DEMAND, DEMAND, DEMAND!
TAXI!
When we started our famous assignment for Marie Claire, our editors gave us an expense account of $300. On the first day we blew the entire budget—on taxicabs! Celebrities do not take the subway, we cried, begging our editors for more cash. How were we to convince the world of our fame if we were forced to travel with the masses, underground, on—gasp!—public transportation? Subways are not conducive to high heels, we argued. And what about the germs? No, we were not getting on the 6 line! It would tarnish our budding images. It was bad enough that we couldn’t afford a limousine or at least a car service, but not taking a taxi was out of the question, we said, reading them the diva act. We were a little afraid to be so high-maintenance—scared that if we were too self-important, they’d threaten, “You’ll never work in this town again!” But our demands got us exactly what we wanted—more green for taxicabs! As God is our witness, we’ll never ride the subway again.
BALANCING THE HIGH-MAINTENANCE ACT
Don’t worry about coming across as high-maintenance, because famous people are, in fact, high-maintenance. It demonstrates that you know what you want and how to ask for it without apologies. Being a little annoying—or even rude—goes a long way:
• Request the newest car (in black with tinted windows) in the fleet when using a car service. You will not dare sit your precious bum down in a ratty old Lincoln “Townhouse.” Besides, the new cars are the same price—or $5 more.
• Demand the best table. If no available tables will do, tip the guy at the club or restaurant to bring a table from the back to place in the center of the room. It works for Graydon Carter, editor-in-chief of Vanity Fair.
• Never walk into a full elevator. You like your personal space. A notorious actress once demanded this. Keep in mind that if you choose to do this, you might be waiting in the lobby for a long, long time.
• When shopping, ask for the biggest, most private dressing room. Maybe they’ll even close the store for your spree. They did for Imelda Marcos. You might just incite a populace to revolution, though.
• Choose an M&M color to hate. Stick to it. Van Halen didn’t become Van Halen until they had flunkies weeding out the brown M&Ms from their dressing rooms.
• Is there a perfume that you want? Request to have it spritzed in your quarters. J. Lo can’t travel without smelling Barney’s Route du Thé anywhere.
• The toilet. Bathed in flowers? Lit by candles? Take a cue from Barbra Streisand. Wherever you park your posterior, make sure it lives up to your standards.
Days 2–5:
THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS BAD PUBLICITY, DARLING
If you want to be famous, you’re not allowed to hide your light under a bushel. Blow your own horn, people. And blow it loud! You have to be heard to be seen. But the real trick to boldface status is to find someone whose voice is a bit louder than yours—and have that person become your mouthpiece.
The secret to stardom lies in the hands of a chatty publicist, a person whose sole purpose is to make something or someone famous, to talk them up to the behind-the-scenes media powers-that-be, as well as noteworthy imagemakers, trendsetters, and tastemakers. A publicist is one who’s paid to make you look good, to make sure you know what to say when people ask for your opinion, to make sure people ask for your opinion, and to secure you the right placement in photos, magazines, television, and newspapers.
A publicist will throw you parties and get you into all the right events. And the best part of what a savvy publicist does is simple: he or she will make your name a household one and turn your brand into an enterprise. A publicist. Never leave home without one! How do you think Jennifer Lopez became J. Lo?
These days, everyone has a flack. Dentists, bikini waxers, dermatologists, SAT tutors, even publicists have their own publicists. A good PR person doesn’t have to be an NYC-power girl who charges $10,000 per month, but anyone with a natural knack for marketing, persuasion, and making people listen. A good publicist can be anyone who knows a lot of people in some of the right places.
So you can see why it’s a vital part of the fame game. Hire a PR guru immediately. And if you don’t—or can’t afford one—you must learn to become your own. It’s called acting, which shouldn’t be such a problem, considering that fame is nothing without it. This chapter gives you the inside scoop on the PR world: how to find a publicist and negotiate fees, what to ask for and what to expect in return, the importance of the PR-driven party, and time-honored secrets of how to be your own publicist.
CALLING ALL FAVORS!
