If stars fall in the sky, does anyone hear? I managed to make it through an entire week into my foreseeable future without the faintest curiosity about the “big awards” being doled out to NYC restaurants. With the chances of spending $500 on a dinner about as good as our investing in a bottle of the new $1,450 cognac, who really gives a flying goose fuck anymore? I felt the same way about the silly food “festival” and the silly food-centric magazine, which was apparently designed by the same people who package Ambien. Everything seems so craven — was the magazine pegged to the “festival,” or was it just meant to sell more of those annoying and inescapable Campbell’s attack ads? My favorite curmudgeon went off even more than I did, but he actually read the thing. I only dipped a toe now dying of osteonecrosis into one thing by a guy who I know for sure could barely crank out 500 words on shrimp-shell stock, never a thought piece. But I did tear out the meat of the matter to read on the bus home from the Whitney — and almost snoozed off while wedged in standing up and gripping a handrail. The best and the brightest meets the worst and the dimmest. Don’t they call the damn thing a NEWSpaper? Leave off the S for stupidity. Just tell me something new, please.