The Diva Rules Read online

  Text copyright © 2015 by Michelle Visage.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Visage, Michelle.

  The diva rules : ditch the drama, find your strength, and sparkle your way to the top / by Michelle Visage.

  pages cm

  Summary: “A humorous book of advice by Michelle Visage”--Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-4521-4232-6 (hardback)

  ISBN 978-1-4521-4685-0 (epub, mobi)

  1. Success. 2. Conduct of life. I. Title.

  BJ1611.2.V575 2015

  650.1--dc23

  2015012770

  Design by Michael Morris

  Jacket Photograph by Mathu Andersen

  Makeup and Styling by Sutan (Raja) Amrull

  Hair by Hector Pocasangre

  Chronicle Books LLC

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  Chronicle books and gifts are available at special quantity discounts to corporations, professional associations, literacy programs, and other organizations. For details and discount information, please contact our premiums department at [email protected] or at 1-800-759-0190.

  FOREWARD BY: RuPaul P.8

  RULE no. 1: Live by THE THREE TENETS of divahood. P.17

  RULE no. 2: Be thankful you're a misfit. P.20

  RULE no. 3: YOU HAVE A VOICE. Use it. P.26

  RULE no. 4: Get off your ass, girl. P.32

  RULE no. 5: Find your scene. P.47

  RULE no. 6: Give good face. P.53

  RULE no. 7: You do you. P.60

  RULE no. 8: Keep your shit together. P.66

  RULE no. 9: Be the honey and WAIT FOR THE BEES. P.73

  RULE no. 10: Celebrate your competition. P.79

  RULE no. 11: Believe you're the best (or FAKE IT UNTIL YOU ARE.) P.93

  RULE no. 12: Exposure isn't money, BUT SOMETIMES IT CAN BE WORTH MORE. P.99

  RULE no. 13: Never give up on yourself. NE-VER P.108

  RULE no. 14: Keep it real, EXCEPT FOR YOUR TITS. P.119

  RULE no. 15: If there's a crowd, work it. P.126

  RULE no. 16: Friend up. P.144

  RULE no. 17: SCREW THE PENIS CLUB (Figuratively speaking darling.) P.150

  RULE no. 18: Never trust a man in Dockers. P.159

  RULE no. 19: Project positivity, EVEN WHEN YOU FEEL LIKE SHIT. P.166

  RULE no. 20: Act like a Star, EVEN IF NO ONE'S WATCHING. P.171

  RULE no. 21: If you take no for an answer twice, YOU'RE F*CKING UP. P.182

  RULE no. 22: Stop relying on that body. P.188

  RULE no. 23: Make magic. P.195

  RULE no. 24: Make your boss look good. P.197

  RULE no. 25: Build your legacy. P.203

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: P.144

  highly intelligent, fiercely loyal, and hyper-aware. Like a skilled hunter, she is always in search of the next conquest. And without fail, she has the amazing ability to always land on her feet.

  I first laid eyes on this beautiful creature in 1988 at “The Love Ball,” an annual charity event that brought all the “Vogueing Houses” of New York City together for a good cause. That was her chosen scene at the time, amongst the streetwise black and Latino gay kids of the urban jungle. The same gay kids that were forever immortalized in Jenny Livingston’s documentary Paris Is Burning.

  Michelle stood out, not only because she was a straight white Jewish girl from South Plainfield, New Jersey, but because she had “it,” that undeniable star quality.

  I later learned that the “ballroom” scene was just the latest of several scenes that Michelle had already explored and had perfectly morphed herself into. Being an expert shape-shifter would eventually become her calling card.

  The next time I saw Michelle, she was being escorted across the dance floor at club Red Zone in Midtown. Initially, I didn’t recognize her with newly-bleached platinum blonde hair and a skintight gown that allowed her to only take tiny, deliberate steps, giving everyone watching enough time to soak in all the glamour. I remember asking “who’s that girl?” and a friend telling me that she was a member of Seduction, the girl-group performing that night.

  Watching Michelle tiptoe across that dance floor became one of those mental GIFS that my mind collected for no apparent reason at the time, but would later prove to be a valuable piece of a much bigger puzzle.