IT’S WHO YOU KNOW THAT COUNTS
I didn’t think I needed a publicist. I felt confident I would be able to attract enough “heat” on my own in order for my visage to be plastered all over town. I was a published author, after all! Didn’t that count for something? But being a published author in a town where teenage heiresses wear dresses made of Saran Wrap is like being a nun at an orgy. Nobody pays attention. My strategy got me absolutely nowhere. Oh, I was able to wrangle some party invitations on my own, but after three days of storming the most exclusive events in town, my press clippings-meter stood frozen at zero.
Feeling slightly more desperate as the days went by, my anonymity loomed like a lead balloon over the whole giddy enterprise. I was especially piqued when I received Karen’s invitation for her thirtieth birthday party with an RSVP line to PR powerhouse Harrison & Shriftman. Eeek! It was time to call in the professionals!
I decided to contact my friend Norah Lawlor, the head of Lawlor Media Group, a publicity firm that represents luxury-lifestyle accounts. Norah, a six-foot dynamo with a rash of untidy, rocker-chick hair, had a throaty laugh and a no-nonsense approach to the bang-up, slash-and-burn, take-no-prisoners world of New York glitterati nightlife. At twenty-two, as the publicity agent for Stringfellows (“When it was still a nightclub for rock stars instead of a strip club for yuppies”) she had jetted to Mal-com Forbes’s legendary party in the Caribbean, and was the woman behind the prized guest lists at the most elite clubs in the city—including Eugene, where P. Diddy liked to hold court in the VIP room.
Norah had been nice enough to throw me my book party the year before. I had mentioned during one of her intimate dinner parties at a new restaurant she was repping that my first novel was coming out, and on the spot, she offered her services. My publisher had already advised me that their book-party budget was nonexistent, so I was thrilled. Norah arranged for my party to be held at Eugene’s front room, a vast expanse of white columns and airy ceilings. She brought in Moët & Chandon to donate splits of champagne (the fashionista drink of choice) and invited three hundred of the city’s indomitable party faithful to fete me and my novel. I knew I had “made” it when I spotted New York’s most enterprising gate-crasher, nicknamed “Shaggy” by none other than Page Six, hogging hors d’oeuvres and clutching a copy of my book to his chest.
Unfortunately, Norah wasn’t returning my calls. A week after the fame game had begun, I finally received a breathless message: “Melissa, I’m back in town; I’m so sorry I couldn’t get in touch with you earlier—I was away in LA for the Oscars … but let me put something together for you now.” Norah chided my earlier efforts, and told me that just being seen at high-profile events isn’t enough; what I needed to do was create one. She decided to go straight to the source—the journalists who decided who was in or out in New York—and to entertain them at a private “media dinner,” where they could meet me in person.
In rapid succession, Norah had recruited Jared Paul Stern of Page Six to host my party, and personally invited a dozen powerful journalists from New York magazine, the New York Observer, the New York Post, the New York Daily News, Gotham, Fox News, Vanity Fair, and Allure to attend an intimate dinner for me at Orsay, the swanky Upper East Side restaurant favored by socialites like Pat Buckley and Nan Kempner.
Norah also put together a phenomenal goody bag of Oscar-worthy caliber: haircuts and hair products from the
fashionable Prive salon at the Soho Grand Hotel, dinners for two at Chango, facials at Warren-Tricomi, a full bottle of Bacardi rum (not just the little airline-sized ones that are par for the course in most goody bag loot), and the pièce de résistance, free airline tickets on Jet Blue to fly everyone to stay at the Mercury Resort, a five-star hotel in Miami favored by the likes of Will Smith.
“Pretty hot, no?” she asked, leaning back in satisfaction as we reviewed the guest list. “You’re going to be big!” She grinned.
Thanks to Norah’s help, my dinner party generated scads of press hits. It was written up everywhere from Page Six to Chic Happens to Fox411.com. My picture ran in New York magazine, Gotham, the New York Post’s party column, and Ocean Drive. I was amazed. It took only one phone call to a publicist, and I was already on my way to becoming Somebody.
