After working in the high-class kitchens of New York's Penisula Hotel and the St. Regis Hotel's Lespinasse, he left to open — and hit his culinary peak with Union Pacific, which closed down four years ago as he morphed into a celebrity chef. He had been beat up a lot while growing up in Queens, but now the ritual beatings come from the "knife-sharpening snark squadrons of Gawker.com and a segment of the gastronomic elite."

Are we getting blamed for driving someone to drink/shrink again? The NYT noted in today's profile that one of his answers "carried a distinct echo of therapy," to which Mr. DeSpirito replied, "There’s been lots of therapy."

But seriously, everyone important in the food biz is wondering where he went, and why he just threw it all away to go on the TV.

“We were talking the other day, another food-obsessed person and I, and we were just saying how sad it was that he has disappeared,” said Gael Greene, the grande dame of New York food scribes, and one of the first to celebrate Mr. DiSpirito’s talent 13 years ago when he was the chef at Dava. “I do believe that ‘Dancing With the Stars’ is kind of the last stop... I don’t understand — has he totally lost that passion to cook?"

Embarrassingly, he mentions Balthazar/Pastis founder Keith McNally and McNally won't even give comment. Then it's back to blaming the "elite" bloggers who pick on him who are just out of touch with the rest of America: "The vast majority of what I hear from the people who appreciate what I do — which is I think more of the general public, more of America, versus the people who write and read Gawker."

Rocco, prepare to get your ass kicked after school today.

It kicked off with the familiar kaleidoscopic opener, the viewing of which lulls the audience into a light trance, rendering them pliable to host Tom Bergeron's kinky sexual bidding whenever he utters the word "Bruno." That was followed by a series of political attack spoof ads, the twelfth as funny as the first, plus an encore performance of Lance Bass's sultry Tango del Eyeliner. Sadly, it was Rocco DiSpirito who danced with Death last night, its rhinestone-encrusted scythe falling on the comely chef who ultimately proved incapable of locating the soul inside a samba the way he does his Mama's Meatballs. At least he can go home with his head held high, knowing Mario Batali would never have been able to pull off that fuchsia sleeveless number.

• Dancing with the Stars [ABC]

This year's subject is Magabrands! What is a Magabrands!? Zinczenko's letter to the troops explains:

It's a magazine that's found a way to extend the power of its brand beyond the printed periodical—into realms like "old" media (books, newsstand specials, television, radio); "new" media (podcasts, webcasts, cellcasts, e-newsletters); even non-media (nightclubs, restaurants, tour operations, fashion lines, retail products, conventions, big-cause crusades, hotels and casinos).

A list of speakers include New York editor Adam Moss; Times guy David Carr, sure to be the most engaging speaker of the lot; John DeLucie, partner and chef of the Waverly Inn (THAT IS ODD); plastic chef Rocco DiSpirito; and Dan Rather. Also, editor and publisher of the Nation Katrina Vanden Heuvel, whose headshot is really an object lesson in how not to use the brightness/contrast tool in Photoshop. Book your tickets now at the Field and Stream Motel today!

In the opposite corner Star Jones was being filmed, her face dancing a jig of a thousand expressions, each one seeming more grotesque than the one before it.

"Donald, Donald," called out a man on the far side of the velvet rope. Donald approached warily. The man extended his hand. His face was a marshland of splotchy red, and looked like it had been lifted no more than an hour ago. Instead of eyebrows, he had two smears of white cream. "It's me, Abe Wallach!"

Wallach was Trump's head of acquisitions for more than ten years before retiring. "Abe?" Trump said, incredulously, "I don't recognize you! You look 25 years younger." Trump turned to the security guy: "Let him in." The security man said," Sorry, Mr. Trump, but he needs a wristband." Trump turned to face the guard, his eyes somehow narrowing further. "You know who I am, don't you?" he hissed. "I do, sir. But he still needs a wristband." Trump unhooked the rope from its stand and in went Abe. Trump continued to insist, somewhat tactlessly, how he could not recognize Wallach. "Ha, that's what retirement will do," said Wallach, laughing uneasily.