  Within a year, Michelle’s face was everywhere. Seduction had become a huge hit with a chart-topping album and music videos in heavy rotation. Unfortunately, the group disbanded after a year, but Michelle Visage is unstoppable. She re-emerged in yet another chart-topping group called S.O.U.L. System.

  It was during this period that I realized just how ambitious this young woman was, and that she also had the work ethic to back it up.

  In 1992, Michelle and I were reintroduced at a promotional concert hosted by a New York radio station. Her group was one of several acts performing at the event, and so was I. We had a fabulous time laughing and carrying on backstage. That’s when I realized how smart, funny and irreverent she was. That meeting was yet another clue that this girl was someone who would eventually play a huge part in my life.

  Fast forward to 1996. I walked into a radio interview, and much to my surprise, there she was, sitting behind the microphone cohosting a morning-drive radio show.

  Same charming, hilarious Michelle, but she had become a redhead and completely morphed herself into an on-air radio personality. Le caméléon brillante.

  In hindsight, I shouldn’t have been surprised. I’d seen enough of her incarnations to know that she was anything but predictable. I was so happy to see her because I knew that what would’ve been the same old typical “morning zoo” radio interview would now be a continuation of the laugh riot we’d had years prior.

  The station’s program director heard our natural chemistry on-air and said, “I found my new morning crew.” From that moment on, Michelle and I have been partners. With lightning speed, our broadcast became a top three morning-drive radio show in the New York tri-state area. That’s when I asked Michelle to join me on VH1’s TV talker The RuPaul Show.

  Being charismatic, articulate, and absolutely gorgeous enabled Michelle to navigate easily between the two mediums. She’s also naturally inquisitive and eerily perceptive. Nothing at all slips by this woman.

  When RuPaul’s Drag Race was conceived, there was no question that Michelle Visage would have a seat on the judge’s panel. Unfortunately, at the time, she was under contract to a Florida radio station that wouldn’t allow her to take a leave of absence and come to Hollywood for filming.

  So, the first two seasons of the TV show were filmed without Michelle as a judge, and her presence was truly missed. I really needed her unique voice on that panel to bounce off of. Truth be told, she makes my job so much easier and enjoyable. I missed my friend.

  Plus, she knows the world of drag (she’s a drag queen herself), she speaks the same language as our street savvy contestants, and she knows the art of creating a persona that reflects what the environment calls for. On top of all that, she’s a compassionate defender of the disenfranchised. After two long years, I got my wish.

  Finally, Michelle took her rightful place on the judges’ panel for the third season. Right where she belongs. And for all the obvious reasons, our show was elevated to the next level of beauty, heart, and soul. Because that’s what Michelle Visage is.

  The contestants respect her opinion, and they trust her because she has walked the walk. I’ve always jokingly said that Michelle is a gay man trapped in a woman’s body, but for mo
re that just her love of the outrageous. Her X-ray eyes can see through to the core, and dissect any issue the way only an outsider can. She’s the first to recognize when “the Emperor has no clothes on.”

  And that’s what makes her such a fascinating, and intriguing woman. There are lessons to be learned, my children. And Michelle Visage is here to teach them.

  She’s my friend, my business partner and she is someone I admire very much. I love this woman, and in reading this book, I know that you will fall in love with her too.

  —RUPAUL

  INTRODUCTION

  Doll, if you don’t know me from my early days Vogueing at parties at New York’s famed Copacabana Club with the legendary party promoter Susanne Bartsch, or topping the pop charts with my girl group Seduction in the nineties, or co-hosting a talk show on VH1 with my 6'4" BFF RuPaul, or deejaying the morning drives on hit radio stations in New York City, Los Angeles, West Palm Beach, or Miami, then, at least you probably know me from my most recent gigs: a player in the Hell House known as Celebrity Big Brother UK and/or more importantly as judge on RuPaul’s Drag Race. And if you do know me from Drag Race, then maybe, like many of the queens on the show, you might even fear me a little bit, but don’t be scared. Please. I may be a proud no-nonsense bitch who will always call you on your bullshit when I see it, but it comes from a place of love, respect, and admiration. I’m all about being real—except for the tits—and I’m here for one thing and one thing only: To help you achieve your dreams.