PLEADING FOR PR
I barrel into Harrison & Shriftman, a top publicity, special events, and marketing firm. They are famous in New York, Miami, and Los Angeles for doing the most exclusive parties—runway shows for Oscar de la Renta, major film premieres (Charlie’s Angels and Bridget Jones’s Diary), store openings for Jimmy Choo, huge bashes for Mercedes-Benz, and the kind of galas that Courtney Love and Leo DiCaprio attend. As a journalist, I have covered Harrison & Shriftman events ever since I began my career. I know the impact of their fab invitations firsthand. The second anyone receives one, they automatically RSVP. My goal? To convince them to produce my thirtieth-birthday bash (and get it press)—for free! The challenge? They never do personal parties, unless you’re, say, Matt Damon (they did his thirtieth birthday party). My plan of attack? Work my charm and—okay—beg.
After I pleaded my case in their gleaming, sun-drenched white-and-chocolate-brown offices on a Monday afternoon, they miraculously agreed. It probably didn’t hurt that I’ve been friends with Lara Shriftman, one of the company’s principals, for six years! Lara, known as a master planner, called her event production team into the conference room to begin. I watched in amazement as she delegated. “You, find a space. You, secure the liquor sponsors. You, get a DJ. You, get food donated. You, design invitations. You, work on press.” Minutes later, a triumphant employee hooked me up with the hottest spot in town, Bungalow 8, which is a very chic nightclub where you need a private key to enter (Carrie Bradshaw even had trouble getting behind the velvet ropes of this place on an episode of Sex and the City) and Kevin Spacey is often seen.
They persuaded the owner, an often-photographed It girl called Amy Sacco, to lend me the use of her space gratis. (I had been to her club, but didn’t own a key … yet!) Faxes and e-mails went out at light-speed, and within a half hour, everything was sealed—a Krispy Kreme doughnut cake, M&Ms special-ordered in pink (to match my dress), a DJ who specialized in disco (my favorite), over fifty pounds of candy from Economy Candy, an old-school candy store on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, and loads of alcohol from Christiana vodka, Piper-Heidsieck, and Guinness. All donated because my party was pitched as a high-profile, A-list event with a guest list of “imagemakers and tastemakers.” The reason everyone gave so generously? When a good publicist throws a party, people write about it. And when people write about, it generates press for everyone who donated their bounty. And for me, it would lead to fun, fun, and even more fun.
This was huge! I was told I could invite two hundred of my closest friends. (I didn’t even have two hundred close friends.) Before I knew it, word spread about my party. People I hardly knew started calling me to ask if they’d be invited. Hours after I left the H&S headquarters, I bumped into a friend, who said, “I heard about your party! Congratulations,” planting a hug on me. She was so excited, you’d think I’d won an Oscar! I was contacted by PR people who represent hairstylists from Warren-Tricomi, a posh salon always mentioned in Vogue, and makeup artists from the Bobbi Brown. They wanted their peeps to doll me up for my debut.
Amy Sacco offered me her VIP bathroom suite to get dressed before the big night. My parents decided to fly to New York from Florida for the affair. And the next day, when I was fabric shopping with Elisa Jimenez, we bumped into Sasha Lazard, a super-hot girl-about-town who had just released a new techno-opera album. I told her about the party and before I knew it, she agreed to perform! A free, private concert for my three-oh! Life was getting better by the second.
I even heard that Betsey Johnson’s flack called to see if the designer herself could come to the bash. And the night of the party? Well, Calvin Klein was there, along with Tara Reid, Estella Warren, model Devon Aoki, and music mogul Damon Dash. It was jammed! But sadly, a dozen of my closest friends were turned away at the door! (I didn’t find this out until I got home and listened to my answering machine.) It was then that I realized—I’ve come a long way since my bowling party last year!
HIRING A PUBLICIST
• Do your research to find a publicist who’s right for you. Befriend the yellow pages, your Better Business Bureau, and scan all of the magazines for a person, place, or thing that is written about everywhere. Then call that company or person’s corporate office to find out who does their PR. Hire that person immediately.
• There are many types of PR agencies, including those that handle only corporate accounts, fashion clients, beauty products, special events, and personalities. Ideally, you want to work with someone who handles luxury-lifestyle clients.
