Red Carpet Diaries : Confessions... | Buy

Warning:No celeb was spared during the writing of this tongue-in-cheek stroll down the red carpet of fashion, fame, ego, and blinding glitter. Written by the man who isn't afraid to tell Christina Aguilers her hairdo is a disaster,Red Carpet Diariescould make you feel you know more about Hollywood shtick than Nicole Kidman's stylist. If you begin to get too much pleasure from Cojocaru's lizard-skin-jumpsuited journey from ridiculed misfit to #2 on Cynthia Rowley's speed dial, put the book down and turn on an episode ofAntiques Roadshowto calm your heart rate. Also: do not try to operate heavy machinery while reading this book. Indications:For relief of boredom, wistfulness, insecurity, and bad hair days. Directions:Read the incredible story of Cojocaru's rise from schoolyard joke to one-man celebrity status meter. Laugh, cry, lather, rinse, and repeat. Active ingredient:Unadulterated fashion, style, and wit. Imbued with style that is pure Steven, and packed with insider gossip from a man who spends his days chatting with Tom Hanks, Charlize Theron, or Sarah Jessica Parker, this irresistible memoir is a peek behind the glamorous facade to the real dealthe dirt beneath the red carpet.

Steven Cojocaru is the fashion correspondent for The Today Show, a style editor for People magazine, and pens People’s “Behind the Seams” column. He is a red carpet fixture on both coasts. This is his first book. From the Hardcover edition.

Acknowledgments	p. xi
Prologue: Not Just Another Versace Opening	p. xiii
The Green Chiffon Masterpiece	p. 1
The Freak Show in Noir	p. 15
Beware the Oversexed Swede with Naturally Humongous Breasts	p. 31
1001 Romanian Slang Words for "Hooker"	p. 51
Cannes--Brigitte, Sophia, and Mr. Spindly Legs	p. 69
The Goatee or Matt Lauer?	p. 91
Charlize the Glamazon versus Gwyneth the McNugget	p. 105
The Oscars and the Monsoon-Proof Tresses	p. 131
Meet My Agent, Jerry Seinfeld	p. 149
Afterword	p. 167
Table of Contents provided by Ingram. All Rights Reserved.

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Chapter Five

CANNES -- BRIGITTE, SOPHIA, AND MR. SPINDLY LEGS May 1998

Airport terminal, Nice, France

Where else but the French Riviera can you stroll off of an airplane and be greeted by Brigitte Bardot striking a sex-kitten pose Or Sophia Loren pouring out of a sundress I'd been in airport terminals before, but not one with hallways lined with paparazzi photos of goddesses snapped on the tarmac as they arrived in the South of France. I'd come to the Cannes Film Festival for exactly this kind of sexy, European-flavored glamour. A first-timer, I was primed to join the jet-setters' club. Pour me a kir royale, cherie, and keep them coming. But do I have to wear a
sundress with these spindly legs?

The story of how I got to Cannes starts with a confession. When I was in
junior college in the 1980s. Joan Rivers had a show on Fox, The Late
Show. They did a publicity stunt where they asked viewers to submit a
videotape to get a chance to be on the show. I worshiped Joan Rivers. I
thought she was hilari-ous and I admired how honest she was. I never saw
her as mean-spirited, just an outlandish performer. I was hell-bent on
winning this contest and becoming Joan's new best friend. I shot my tape
at the Saidye Bronfman Centre after hours, with the help of one of the
techies there. I came up with this idea that I was Joan Rivers' bastard
son that she had tossed away on her way to the top, and I was going to
blackmail her and tell the world the truth. So I did a cheap ripoff of
Joan. I did a lot of "Can we tawks" and waved my death-metal long hair
around. I sent it to her. A couple of months later a bright pink
envelope arrived and on the corner, it said THE JOAN RIVERS SHOW . I
ripped open the envelope, and it was a letter from Joan saying, "I liked
all the jokes about you being my illegitimate son." It was a warm letter
signed by her. The letter also mentioned that if I was ever in L.A., I
should come see the show and meet her afterward. I read between the
lines and took this as an invitation: "Come live with me in Bel Air."
After that, I really be-came obsessed with Joan Rivers. It was time to
save every penny and make a quick trip to L.A. A few months later, I was
ready to embark on my Become One With Joan journey. But first I needed
to lose my heavy-metal hair--I was doing it for Joanie. I didn't want her
to get scared, or to look at me and say "What an ugly girl." I thought
Joan would much prefer my new respectable 'do: a fluffy, feathered crop
that made me look like a CPA. A few weeks before I went out to L. A., I
called Joan Rivers's assistant. My voice shook as I said, "Ms. Rivers
said to call if I was coming into town." And the secretary answered,
"Absolutely. I understand." My ticket was to be waiting at Fox Studios.

