I was desperate.
So I got creative. I asked my friend Nicole, a connected gal-about-town, who knows Radu, to put in a recommendation call. She’s the type of girl who’s persuasive without being pushy, slick without being creepy, and forthcoming without being demanding. She would be my perfect faux-publicist. A day later she called me and said, “Girl, you owe me big.”
Not only did she get Radu to fit me into his schedule—but for free! She told him that I was a rising It girl and he had to work me out—that if I looked good, he’d look good. I don’t know what else she said (she wouldn’t give away her secrets), but whatever it was, it did the trick. When I walked into his gym, I was greeted with the most welcoming of hellos. The receptionist who wouldn’t give me the time of day earlier that week was warm and fuzzy, kissing me on both cheeks, giving me free Radu T-shirts and cross-trainers. Then Radu introduced me to everyone who worked at the gym as a VIP. “Give her anything she wants. She’s a very special client,” he said.
I must have been. I started training with him at a plum eight A.M. slot three days a week. His workouts were a sweat-induced frenzy. He had me climbing up walls, using gymnastics rings, chasing him in circles while we were enclosed in a super-strength and supersized rubber band, at such a frantic pace you’d think I had to change my body completely for some kind of movie role. After the fifth session, my body was in so much pain that in order to wash my arms in the shower, I squirted pump soap on the wall and rubbed my shoulder against it!
Was looking good worth this much agony? I decided it wasn’t. But at least I can say I trained with Radu, even if I look nothing like Cindy C.
YOU, THE PR GURU!
If you can’t hire a publicist, here’s how to become your own.
• Invent the name of your PR firm and make all of your own calls as if you were the senior rep or principal of the agency. (“Hi, I’m from In-Your-Face PR and I’m calling about the hottest new It girl … [your name here]”).
• Consider holding your nose to create a nasal, high-pitched voice, or talk with your chin tucked closely to your chest, which will give the effect of a deeper, huskier baritone sound.
• Begin talking about “my publicist” incessantly, even if you’re breaking up with your boyfriend or talking to your mom. Try these on for size: “My publicist does not think I should be involved with you, Jimmy. You’re not good for my image,” and “Mom, I can’t talk. My publicist and I have a conference call.”
• Investigate the magazine industry and learn the names of all of the editors and the sections they edit. This way you know who to pitch yourself to.
• Use your PR alter ego before you go anywhere in order to inform people of your impending appearance. For instance, before you hit the hottest restaurant in town, call the manager or owner to let him or her know a VIP is coming to dinner. Order yourself a bottle of champagne to be delivered to your table when you arrive. This way people will start to buy into your new persona. It might take three, four, or five visits to the same place before your star status sticks, but in time they’ll get the message and treat you like the star you are.
• Order letterhead so you can fax people on official stationery that looks professional. Get a voice mail and, with your nasal voice, leave an outgoing message for your firm.
• Use your PR alter ego to set up meetings for yourself with tastemakers, trendsetters, store owners, gallerinas, gossip columnists, event producers, club promoters, and basically anyone who has the ability to elevate your profile.
• Do not feel self conscious while you’re pitching yourself in the third person. The worst that can happen is someone says no. And remember—you didn’t get rejected; your publicist did. Eventually, when you put on a new voice, you can go back to the original people who wouldn’t meet you and try again as someone else. Be persistent. Don’t give up on anyone until they agree to meet you (or rather, your “client”).
• Intern at a PR firm near you in order to learn tricks of the trade—and perhaps swipe a Rolodex or two.
Note: If you can’t pull this off, ask, beg, or bribe a friend to do the job for you.
Days 5–8:
HOLY ENTOURAGE!
It really isn’t anybody’s business how many people we have working for us. What’s offensive is that I’m portrayed as this prima donna with these sycophants telling me how great I am all the time. Yes, they do work for me, but we’re working together for a higher good.
—Demi Moore
Famous people travel in packs. The more famous, the bigger the herd. J. Lo globe-trots with no less than twenty-five people. Vanity Fair revealed it takes the efforts of fifty-seven people to keep Salma Hayek in the spotlight. Halle Berry thanked everyone from her lawyer to her hairstylist during her lengthy acceptance speech at the 2002 Academy Awards ceremony. Mariah Carey goes so far as to make members of her staff sign nondisclosure agreements.
Like twenty-five-karat diamonds, the entourage is the ultimate accessory of the famous—the bodyguard, the stylist, the hairstylist, the makeup artist, the photographer, the chauffeur, the trainer, the nutritionist, the astrologer, the assistant, the assistant’s assistant, the assistant’s assistant’s intern, and so on. How can you be somebody all by your lonesome? It’s impossible. Only the anonymous fly solo. But famous people need a flotilla of handlers and hangers-on in order to navigate their way down the red carpet. The phenomenon is out of control. P. Diddy has even brought his peeps into the sauna with him—and stationed another member of his entourage outside the sauna door to answer his cell phone and deliver it when necessary. You might not require a man in an earpiece to direct you to Leeza’s microphone during the Golden Globes, but just like the sorority president of Gamma Gamma Gamma, having a gang of thieves at your heels will help convince people you’re famous.