• Ask around. Did a friend have a launch party for something? If so, did she hire a publicist? Personal references are key.
• Get the publicist’s references and previous press clippings (bounties of his or her work) to prove that they can make some magic happen.
• Find out which “power people” your publicist has relationships with and how they will benefit you.
• Negotiate fees. Most publicists charge a monthly retainer fee, during which time they will do everything they can to promote you and your brand. See if you can do a three-month trial, or try to get away with paying for PR upon delivery (i.e., a certain amount of money for press coverage upon publishing).
• Barter. Some PR agents will trade services with you. Say you have something worthy to give, like clothing you design or photographs you’ve taken; find out if they’ll exchange your hard work for theirs.
STOP THE PRESS!
REALITY BITES! I’M NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR PAGE SIX!
In New York society, there is one barometer of fame, and it’s called Page Six. Page Six is the gossip column of the New York Post, a newspaper I happen to write lifestyle and fashion features for regularly. Page Six provides the grittiest, dirtiest, most scintillating dirt in town. Their reporters take no prisoners. They, after all, were responsible for Monica Lewinsky’s unfortunate nickname, “Portly Pepperpot.” Some of their tidbits have even gotten people suspended without pay—or even fired—from their jobs (the one about the well-known seemingly conservative news reporter who posted a television personal advertising his bondage fetish and homemade “tickle toys,” along with his “pleasure-seeking” lifestyle, comes to mind)! Page Six can be your biggest nightmare when you’re sleeping with someone’s husband, entangled in a high-profile custody battle, or the center of any kind of scandal (no matter how big or small), but it can also be your best friend. Especially if you have a movie, book deal, or new job to plug. Why? Because everyone from film moguls and models to political heads and publishing execs read it.
Page Six is the second home for the likes of Gwynnie, Bill Clinton, and pretty young society things who wear pretty short skirts. Whether or not you want Page Six status, being a Page Sixer, as regulars are often called, is a symbol that you have arrived. Call it a debutante ball of sorts. Of course, I wanted in—sans scandal and humiliating moniker. I hoped that the news of my birthday party would grant me an entrance. So I called one of the Page Six reporters with whom I was friendly. I figured it would be a no-brainer. She was invited to the event, and witness to guests such as Calvin Klein, Tara Reid, Estella Warren, and music mogul Damon Dash. How could she not give me
a little love? I thought. I called her confidently to ask for a favor. Before I could even finish my sentence, I got rejected. Brutally.
I was informed that I was not at Page Six level. Not at Page Six level! Why wasn’t I good enough? I was an accomplished writer! I had a book deal! And I was one of the Post’s own, for God’s sake! What would I have to do, I wondered—break up a happy, high-profile marriage, throw a tofu pie at a celebrity wearing fur, rob Saks Fifth Avenue, date Ben Affleck? When I told a PR friend my plight, she shook her head and scolded, “You have to have a publicist make that call, not you!” I looked in the mirror in disgust. I had become the very thing I have always despised: a press whore! I wanted it so badly that I personally called the gossip column and asked them to gossip about me. That might just be the lowest depth of misery. The cardinal rule of celebrity is that the famous ones never call to get their own press.
Although my birthday party pictures and story ran in a different section of the paper, I still felt like such a fool, especially the morning after my party, when I spotted Melissa’s name in Page Six in boldface.
CHIC HITS THE FAN
Two of my oldest friends are Ben Widdicombe and Horacio Silva, the brains behind the notoriously bitchy “Chic Happens” on-line gossip column. “Chic Happens,” as most in the fashion world know, is the most-read scandal sheet in the trade—the kind of gossip column that asks, “Which executive producer of a fashion show asks her minions to calm her down by making dolphin noises?” “Chic Happens” also broke the hilarious news about the existence of avant-garde photos of supermodel sphincters that included a portrait of Kate Moss’s “chocolate starfish.” I called Ben and briefed him on my assignment—to garner as many press hits as possible in two weeks—and beseeched him to make me a Chicster. “Sure thing, doll,” he promised. The next day, I read, with pleasure, my first entree in “Chic Happens”:
How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less Page 6