  So, all of you ridiculously beautiful girls and gays out there, consider yourselves my divas-in-training, because here’s the thing: You already have what it takes to be the star of your own life. You already are fabulous. I can’t give that to you. I can’t make you have that “it” factor; that thing that makes you genuine, generous, and grand; that magnetism that makes people want to be near you, just because they feel better about themselves and the world when they’re around you. It’s in you. You were born a diva. We all were. Think about it: As babies, none of us were afraid to demand attention, make noise, cry out for love, be in our bodies, laugh, sing, play, dance, experiment. We ruled every room, and it felt perfectly natural, because we never once even thought to question our right to be completely amazing, to take up space, to be purely ourselves. And then, we grow up and screw up. We get self-consciousness. We allow insecurities to sneak in. We start to harbor shame for who we are (or who we want to be). And before long, that twinkle in our eyes starts to fade. Our God-given glitter—gasp!—comes unglued. And we start making decisions based not on what’s spectacular, but on what’s safe. Most people live that way, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that—for them. But not for you. You owe it to yourself to nurture the inner diva that lives within and I am going to show you how to do that and more.

  Remember this: the journey is not always going to be easy, but it will be worth it. Maybe you are lucky, and you love what you do and rock it every day. But, unless your name is Mariah, being a diva doesn’t always pay the bills. And until it does, you need a day job. There’s no shame in that. We all do whatever it takes to survive. But always, always remember this: Just because you have to clock in from nine to five, or work on the assembly line, or field customer service calls all day, or shuffle papers, or sell shit you don’t give a shit about doesn’t mean you have to ever stop being fabulous. Wherever you work, whatever you do, you can be a diva, and being your fabulous self will help you get where you want to go.

  Take it from me: I’ve used the skills I acquired working it in the Harlem ball scene, in the dance clubs (and, yes, strip clubs), on the radio, on the road, and now on TV to build an amazing life for myself (and, as the sole breadwinner for my family, also for my husband, who stays home to help raise our two daughters. I’m a lucky lady). Being a diva is not just what I do, it’s also who I am. And it’s the reason why I’ve been so successful in my life. And no matter what area of your life you want to lead in—whether in fashion, music, drag, love, or library sciences, it doesn’t matter—my rules will help you get to the top.

  So, listen up, children, and I’ll tell you how I became the diva I am today. I’ll share with you the juicy stories behind my biggest life lessons, and then I’ll teach you exactly how to work it harder, better, and smarter than anyone else. Use my own personal rules for success to guide you in work and life, and I guarantee, you’ll earn that promotion, land that role, get that guy, whatever you want. But most important, when you look at yourself in the mirror every morning, you’ll love the strong, sexy, powerful doll looking back at you. Soon enough, you’ll rule every room and, before long, the entire world.

  rule no. 1:

  LIVE BY THE THREE TENETS OF DIVAHOOD.

  If, when you hear the word “diva,” you’re picturing some starlet sitting on a chaise, being fanned by a tanned Greek god in a loincloth, well, hell, just close your eyes and keep picturing that for a little while. Loincloths are hot. Once you feel like you’ve had your fill of fantasy, let this secret sink into your beautiful little noggin: There’s a better way to be a diva. So right here, right now, before we go any further, I’m going to give you the T. (That’s the Truth.) Commit these three tenets to memory, and you’ll be taking your first big step toward legendary greatness.

  Bitches and divas are not the same thing.

  Do not use the two words interchangeably, or I will cut you. Just kidding. That was a bitchy thing to say. See how I did that? Bitchiness comes from a place of insecurity, but being a diva comes from a place of strength and love. When you’re a diva, you know deep down, regardless of what anyone else says about you, that you’re beautiful. You also know that if you live in a place of light and generosity, rather than in fear or darkness, good things will come to you. So, when a diva calls people on their bullshit—and, honey, you know how much we love to do this—we do it out of love. Tough love, yes, but it’s still love, because unlike with a nasty bitch, other people’s success and happiness do not threaten us. They inspire us. There’s always room for more joy for me, for you, for everyone.