I can't even remember who the guests were on the show. They could have
been propped up corpses for all I cared. The whole time, I kept thinking
about what would I say to my idol, and who would get first dibs on the
bathroom once we lived together. After the show, an assistant came up to
me and brought me to the stage where Joan was doing a meet-and-greet.
She had various people there waiting to meet her, and I learned a
valuable lesson about hard work in show business: Joan Rivers was like a
politician. She clocked in a fresh fan greeting and handshake every five
minutes.

Edgar, Joan's husband, shuffled around tired, looking like he had the
weight of the world on his shoulders. And there was Joan, looking much
smaller than I had expected her to look. With her personality I thought
she'd be the height of a linebacker, and not this underweight Chihuahua
in spike heels and a tailored white blazer and sleek navy skirt. Then,
my BIG moment happened. I had prepared my line for her for three months
already. They said, "Joan, this is Steven." And I went "Mother!" She
broke down laughing.

Then there's a postscript to this, and a double postscript. I became a
quasi-stalker to Joan because I decided, in my mind, that we were
friends. I wrote her letters. I did drawings for her, vicious
caricatures of Hollywood stars like the cartoon I did of Elizabeth
Taylor's bosom exploding. She would write me letters back: "I loved your
note. Loved your pictures." We became pen pals and, when Edgar passed
away, I sent my condolences. She sent me back a thank-you note and told
me she appreciated my kind words.

I can't say that I know the real, intimate Joan Rivers--even though she
did one time say she wanted to sleep with me--but I do know one side of
Joan Rivers. I know her to be a woman with manners, who is caring, and
who gave some attention to a punk from Nowhere, Canada. Now that I have
a career in this business, I see how time is the most precious thing.
And Joan took the time out to respond to me. She made me feel like I
mattered.

My trip to Cannes was booked at the last minute. All the good hotels
were full. When the travel agent suggested a nearby village, I thought,
"How charming." But surely the cab driver had taken a wrong turn and
made a left into downtown Bosnia. I was trapped in a shantytown--with
dilapidated buildings left for dead during the war--buried in the
mountains. And my lodgings, the ten-room inn with the--gulp--shared
toilette was nothing more than a Motel 6 with a French accent.

My first morning, I decided to get in touch with my inner explorer and
walk down the mountain to Cannes. Of course, a major butch voyager
outfit was in order: I threw on a clingy see-through Dolce & Gabbana
white tank top, white gauzy balloon drawstring pants and single-toe Yves
Saint Laurent hip-pie sandals. But that didn't say seen-it-all navigator
enough to moi. The ensemble begged for oversized Jackie O sunglasses and
a white, straw cowboy hat as final touches. In my mind, it was very
Marrakesh bedouin chic meets the Cote d'Azur. In reality, it was more
like an outfit that would only play at a karaoke bar in Ibiza.

During the mid-1990s, People's "Stylewatch" column just kept growing and
growing. Carol Wallace, the editor of People, really liked that page and
supported it. Carol took me under her wing and molded me into a strong
reporter. I always tell her she took Pippi Longstocking and made her
into a man. So I met every star in Hollywood for that column. Some
people are speed demons. I was a star demon. From your Julias to your
Toms--I interviewed everybody. And I was, all too often, disappointed.
Very quickly, I tuned in to their flaws and foibles. When you're talking
to a movie legend at the Oscars and she's got painted-on eyebrows and
mounds of "Hello Bella Lugosi" makeup on, it kind of takes the mystique
away.

