Cindy Adams

Cindy Adams

Celebrity News

Jerry Lewis’ daughter’s autobiography heads to publishers

Suzan Lewis’ autobio, now hitting publishers, says: “My father was responsible for two great things. The Muscular Dystrophy telethon and me, ‘longest baby ever born in Manhattan’s Woman’s Hospital’ — 10 pounds at birth Feb. 3, 1952.”

The title: “Jerry Lewis, My Father — Is Always in My Mirror.” He’s estranged since 2009, Suzan says. She has an unrelenting need to reconnect. Her fashion model mother Lynn Dixon, whom he didn’t marry, met at the Copacabana, introduced by Milton Berle when Martin and Lewis were hot. Now less hot, Jerry still won’t play papa.

Suzan looks like Jerry. Their walk and mannerisms are alike. She and his son Gary underwent DNA tests. Boston paternity lab claims “an 88 percent match.”

Always trying to reconnect, she’s fluent in French because “Dad was such a success in France and maybe then he’d spend more time with me. That man who made the whole world laugh, I wanted all to myself.”

Per the book: “Mom and Dad had fun together, passionate evenings, friends in common, he had Mom sit ringside, brought her to the set of his movie ‘My Friend Irma,’ told her, ‘I want to marry you. Pick some engagement rings.’ He picked an eight-carat round diamond. The problem? Both were already married.”

Then it gets murky. His next wife wasn’t interested in Suzan. Mom’s next husband didn’t want to know about his wife’s previous life. Jerry took a powder.

Early days Suzan attended the American Academy of Dramatic Arts and lived well. Limos, celebs — Martha Raye, Phil Silvers, Lauren Bacall, George Burns, Jack Benny. Next came a mugging. Learning about it Jerry called then Mayor John Lindsay and the hoods were caught. And one more night at a theater, Suzan tells: He walked up and, looking straight at her, asked, “How’s my daughter doing?”

Maybe another quickie meeting in Florida. And that’s about it.

1996 a head-on collision. She almost died. Left incapacitated, she says, “My then-husband . . . filed for divorce.”

No husband. No health. No money. No father. At one point homeless. An ailing mother now gone. All she wants is to reconnect with her father Jerry Lewis.

Odds & ends

Barbara Taylor Bradford, after selling Uma Thurman her River House pad: “Who needed 15 rooms? We’re just two people and lost our dogs.” Now making do in tiny cramped 9 Park Ave. rooms: “After construction hell, maybe in May it’s finished.” . . . WITH those La Grenouille brothers, one’s saying the other’s bad, as in really, really bad at arithmetic . . . ­“GUERILLA” crew filming Beauregard Houston-Montgomery’s book “Dollhouse Living.” Like nobody’ll notice five guys with cameras and booms immortalizing icky East Villagers playing with Barbie?

Farewell, Mickey

The world knew Mickey Rooney. We grew up with Mickey Rooney. But everyone forgot Mickey Rooney. He married Ava Gardner in his 20s. He lived estranged from Jan, his last of eight wives. In ’41 he had the cover of movie magazines. In ’46 he appeared at the first Tonys. In the ’40s he starred at Radio City.

1981 he told me: “I don’t know where all my money went.” 2001 nobody from this tough cold world showed at Mick’s 80th birthday. He said to me: “They need taller stars” . . . And then came time I had to report ugly stories about elder abuse.

Rest easy, Mick. You were the greatest. You were tall enough.

WALDORF charity. Lady outfitted up to her peroxide roots. Black cashmere skirt, rhinestones on the sides. Silver and black brocade couture jacket.

And this was at lunch yet. Another beaut, also dressed up to her tweezed eyebrows, said, having admired that jacket all through the lunch, she had to have it. Right then, right there, right over the fruitcup, Peroxide took it off and sold it (at retail, although she’d gotten it wholesale) to the Tweezer.

Only in New York kids, only in New York.