  Divas expect others to do them, not do for them.

  While divas make everything they do look easy, they actually work harder than anyone else. Behind all the glamour is always grit. And once you’ve got the determination and the do-whatever-it-takes work ethic instilled in you, it will never leave you. Being the kind of diva I’m talking about isn’t about demanding all the green M&M’s be plucked from your snack bowl in your dressing room. It’s about staying late, trying harder, and working whatever you’ve got. My divas get shit done while staying true to who they are. Once you master that lesson, you can apply it to every aspect of your life, and you’ll look and feel hotter for it.

  All divas, no matter what size, sex, race, orientation, class, or fashion sense, are beautiful.

  Like it or not, looks do matter in this world, and learning to work yours can be incredibly empowering. But that said, a true diva knows there’s more to life than glue-on lashes and red lips. You already know—or at least you know you’re supposed to know—that beauty comes from the inside, but to be a diva, you’ve got to get to the point where you actually unquestioningly believe that. You can spend hours and a ton of money perfecting your flawless face and sick body, but if you don’t have the personality or the sense of humor to back it up, then you’re focusing on the wrong damn things. An ugly personality always trumps a beautiful face. Always. And anyone who doesn’t know that isn’t a diva. She’s just an asshole with an attitude.

  rule no. 2:

  BE THANKFUL YOU’RE A MISFIT.

  If you are at all interesting, and honey, we already know you are because you’re holding this book in your hands, you have probably at one time or another felt alone, or somehow different from everyone around you. Maybe you sing show tunes; maybe you wear assless chaps. Whatever your particular passion, if it’s not football and beer or Pilates and Pinterest, your people may sometimes seem few and far between. But, if you live long enough (wa
tch it!) you will learn a thing or two about being different. Namely, it is that very difference that will make you beautiful.

  People often ask me how I got to be the only lady in a room of Ladyboys and the only heterosexual mother in a room of Muthas. It’s because, like many of you, when I’m on the margins, I feel most at home. I’ve always been different, but to really understand just how different, you need to know where I came from.

  Think of everything you know about what it is to be cool, and then understand that, as a kid, I was the exact opposite of what-ever’s in your head. I was never exactly “normal”, which meant I never felt like I really belonged. I mean, while all the other kids tap-danced or did lame magic tricks in our second-grade talent show at John E. Riley Elementary, I took center stage and sang “Rhinestone Cowboy,” accompanying myself on the f*cking organ. No joke. I played . . . AN ORGAN. I’m not so sure about the applause in the auditorium, but I swear to you, when I finished, the applause in my head went on for-evah.

  My parents were always in the front row of my childhood performances, clapping the loudest and longest. They loved me more than I could ever possibly put into words. My dad Marty, who was raised as an Orthodox Jew in Baltimore, was a prankster, the type of guy who, every Halloween, would sit his rotund ass in the bathroom, holding a cheap RadioShack microphone, and watch out the window for trick-or-treaters. When they stepped onto our porch, he’d make the woodpile and a pumpkin talk and the kids would howl in surprise and delight. We were always the most popular house on October 31. He met and fell in love with my mom, Arlene, when she was just sixteen. My mom was a five-foot-tall, Brooklyn-born Jewish woman with a big mouth and an even bigger presence. She was a kind and passionate woman who wasn’t afraid to use her voice. If she was happy, or even slightly annoyed by anything, anyone within in earshot of our house knew it. For instance, she had a love/hate relationship with our family dog. Every night, it was the same shrill chorus: “Get that damn dog out of the house!” and “Keep that damn dog quiet!” As a toddler, I was picking up words left and right, and so, having heard those two so often, I picked up one of my first-ever catchphrases: “Damn dog.” I said it all the time. Half proud, half mortified, my parents started calling the damn dog “DD” for short. (So, if you’ve ever wondered where my pipes—and my vulgarity—came from, you can thank Arlene, RIP.)