But television just kept calling me. I went to countless auditions. Once
I tried out to be a VJ on MTV. In my mind, to be a VJ on MTV was to be
very colorful. So I poured myself into a pair of skintight Moschino
jeans with Mona Lisa's face silk-screened all over them. The calendar
said 1995, but my taste was still trapped in the '80s. I wore--I'm
embarrassed to say-- a leather vest with no shirt underneath. And biker
boots. And that horrible Steven Segal rip-off ponytail. Suffice it to
say, I did not get the gig.

My big break came when Elycia Rubin, the fashion director at E!, saw
something beyond the ponytail. Elycia has become one of my great
friends--she's a major glamour girl and a striking brunette with emerald
eyes. She started offering me spots on E! News Daily and E! specials.
Eventually she invited me onto the one-hour "Oscar Fashion Review" with
Joan Rivers and her daughter Melissa. This was an opportunity, but I was
terrified--I would be up close and personal with Joan. Would she remember
her gushing Montreal fanboy?

The Oscars were on a Monday. On Tuesday morning we had a seven-thirty
A.M. production meeting at E! The guests on the show were designer
Carolina Herrera, myself, and Frederic Fekkai the celebrity hairdresser.
Frederic sailed in with freshly washed, tousled hair that artfully fell
in the right places around his face. He was immaculately turned out in a
sharp blazer, a painstakingly pressed shirt and slacks, and gleaming
loafers. I detested him on sight. But he was so incredibly charming, I
came around and we've since remained friendly. Though I'll never be able
to get my locks to tousle so obediently.

Then there was the ultimate class act, Carolina Herrera. So stylish, so
composed. She mesmerized me. I was happy to just gawk at her from afar,
but then spoke to me. And it turned out that this great elegant lady was
full of life and mischievous humor. This was a revelation: I didn't
think wearing silk georgette and being earthy went together. After that
I felt perfectly comfortable grilling Carolina about her fabled friends:
"You knew Jackie O," I sighed. "Do you have a used towel she owned I'd
like to put it under plexiglass in my living room."

Then it was time for Joan's grand entrance. She didn't have a stitch of
makeup on. I'll hold back on describing the sight except to say that to
this day I still experience grizzly flashbacks of the image, probably
not that dissimilar to the post-trauma Desert Storm soldiers suffer
from. But the early-morning outfit was killer. Joan took her seat at the
head of the boardroom table wrapped in a cashmere coat with a gigantic
fox-fur collar. Joan Crawford would probably have made the same choice.
I was wildly intimidated. Joan looked at me and boomed, "How were the
Oscars last night " I blurted out, "With all that collagen, I had to
wear a lobster bib to avoid being splattered on." She just lost it. She
looked at me and said, "I like you!" She sounded like Harvey Fierstein.
She didn't remember that I was the delusional fan who claimed to be her
son. I've never brought it up in all the time we've known each other;
I've been too embarrassed. Right off the bat I saw that Joan was about
the work. We were plotting out the show and she said, "Okay, we're going
to get to this part of the show, Steven, and you're going to do this." I
started throwing out some jokes, and she went, "I like that! I like
that! Put that joke in. Yeah! Do that!" The one thing I can tell you
about Joan Rivers is that there's not one lazy bone in this woman's
body.

Then came the crash course. I got to see how long Joan spent in makeup
(three days with naps during the sand blasting). She and Melissa each
had her own hair and makeup per-son. A light bulb went off for me. I
thought, "Oh, so that's how it's done. You get professionals to put you
together." Choosing clothes for the show was half the battle. I put on a
burgundy crushed-velvet designer jacket by Krizia, the high-end Italian
clothing line. I wore this blazer with leather pants, platforms, spiky
hair, and a goatee. I was weird looking. I was certainly no Frederic
Fekkai.

Suddenly, we were On Air and I was getting where Joan was coming from.
What we were talking about--Oscar night fashion-- was so silly and
insubstantial, playfully mocking it seemed appropriate. It was all so
natural that it was frightening. I sat there with Joan and Melissa and I
didn't see myself as any big ex-pert. I was just giving my honest
opinion and not holding back.

But I didn't realize the power of television. This was the year that
Jennifer Lopez came to the Oscars in a black satin strapless Badgley
Mischka gown with a big poofy skirt. She had very light makeup and her
hair pulled back into a bun-- she looked like a Hollywood princess. But a
few months before she had been looking really trashy. So on the special
Joan asked, "What do you think of Jennifer Lopez " And I said, "She's
definitely most improved. She was one of my favorite dressers. She went
from slut to princess in one fell swoop."

