Kathie Lee Gifford worked 12 years creating “Scandalous,” last week’s Broadway musical premiere at the Neil Simon. It’s about 1920s faith healer Aimee Semple McPherson. The reviews were fair. The opening was spectacular.
Since she hosts the last hour of “Today,” everyone from that program showed but their cue cards guy. The night was freezing. Co-host Hoda Kotb paraded in a short short armless tight tight dress. No coat. But no worry. She had goosebumps to keep her warm. Being friendly I growled, “What’re you, nuts?” She shivered: “Please . . . don’t say anything . . . please . . . I know . . .”
Al Roker arrived for the dressy big-time evening in sport jacket, nonmatching pants, open shirt, no tie. Being friendly I said: “What’re you, nuts?” He said: “Listen, the baby sitter and my wife were away. I had to ready one kid for basketball, another for swimming. I just got done.” Two days later he was ambling Third Avenue. Same outfit.
Savannah Guthrie: “I’ll try making this to the end but, since I began on ‘Today,’ there’s no sleep. Not even interested in dating. Too tired. I’m up 3 a.m. I doubt I’ll do the after-party at the Copa or it’ll make my sleeping time very short.”
Willie Geist: “People magazine named me one of the Sexiest People. Probably to humiliate me.”
After a chorus line of “Today” types trickled by, along came Mamabear Kris Kardashian, whom I’d just passed in Sydney’s airport. “I was there with my daughter — (she mentioned one of the non-Kim K’s – Kendall, Kourtney, Khloe, Kandy, Koo-Koo, whatever) doing a shoot for Vogue Australia. “I’m here tonight as Kathie Lee’s friend. I’ve listened to this show idea for 30 years.”
Kathie Lee Gifford, a marvel, has endured before — when accused of her apparel line’s underpaid workers, when she quit co-hosting Regis’ old TV show, now with this production. “Look, I got up early like every other day, did the show, lunched with a friend, and I’m still wearing this morning’s same TV makeup. I don’t believe in luck. I believe in hard work.”
EX-stripper Channing Tatum, in next month’s GQ, says he’s “meatheadish.” Also: “Career advice from very successful smart actors were like, ‘Grind it. If you love it, grind it.’ People who didn’t grind it, it’s not that that they’re not in a good place, but I’m in a better place.” Stanislavski must be proud . . . Motown’s Berry Gordy musical opens next year. Opening now is an homage to those Detroit roots, Mark Bego’s novel “Murder at Motor City Records.”
RICH runt Stewart Rahr, No. 298 on Forbes 400, whom Nobu banned for acting like a rich runt, gave $50,000 to Hurricane Sandy victims this week and $7 mil to the Prostate Cancer Foundation — but still can’t get a table at Nobu . . . Park Avenue Armory medical fund-raiser. Deafening performances until midnight by veteran rockers Gregg Allman and Peter Frampton. The MD crowd was prepped to offer professional attention should anybody get carried out feet first.
DEC. 21 Tom Cruise dances to the movies as ex-military adrenaline-logged investigator “the most compelling hero” Jack Reacher. Pre-opening comes author Lee Childs’ paperback, “Jack Reacher: One Shot.” The slugline: “The law has limits. He does not.”
Scenario: six shots, five dead, city in terror. Cops solve it within hours. But, says the perp: “Got the wrong guy.” Reacher knows this dude, a trained military sniper who’d never miss a sixth shot. Enter a beautiful young female lawyer (not Katie Holmes) and decided is — ta-da! — an unseen enemy is pulling the strings.
Just letting you know.
INTO glamour? Nov. 29, Marilyn Monroe’s private collection, at SoHo’s Erno Laszlo opening. They’re the skin-care people who catered to Marilyn, Ava Gardner, Grace Kelly. All dead. But great skin . . . Or read photographer Rose Hartman’s “Incomparable Women of Style.” A hundred photos of Nan Kempner, Brooke Astor, Jackie O. Also all dead. But great style.
I’M feeling lousy about Petraeus. He had an affair. Many males, married 38 years, are having, dream of having, look to be having, or once were having some extramarital wrestle. Nobody says it’s right. Nobody’s giving it the kosher sign. But back in the Stone Age, down at the riverbed, while Mrs. Flintstone was scrubbing her husband’s loincloths against the rocks, he was probably in some little cave-for-two getting it on with Sylvia Cro-Magnon. Maybe promising her an antediluvian thrill. Maybe letting her hold his spear. Whatever, face it, it’s just how humanity’s wired.
Some toxic bitch ignited by money/rank/position often zaps many a worthy. She’s younger, thinner, more nubile than the weary burdened body he’s lain next to for decades, and like a circus aerialist or contortionist, there’s no position she can’t assume. Her animal magnetism renders him powerless.
But she’s a third rail. She can kill. G-Men, FBI, CIA, Justice Dep’t, Oval Office, computer tekkies, TV know-it-alls who’ve themselves played potsy.
Question: a personal indiscretion is sufficient to destroy a lifetime career?
IN front of Flex Mussels restaurant, a dog walker with a camera. He explained: “The owners insist on seeing everything that happens while I walk their dogs.”
Only in New York, kids, only in New York.