NY Mirror

And Parker's indie-actor pal Craig Chester is getting some career action of his own, thanks to his marvy memoir, Why the Long Face? Spies say Steve Martin's company might want to make the book into a TV show, a sort of gay, indie Wonder Years—leaving me the only queen on earth without a series! (By the way, I hear the gay channel is on again. Snap.)

But the blunder years are already happening on TV, thanks to The Restaurant, the just-concluded reality show about Rocco's on 22nd (which could use Vinny Vella). Ages ago, they filmed two nights of press people like myself dining there, and partly as a result, they got a frenzy of media attention, all the columnists kissing the show's ass as we, I mean they, watched week after week, sure they'd turn up on-screen. But all they ever showed was the Post's TV critic Linda Stasi—who they misguidedly promoted as a food critic, and who tells me they edited her to look less polite than she was—plus a couple of other don't-blink shots of reporters and a glimpse of celeb drop-in Gina Gershon arriving. We were all used! Even worse, though Gershon was there the same night as Stasi and I, her appearance was shown a week later, as if it were part of a different event. ("It would be impossible to keep a consistent chronology" when it comes to celeb appearances, what with all the footage shot, claims an NBC rep.)

And let's not even talk about the glittering, stellar bash promised to happen in the last episode—that plate was empty! It makes you wonder about the fire, the fights, and even the bad meatballs. (No, wait, I had them, and they truly were room temperature.) The Restaurant was clearly full of beans.

As for that other NBC-backed reality show—the Bravo one I've been calling Five Guys Named 'Mo—I bet it spawns a whole bunch of other makeover scenarios: You know, five blacks teach a rhythm-less white how to dance; five Asians instruct a black on how to do laundry and stamp passports; five Jews show a shopaholic how to be pushy and save a few dollars. Or how about Goy Meets Goy, where an anti-Semitic bachelor doesn't know that one of the hot goys he's romancing is really Jewish? Or perhaps not.


SPECIAL TO THE WEB:

Remember when I told you about the Oscar curse on actors’ relationships? To wit: When the seemingly more featherweight member of a star couple suddenly gets nominated for an Academy Award, there’s trouble in paradise, and it’s hard to ever recover from it. Ethan Hawke was nominated in ’01. I rest my case.


My fellow gossip Cindy Adams's famous Yorkshire terrier, Jazzy—who was the subject of a book, a boutique, and much merchandising—sadly passed on after a brief stay in a kennel. Only in New York, pooches.


Seventies singer Roberta Flack's publicist called three times until she got me, to swear that, contrary to my recent item, Roberta never said anything at the gym about Justin Timberlake, Boyz II Men, or the diminished opportunity of African Americans in music. In fact, she hardly talks at the gym at all! Well, my source stands by the story and says Flack actually flaps her gums a lot at the gym. But if Flack wants to make it clear that she didn't complain about music biz racism in this way, that's weird but fine. Her publicist is the same one who wouldn't let me speak to Sean Connery after I shlepped through a blizzard to go to a bomb movie party and meet him—along with only about 15 other people—so I know she's on the ball!


musto@villagevoice.com

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