on itself—once you convince enough people that you’re “famous,” more people will believe it, and the more famous you become. The cycle usually continues until the life you once called your own is hardly recognizable, albeit much more enchanting.
Fame is a many-splendored thing, but it is also quirky and unpredictable. Some seem to acquire it effortlessly vis-à-vis winning personalities, good looks, or a pedigree that fascinates the public. But for most of us to become well known, it takes elbow grease, determination, and a lot of butt kissing. Regardless of how you get there, you have to be prepared for some ugly times.
Your trainer may threaten to sue you. Your free haircuts could be abominable. Makeup artists may wind up leaving you with a sty in your eye before your big television debut. Hotels may accuse you of stealing stuff and breaking things. Significant others—and platonic friends—may resent your newfound popularity. You may have to wear something you hate just because it was a gift from a VID (very important designer). You could get hate mail, even if you’re the nicest person on Earth. If you gain weight, everyone will notice (and may even secretly be glad).
But unlike skateboarding down a hill, fame is not dangerous. Nor is it life-threatening. It’s a blast, and everyone who wants to do it should go out there and get their stuff together. So thicken your skin. Toughen up. Let your journey begin. Because the aforementioned disadvantages are nothing more than a luxury problem, when you think about it—a small price to pay. Just remember this: the object of the quest is not the free stuff, the fancy parties, the press clips, or the fact that you now get recognized when you buy the newspaper, but to enjoy life.
Why should celebrities have all the fun?
Acknowledgments
So many to thank, so little time before we get shushed by Bill Conti’s orchestra.
First of all, Marie Claire. None of this would have been possible without you, especially Lesley Jane Seymour, editor-in-chief extraordinaire; Stacy Morrison, who assigned us the story; Michael Callahan, who kept upping our expense account; and Sarah Eisen, who edited the piece and listened to countless hours of “oh my God” moments.
Deborah (our super-agent) Schneider! You rock. You totally believed in us, supported us, and indulged our school-girl antics and excitement. We adore you—you are such a godsend in great shoes. And Allison Dickens, our amazing editor, who got our jokes, encouraged our insanity, and (most importantly)
loved every word we wrote (there’s a gift bag in heaven with your name on it)!
To our families, Judi, Alan, and Jason Robinovitz, Mike Johnston (who bore the brunt of it all, patiently), Bert, Ching, and Francis de la Cruz, Steve and Aina Green, Dennis, Marsha, John, Anji, Tim, and Rob Johnston. You are our best cheerleaders and fans. This would mean nothing without you.
Big kisses to our supportive friends: Alison Oneacre, Alix Boyer, Grace Cha and the house of Christian Dior, Alvin Valley, Amy Larocca, Amy Sacco, Ann Dee Goldin, Jacob & Co., Beauty.com, Ben Widdicombe, Bill Ford, Brad Hamilton, Brad Zeifman, Carol Brodie and the Harry Winston designers, Daniel Boulud, David Trugerman, Deborah Hughes, Desiree Gruber, Diane Ghioto, Donna Bagdasarian, Edward Tricomi, Elisa Jimenez, Elizabeth Harrison, Ereka Dunn, Foxy Brown, Gail Parenteau, George Rush, Green Air, Horacio Silva, Jared Paul Stern, Jason Oliver Nixon, Jason Strauss and Noah Tepperberg, Jeff Klein, Jeffrey Slonim, Jennifer Maguire, Joey and T., John Potamousis, Jonathan Cheban, Jonathan Shriftman, Josh Sherer, Keith Kelly, Kenneth Tepper, Kim Hovey, Lara Shriftman, Laura Branigan, Laurent d and the Privé team, Lee Carter, Leslie Stevens, Libby Callaway (our favorite fashionista—without whom we would never have met), Liney Li, Lysa Bitner, Mama Combs, Marc Malkin, Mark Silver, Marvet Britto, Matt Paco, Melissa Silver, Michael Bragg, Michael Musto, Nancy Kane, Naomi Ramsey, Nicole Esposito, Nicole Young, Norah Lawlor, Peter Laitmon, Rachel Bernstein, Radu, Roger Friedman, Sam Firer and Stephen Hall, Sally Narkis, Sarah Greenberg, Sasha Lazard, Shawn Purdy, Simon Doonan, Stephen Knoll, Sue Devitt, Tammie Rosen, Tanya Braganti, The Siren girls, Tom Dolby, Winnie Beattie, everyone at Ballantine, and our tireless interns.
We’d also like to give a little love to everyone else who has been behind us and, of course, to the “little people” (we promised not to forget you)!
About the Authors
Melissa de la Cruz is the author of Cat’s Meow (Scribner 2001), a comic novel about celebrity society, and was dubbed “the Jackie Collins of the Moomba generation.” The book was published as The Girl Can’t Help It! in the United Kingdom and spent two months on Heat magazine’s Top 10 bestseller list. She writes regularly for Marie Claire and the serial fiction column The Fortune Hunters for Gotham, and she has penned the Celebrity Spotlight Column in Rosie. She lives in Manhattan with her husband.
Karen Robinovitz is a prolific writer who covers fashion, trends, style, celebrities, lifestyles of the rich rich and fabulous, and sex for Marie Claire, Harper’s Bazaar, the New York Post, and Elle, where she writes an entertaining column called, It’s My Party. In addition, Karen has contributed to the New York Times Styles section, Details, Glamour, and In Style. Her second book, Fete Accompli! The Ultimate Guide to Creative Entertaining (Clarkson Potter), was released in 2003. She lives in New York City.
For more information (or fun) visit
www.becomefamousintwoweeks.com, and stay tuned for their next book …
How to Become a Fashionista in Two Weeks or Less
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 2003 by Melissa de la Cruz and Karen Robinovitz
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Parts of this book appeared in a different form in Marie Claire magazine and are reprinted with permission.
Grateful acknowledgment is also made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:
New York Daily News, L.P.: excerpts from the Rush & Molloy column dated November 13, 2002. Reprinted with permission.
New York Post: excerpts from “Snaps” dated April 7, 2002, April 17, 2002, December 1, 2002; “Page Six” dated December 27, 2002, and October 13, 2002.
2002 Copyright, NYP Holdings, Inc. Reprinted with permission from the New York Post.
New York magazine logo courtesy of New York magazine.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2003091517
eISBN: 978-0-345-46449-1
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