When we finally got a hold of Trump he was hot and annoyed. "''Scuse me, Mr. Trump. Let's talk about a woman we both know well. Do you feel any sense of victory now that Rosie is out of The View?" He assessed for a split second before saying, "I don't want to talk about Rosie. She's a sleazebag, what more is there to say? I'm not going to talk about it."

Sensing our Trumpian moment was passing, we asked, "Ok, let's talk about ponies." "No," he said, moving on, "you're done." His newest wife, Melania, shot us a sympathetic look as she trailed her husband. We shot her one straight back, since she was the one that had to let him bed her routinely.

We never got to ask him about how he freaked out at that golf tournament last weekend—we hear he was partnered with some teenager, and near the end of the match, thinks went south and Trump stomped off and got in his car and just left. But now we'll never know for sure!

In the big tent for the poorer, the plastic surgery was a lot worse than even Mr. Wallach's. On the other hand, the crowd was pleasingly rowdy. In the far end, two "rocker dudes" were standing around. One had a choker on. They told us they were in the band Rammstein; obviously we didn't believe them. So we gave them a hard time. Who would pose as a German industrial band? Later it turned out they actually were in Rammstein! Oops, our bad.

As the Polo match wound down, Rocco DiSpirito could be seen wandering around dispirited and lonely. The ponies were being loaded back into their trailers; who would load Rocco into his trailer? The plastic faces and breasts of the polo goers sagged in the heat. Only Donald Trump, his hair an island of placidity, seemed unfazed. He took the mic and began to speak. Through the loudspeakers and echoing across the now empty field, the voice of Trump echoed, "Trump, trump, trump, trump, trump."

Rocco DiSpirito Joins Bertolli to Inspire Home Cooks With Simple, Flavorful Ideas for Making Mediterranean Meals [PR Wire]

• Federal government trying to make Times op-ed page less boring. [NYT]
  
• Say hello to Flip.com, "Conde Nast's answer to News Corp.'s MySpace." [WSJ]
  
• Amy Goldwasser out of the running for Seventeen job; wants to start a magazine involving teenage girls as "direct contributors." It's called Livejournal, Amy. [WWD]
  
• New money/business AME at the News. [NYDN]
  
• VNU cutting 4000 jobs. [Guardian]
  
• Quick Bono/Forbes story decoder: "Fellows" is really "fuckers." [NYP]
  
• Two years later, Jack Shafer finally kisses Ana Marie Cox's ass. [Slate]
  
• Christmas swag watch! [Ad Age]
  
• After giant cash infusion, HuffPo hires some AOL guy. Sadly, this article contains no mention of Rachel Sklar. [NYP]
  
• Rocco DiSpirito holding up a big sign that says "Will not cook for food." [Radar]
  

Pilot for New Reality Series on A&E Network

Celebrity Chef and Cookbook Author Rocco Di Spirito is shooting his new cable TV show, and we're looking for people with a dramatic situation in their life involving food. Worried about that engagement dinner with your picky mother-in-law? Will a family barbeque set the stage to reunite an estranged family member? Do you want to win back your ex-girlfriend with an impressive romantic dinner!? Maybe you just never learned how to cook, and it's a source of tension between you and a loved one! Email us with your story, and we'll contact you!

The show will shoot at the end of June, beginning of July, and requires a commitment of 4-6 days. You must live within 45 min of Manhattan.

You ever think Rocco is the main character in scary stories that celebrity chefs tell their kids when they're putting them to bed at night?

Mario Batali: ...and then, after Tourundel took over Union Pacific, and even his ex-girlfriend was getting better press than he was, Rocco had to host the food version of "Nanny 911!"

Batali children: Nooooo! Mommy!

(By the by, we saw the thing over the weekend, and Roberts isn't quite as bad as Brantley alleges. But Edelstein in New York is right: The only time she showed personality was when she relaxed at the curtain call. Which made us realize maybe she's better up there than we all think: To be totally anti-charismatic for two hours? That's acting, kid.)

[Photo by Getty Images.]

Julia Roberts Faces a Million Litte Broadway Critics [Open All Night]
Related:
Enough Said About 'Three Days of Rain.' Let's Talk Julia Roberts! [NYT]
The Close-Up Is Her Voodoo [NYM]