Ground Xero: Live from L.A.
Exclusive: How to become famous in two weeks or less

By Xanadu Xero
RAW STORY COLUMNIST

How can you really get famous in two weeks or less?

As a basic entrée, shooting up public buildings is failsafe, if short-lived. Feigning horror at the release of home porn is useless if you’re not renowned already. Killing your pregnant wife has proven its media staying power, but it’s just been done and, frankly, won’t be hot unless you resemble a star who could play you on HBO (e.g. Scott Peterson/Ben Affleck).

Cripes, that limits one’s options. Thank God the game plan of American Can-Do is to find a need, then fill it.

When I saw the ad for a class on how to hustle two-week fame, I couldn’t wait to slam down forty bucks. I mean, look at poor, stupid Vincent Van Gogh. What a chump. Worked his whole damn life painting his ‘vision’ — to what end? Poverty? Madness? No one gave a rat’s ass in his lifetime. He even cut off his ear privately. Cameras weren’t around then, but he could have whacked it in the town square or something for a little P.R.

“The nice thing about being a celebrity is that when you bore people, they think it's their fault,” said major bore-cum-dickhead Henry Kissinger. Those sylvan words gassed my brain as I entered the class and, looking something like a strung-out newsboy, crept to the back.

Fame’s fugleman, instructor Melissa de la Cruz, was very late. I was seething until I considered that perhaps this was our first golden lesson: Make ‘em wait.

In L.A., promptness is seen as subservience, and when you wait for someone, you’re a beta dog showing your belly, flopping your toady paws.

The swarm of eager studentry before me twitched with anticipation. Its coiled spring of latent star power was stirring, in a Mall of America way. I saw, among others, funky-lite Top 40 hopefuls, models — all smiles — with caps in Lab Rat White, a large cruise ship chanteuse awash in rayon tie-dye, a male-to-female transvestite kissy-poo with a female-to-male, some pimply junior agents, party girls past their shelf life, a slob with sandals/socks and smelly take-out, a Japanese matron who no speak English, a slutty, well-proportioned dwarf in a cloud of patchouli, and a sebaceous young man Going Places, with a mien swiped from daytime TV.

When Ms. de la Cruz, at last, arrived, a collective disappointment ricocheted like pinballs off the walls. Stubby and lumpen, her Latin/Asian genes lent her no exotic flair whatsoever. She was dressed in jeans and a top that must have been ‘designer’ as its ugliness was profound. It looked like a flouncy straight jacket made from Amish curtains.

“Sorry I’m late,” she mumbled. “I just moved here from New York.” Oh. Perhaps traffic was bad from the airport.

Actually, I was buoyed by the sight of our éclat apostle. If Melissa got herself famous in just two weeks, surely I can too! Screw writing; it’s hard. Good-bye to you all!

De la Cruz, a free-lance ‘journalist,’ originally pursued fame as an article assignment from Marie-Claire magazine. She competed with her writing partner, Karen Robinovitz, to see who could get where in fourteen days. They subsequently bloated their exploits into a perky, big font book. Here is its pith:

First, you have to ‘Brand’ yourself. Who will you be? A tortured poet? The urbane intellectual? That naughty ingénue? Color branding is good. “Choose an M&M color you hate,” says de la Cruz, “and stick with it.”

Wit and whimsy – an integral part of the game!

“Add a ‘von’ or (cough) ‘de’ to your last name,” she continues. Xanadu von Xero. Cool. Then, pursue the two commandments: Cozy up to gossip columnists, and get a P.R. agent.

Melissa knew gossip columnists in New York, and had a friend in P.R. My karma denies me collusion with such aristocracy. Yours may as well. Oh, no — will fame take us longer? Shit.

Fame is basically a scam, a grift, a Ponzi scheme. For example: Your P.R. agent contacts the newest scenester restaurant and offers them the ‘opportunity’ to sponsor a birthday party for you, THE famous (fill in blank) and rising social star. Lots of celebrities will be there, says s/he, lots of press.

Once place and grub are secured, you obsessively call hot celebrities’ ‘people’ (manager, agent, P.R., production company), leaning on any and all contacts past the point of post-obnoxiousness. You tell them that the hottest place in town is throwing a hot ‘do for the hottest new celestial body, you. So much hotness that the LAFD is on call. There will be oodles of other celebs and infinite, no doubt international, coverage.

Once you get a firm ‘yes’ from someone — anyone — famous, you can monkey-bar with ease. When you’ve assembled a luminous guest list, move down to the semi-famous - magazine editors, gossip mavens and the like, who will be disposed to ride your train.

On you’ll go to score free everything, booze, gift bag stuff, a spa day, a makeover, borrowed designer gown, a limo.

Invite reporters and paparazzi. Consult a ‘media coach’ about how to pose, stand and talk. (Be upbeat! Positive!) Then, darlings, prepare to be fabulous!

(Important Note: You can’t afford to waste a thought on family, friends, or your word or bond with ANYONE [unless it helps you get laid]. If you’re Bound for Glory, that crap is bad cholesterol. You’re born alone and you’ll die alone, right? Would they turn down fame for you? I think not. Fuck ‘em.)

Now at your shindig, baby, WORK IT. Butt into celebrity photos, and remember: Visine in the eyes makes them sparkle; Vaseline on the teeth makes them shine.

Apres le fete, (Pretentious for ‘after the party’), court gossip writers morning, noon and night. Melissa says, “If you make them think you think they’re great, they’ll respond.” Flowers and gifts never hurt, unless they’re, you know, not that cool.

Finagle invitations, but pick and choose where to manifest; don’t overexpose. Let talk show bookers know that you’re available to wield your area of expertise, even if that area is ‘lip gloss’ or ‘magenta.’ They need to fill airtime. You’re doing them a favor.

Soon… with care’n’prayer… Presto! Fate will turn on a dime. Life will be honey-tongued, a warm, fragrant breeze…

If, of course, you’re a total moron.

“When you look at the kind of people who chase the spotlight,” says my pal Silver, “how can you not think of obnoxious little kids who start screaming as soon as they’re in a public place? Celebrities are just the calculating version of sports fans who paint team colors on their beer guts, take their shirts off, and jiggle at games.”

“And in Hell-Lay,” added my boyfriend Aap, “nothing’s worth doing unless others watch you do it, envy you, and feel inferior.” He sighed. “Fame… is just a bad hallucination.”