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Party On, Oscar

madonna
In the waking dream of Oscar parties: Madonna with Guy Ritchie at the Vanity Fair fete. (Chris Pizzello -- Associated Press)

But put that potsticker down! This is Hollywood, child, we do not eat -- we drink. (Hungry? Then smoke.) We commiserate with another paper's reporter about boldface names we've missed already (John Waters and Patty Hearst are gone, as are the Flying Tomato and the pretty little ice skater.) We make a trip over to the "special" couches where Elton perches after his show. Macy Gray is in a texting moment; Chris Kattan is heading out. Pam Anderson and David LaChapelle are here again this year, and with them is Amanda Lepore, the New York transgender performer, appearing tonight as (you pick): Pam Anderson's grandmother or the Pam Anderson of the year 2025, beamed to us by time machine.

It's the lips. Lepore is a lip-injection junkie. And then you start to look around and realize what plastic surgery has wrought all over this room of L.A. people -- a sea of women with Duck Face, that curiously wrong tightening. Ever-present "Dancing With the Stars" has-been and is-again Lisa Rinna stands in the VIP zone. She is Duck Faced. And guess what? It no longer looks like an error. People want Duck Face.

That's our big contribution to the Elton John party. That, and George Lucas, protected from our fanboy urges, but looking completely bored out of his mind. No one talks to him. We would, if there weren't so many beefy security guards preventing it. We have very specific ideas about the next Indiana Jones movie: It's the Cold War, and sixty-something Indy, with his hunky Gyllenhaalesque son, goes to Argentina to find Hitler, who's still alive. (Tell us you love it. Call us at the Beverly Hilton.)

* * *

Back at VF, gaining on 2 a.m., things are waning, and one of us is giddy and one of us is glum. (One drunk, one tired.) They are playing '80 songs we loved in junior high -- .38 Special, and the Cars. We're find ourselves orbiting a happy herd of heavy-lidded heartthrobs: Jake Gyllenhaal, Matt Dillon, Peter Sarsgaard. Sacha Baron Cohen, aka "Ali G," is telling stories, and he has a big Band-Aid on his forehead but sneers at us when we ask why. Hilary Swank is a bubbly thing. Heidi Klum and Seal are having a little powwow with Jon Stewart and . . . well if it isn't Kyle MacLachlan.

Oscar-winning "Brokeback Mountain" screenwriter Diana Ossana, in a tight blue gown, kittens up to her sheepherding cowboys (mixed animal metaphor? Hello, we've been drinking?) and she has a long, serious conversation with Heath Ledger, and the only snippet we overhear is this: "He didn't even thank the cast," Ledger says.

This sounds like carping. Time to go.

We learned some things, too. We learned that the word "red" does not describe the holiday sunset of Amy Adams's hair. We learned that Weinsteins are friendlier when they're svelter. We learned that Adrien Brody, the ghost of "The Pianist" past, has excellent manners. We learned Nicole Kidman is still the best dressed and most poised woman in a room, though her teeth remain unnaturally small. We learned to love the French, with those plushy stuffed penguins. "March" producer Emmanuel Priou let us hold one, and you know what? We think with a little club soda and a napkin, that stain will come right off.


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