This was the probably the first of fifty times that I've jokingly called
Jennifer Lopez a slut on television. I say that with tongue firmly in
cheek because I do admire Jennifer Lopez. In my book, she's interesting,
and interesting will always win over bland. But she's also a target.
Sometimes with J. Lo., she looks like an over-the-top, tarty wild,
pop-star street girl. Other times she gives you Audrey Hepburn. She
plays both roles very well.

Because it was one of my first times on TV, I felt really bad. I was
scared. She was dating Puffy then. I went home and told my friends, "Oh
my God, I called Jennifer Lopez a slut on television and Puffy is going
to come after me. He's going to tie me to a chair and bitch-slap me." I
got paranoid. I pulled the blinds down. Every time a twig hit my window,
I dived under the bed. I wore a bulletproof Laura Ashley pajama set to
bed that week. But no one said a word. I think it was a rite of passage
for me: Once I said the word slut on television, I have never looked
back. I never censored myself again.

It was pretty heady to be on television in a town where people watch the
Oscar coverage that closely. People really noticed me. Strangers started
talking to me. Tables started getting better at restaurants. Instead of
keeping me waiting an hour and a half, my hairdresser Byron would only
keep me waiting thirty minutes.

The best-kept secret in Hollywood is that your stock in Hollywood really
has nothing to do with box office or the freebies you get or the
invitations you get. It has everything to do with waiting time. The
bigger you are the less you wait.

A couple of months later a wondrous thing happened. Elycia called me
from E! and asked me to go to Cannes to do Joan Rivers' Cannes fashion
review show. That was unreal. I was like, "What Say that again Can you
repeat that You're asking me to go to Cannes and appear with Joan Rivers
" You had to scrape me off the floor. There's more hysteria at Cannes
than there is at the Oscars-- and Joan, Melissa, and I were in the middle
of it. We were shooting the special right on the main drag, the
Croisette. It gave us a great view of the main population of Cannes
during the film festival--goons and bimbos. Both factions were hard at
work. Every few feet, there's an ape working security. The French might
be wonderful at transforming bread and cheese into culinary brilliance,
but they're not so adept at hiring security personnel. One minute you're
a guy named Henri hanging on the beach in a microscopic thong and the
next someone throws a few francs at you and you're patrolling the
Croisette. Cannes is also home to the biggest breast implants on
Earth--massive-chested women with breasts the size of a heli-pad doing
anything to get photographed.

We just went to town on everybody at Cannes. I felt really feisty and so
did Joan. This older French couple was walking on the dock, completely
oblivious to the fact that we were in the middle of taping. They were
walking to the dinghy that would take them to their yacht. Did I mention
they were trashy This woman was definitely in her fifties or sixties and
she was wearing--barely--a gold-lame bikini and cha-cha high heels. Her
husband, weighed down by a ton of jewelry, looked like a troll dipped in
gold. I eyed Joan and whispered, "Ugh, Joan. Look at that Eurotrash
couple." And Joan started yelling at them, screaming at the top of her
lungs, "Eurotrash! Euro-trash!"

We shot for most of the morning, and then we had to take a two-hour
break. Perfect opportunity, I thought, to go back to my room and pack
the towels that I had to steal for my mother. Towel burglary is big in
my family. If there were an in-ordinate amount of towels missing from
the Marco Polo Hotel in Miami Beach in the 1970s, they were lifted by my
mother. My mother was and is a consummate towel, ashtray, and soap
collector. You've been warned.

I was about to leave, but Joan stopped me. "Absolutely not! We're going
back to my hotel room," she declared. "We're going to order room service
and I want to get to know you." From my dump to her no-doubt swanky digs
would have been a relief. Except I wasn't the only one with hotel woes.
I responded, "I guess we're going to your suite at the Majestic where
there's a grand piano in the bathroom." And she said, "Not quite. I'm on
an E! budget. I'm staying in a shitty rat-hole of a hotel room on the
outskirts of Cannes." Off we went to Joan's hotel and it certainly was
no Ritz. But we kicked off our shoes and got into bed.