This chapter will show you how to pull off the perception of being the most popular kid in town by attracting a posse of individuals who, knowingly or not, contribute to your star power. We will give you the inside scoop on getting an assistant (for free) and show you how to subtly turn your friends into your little helpers. We will walk you through a detailed, comprehensive list of people to consider adding to your personal team and show you how to create a fan base of admirers who will shower you with love, adoration, affection, and compliments. Because, come on, what good are you if nobody’s around to remind you?
IT’S PERSONAL
INTERNAL MEDICINE
Famous people need assistants. It’s a fact. And I knew I needed one during the two-week challenge, when my life became unmanageable. By day seven of my celebrity makeover, my multitasking skills had reached their saturation point. I could no longer be everywhere at once. I was overbooking my social calendar, making two to four appointments for every hour of the day, and slowly but surely losing my mind. I needed a Mini Me. And I needed one fast.
I couldn’t afford to pay for a full-time employee. So I contacted career counseling centers at local schools like NYU and Columbia. I made the job sound super-appetizing with an ad that read, Join me for a fabulous life of glamorous red-carpet parties, fun assignments from glossy magazines, and celebrity sightings. Dozens of résumés came my way. Within a week I had an intern I could call my own. I figured, I might not have money to offer, but what I couldn’t provide in green, I could make up for in perks (free beauty products, the best parties in town, contacts, and a foot in the door of a difficult industry).
She sorted my mail, deleted junk e-mails, organized my files, photocopied my writing clips, jockeyed my calls, handled all of my interviews and fact checking, took care of my research, and basically made my life a helluva lot easier than it had been. She sucked up to me, told me I was fabulous, and did whatever tasks I placed in front of her.
“Wow. I’m impressed that Karen has an assistant,” coworkers said when they reached my new assistant on the phone. “She must really be doing well.”
“Well, she is famous,” my intern said (as per my request).
So I decided to make a concerted effort to respect, value, and appreciate my intern. I invited her to every posh event I covered. I let her borrow clothes. I got her a free haircut and facial when she needed them. I treated her to manicures on Fridays. And the more I gave, the more she took. She stopped doing the interviews she was scheduled to take, and instead I caught her on Internet dating sites. She began to show up late without apologizing for it. It started innocently—five minutes here, ten minutes there—but in no time she was clocking in ninety minutes after her expected arrival time.
I felt awful about saying something. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. And I didn’t want her to quit, even though she was no longer doing me much good (though she still answered the phone properly, for whatever that was worth). It was like I was trying to make up for all the awful jobs I had had to do while I was paying my dues. So I didn’t say anything to her. Until she took things one step too far.
The last straw was when I came home from an appointment and found her in my bathroom, wearing my top, using my makeup, on a long-distance call—on my dime. “Oh, I have a party tonight. I didn’t think you’d mind,” she said. I lost it. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I know I used the phrase “borderline personality” when I asked her to pack up her stuff and go.
She left in tears. I felt bad for letting things build up in such an unhealthy way. But it taught me a valuable lesson. It’s called boundaries. And with my new intern—and my intern’s new intern—I have loads of them.
KAREN, I AM NOT YOUR ASSISTANT
“Karen Robinovitz’s office!” This is the standard greeting you would receive if you called my friend and writing partner Karen Robinovitz. Karen never answers her own phone—she has an army of interns to screen her calls. Whenever I called Karen, I would always guffaw whenever I heard her assistant answer the phone in such a manner. I knew Karen was sitting a few feet away, unwashed and in a tank top and the same torn sweatpants she’s been wearing since sixth grade. Karen Robinovitz’s office, my ass!
Karen can only be described as, well, bossy. (She is an Aries, after all.) But it’s an assertiveness that is imbued with a tremendous generosity of spirit. She asks people to do things for her in such a charming way that they are only too happy to do her bidding. I’ve seen saleswomen, rug merchants, computer technicians, and snooty maître d’s at restaurants gladly perform the favors she asks of them. You can’t say no to Karen, and few people do.
I certainly didn’t. At first it was just small tasks—usually related to our joint projects, which I didn’t mind performing. “Mel, will you write down this idea?” “Mel, will you remember to call [our agent, our photographer, our publicist]?” “Mel, will you make a Xerox of [our magazine article, our book proposal, our film treatment]?” After a while, however, I found that not only was I completing these miscellaneous errands, I was also constantly checking Karen’s e-mail and reading them to her while she was (a) getting a colonic at the We Care spa in Palm Desert, California, (b) attending the Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City, or © watching Sting perform at a private party in Cannes. The chore that broke this camel’s back was when she called me from a yacht in St. Bart’s and asked me to pick up an important package she was expecting from the post office while I was sitting at home, in below-zero weather in New York City.