It was a Steven Cojocaru sandwich, with Melissa on one side and Joan on
the other. We ordered sandwiches and gabbed for two hours. All that was
missing was a bowl of popcorn and a video of Steel Magnolias. What
really impressed me was that Joan wanted to hear about me--most stars are
unable to see past their own altered noses.

I was working nonstop at Cannes, and at one point I was fried. I slipped
away for an hour to catch my breath and dip my foot in the water. Across
the street from all the top hotels, there are docks with little dinghies
that deliver the hoi-polloi to the big yachts. I snuck onto the dock of
the chichi Majestic Hotel--the grande dame of Cannes hotels--and plopped
myself on a chaise lounge. I was staring into space when I happened to
look up, and there was Jerry Hall , all legs, wearing a sarong, a
one-piece bathing suit, stilettos, and a gigantic straw hat. She looked
glam and trashy at the same time. This was after she had broken up with
Mick Jagger, and it was very fresh in the headlines. She wasn't looking
too traumatized. Newly single Jerry was about to be picked up in a
dinghy and whisked off to a monster yacht in the horizon.

That evening, I covered the AmFAR benefit (for the American Foundation
for AIDS Research). It's one of the biggest par-ties at Cannes: Liz
Hurley, Elton John, Elizabeth Taylor , Salma Hayek , Ben Affleck , and
Jerry Hall were there. I approached

Ben Affleck, but I was apprehensive. The last time I had spoken to him
was on the red carpet at the Oscars and he was a surly jerk. I had asked
the numbingly fluffy question, "So what did you do today " Fluff
apparently didn't agree with him. "I whacked off in the shower," he
hissed. We clearly had nowhere to go from there so I said, "Thank you.
Good-bye." (Fortunately, Matt Damon was right behind him and I told Matt
exactly what Ben had said. His whole face lit up and he laughed. He gave
me that million-dollar close-up that studios have to pay for and said,
"Did he really say that Shame on him!" Matt good cop, Ben bad cop.)

But here, in the perfect evening light of Cannes, Affleck was incredibly
gracious and very, very Chatty Cathy. Dare I say, down-to-earth
Basically, stars can be so moody.

Speaking of which: La Liz swung by and stopped by our table. We've all
seen Liz Taylor with her ups and downs-- this was Liz in a
not-particularly-good moment. It looked like someone had spliced
together five caftans for her to wear. When she saw Melissa Rivers, she
shrieked with delight. She said, "Melissa, darling. How are you How's
your mother Tell her hello."

It's interesting to be around children of Hollywood like Melissa,
because they've seen it all and done it all. As soon as Liz was dragged
away, Melissa was so cynical. She shrugged and said, "Sometimes I see
her, she's warm and nice. Too nice, really. Other times, she's not. We
just got a good night." I was with Melissa when she later told Joan
about the Liz moment. "Ugh. She's back on the sauce," zinged Joan. That
was so Joan--a nice tidy comment to size up the situation.

Since Cannes, Joan Rivers has done some incredibly nice things for me.
She sent my mom some Joan Rivers jewelry and a note saying, "I'm crazy
about your son. You brought him up well." That made my mother weep.

We see each other a lot on the plane back and forth to New York. She'll
scoot onto the plane in full makeup, perfect hair, a gorgeous black
Hermes bag, and a black wool wrap with a mink collar. She has phenomenal
legs--she's the white Tina Turner. She'll slink into the free seat beside
me and say, "Lucky you." And I answer, "No, no, honey. Lucky you."

One time, on the plane with Joan, we were sitting next to the NBC lawyer
for the Today Show. She came up to me and said, "Oh, we're working on
your contract right now." So Joan started negotiating my contract. She
was joking, but she was hilarious. She said, "Whatever he asked for, we
want double now." Another time, we gossiped for five and a half hours.
This was a red-eye to New York, and somewhere over Milwaukee, at four in
the morning, we concocted a list of who had the worst plastic surgery in
Hollywood. ( Joan didn't volunteer her name, and I didn't push it.) The
number-one person on our list was the forty-something blond actress
married to a hunk movie star. Just think fiberglass lips, a contorted
face, and eyes tucked back to the point where you almost think she's a
Korean flight attendant. Our lips are sealed.

From the Hardcover edition.

Excerpted from Red Carpet Diaries: Confessions of a Glamour Boy by Steven Cojocaru
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.