“KAREN!” I yelled, “I AM NOT YOUR ASSISTANT!”
There was a hurt silence. “I know,” she said in a small voice. “I’m sorry! It’s just that I trust you more than anyone else I know.” Confronting Karen with her habit has improved our friendship tenfold. She has never asked me to read an e-mail or photocopy an article since. But oops, while I’m writing this, the phone is ringing and Karen has generously lent me her duplex for the weekend while she’s away in Palm Beach and my apartment is being renovated.
I pick up the phone and sigh. “Karen Robinovitz’s office.”
GETTING PERSONAL: HOW TO TURN ANYONE INTO YOUR ASSISTANT
A personal assistant is the lackey in your life who makes your dinner reservations, gets your dry cleaning, and does every task you haven’t a minute for. No time to call back your father? Have your assistant tell him you love him—and his check is late. Need someone to keep up your correspondence, call people back, or sign for your flowers? Call the assistant. Coffee, researching, photocopies, deliveries, RSVPs, answering your phone? That’s what assistants are for. That and squeezing in an electrolysis appointment between your astrology session and a yoga class.
• Who can be your assistant? Anyone, even if it’s your younger brother’s friend, whom you pay $5 to fetch your dry cleaning, or the guy who’s hopelessly in love with you, who will come over at any time to fix your computer, hang a photo, and move the sofa.
• Hire an intern. Call a local college and speak to someone at the career center. Make up a bevy of important job descriptions, and before you know it, an educated, eager beaver will be at your disposal—and perhaps even receiving credit for helping you out. Since you’re not paying someone, you will have to provide some perks, which can range from an occasional lunch, a manicure, or job contacts the student can rely on after graduation. It’s only fair.
• Post a listing for an intern on a Web site that is affiliated with whatever university, grad school, or school of continuing education is in your hometown. Make your ad sound appealing and fun by using phrases like meet high profile people, and attend the best parties. Just screen carefully. Good help is so hard to find these days.
• Begin to refer to your assistant at all times. “Oh, I’ll have my assistant call you to make a plan.” It will give you the appearance of being successful, socially desirable, and very, very busy.
• Have your assistant call people that you want to talk to, and when the desired person answers the phone, the assistant should say, “I have Melissa de la Cruz on the line for you. Are you available to talk to her?” Then the assistant should “patch” you in.
• Your assistant should always answer your phone by saying, “[insert your name here]’s office,” even if it’s your two-hundred-square-foot studio.
• Your assistant must be able to reach you at any time in case of emergencies. When important people need you, your assistant’s job is to track you down.
• Instruct your assistant to tell people you’re in a meeting when you’re unavailable (i.e., in the bathroom) or not in the mood to talk. That way, you’ll always seem like you have something important to handle.
• Your assistant should also keep a “call sheet” for you. That is a detailed list of who your calls are from, why someone is trying to reach you, and return phone numbers (even if you already have them, have the assistant get them; it will save you from the hassle of going through your phone book later).
ASSEMBLING THE TEAM: THE ESSENTIALS
EXCUSE ME, CAN YOU TAKE MY PHOTO?
During our two weeks of fame, the magazine informed us that we were not going to be assigned professional photographers, and instead we would have to document our experience ourselves. Armed with a host of instant cameras and a video recorder given to us by Good Morning America for a possible television clip, I recruited friends, publicists, journalists, and assorted strangers to act as my own personal paparazzi anytime I left my apartment. This was harder than it sounds. Asking strangers to take my picture at film premieres and restaurant openings made me seem more like an awkward tourist t
han a haughty up-and-comer who deserved to be in the spotlight.
My first day, Michael Musto, the famous gossip columnist for the Village Voice and a friend of mine, invited me to the premiere of The Rookie, a Disney film starring Dennis Quaid. The Disney people had invited Olympic athletes to the event, and upon spotting Michelle Kwan in an aisle seat, I immediately pounced. The problem was, I couldn’t very well ask her seatmate, the actor B. D. Wong, to take our picture. Instead I roped an usher into taking the photo. “Are you really from Marie Claire?” Michelle asked as the flash went off. I tried to assure her I was, even though with my cheap Instamatic camera, I looked more like a fawning fan than a real journalist.
I thanked her, assured her it would run in the magazine, and went back to my seat. The movie was about a washed-up gym teacher who realizes his dream to play in the minor leagues—or something of the sort. I can’t be certain, as Michael and I bolted after the first twenty minutes of saccharine small-town dialogue (but not before we had helped ourselves to the free popcorn and Diet Cokes!). We made our way to the ESPN Sports Zone restaurant in Times Square, a gargantuan sports-entertainment-and-food complex, where the after-party was held. Hordes of photographers and camera crews were already set up to capture the stars’ entrance on the red carpet. I was one of the first people to march down the crimson-colored walkway, typically reserved for the rich and famous, but not a single bulb exploded or microphone was stuck in my face. They were all waiting, reasonably enough, for Dennis.
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