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We realize we left many of you hanging Friday, with news that BravoTV.com executive blogutante Andy Cohen had just swept into town for a few days of aerobic famewhoring. Well, the follow-up report is now live, and we wouldn't dream of not passing along the details of Andy's Oscar-weekend whereabouts. The show itself gets low marks, though Andy remains frustratingly tight-lipped about where he actually saw it. (Perhaps anything less than having experienced the ceremony from atop Leonardo DiCaprio's shoulders might not have been deemed worthy of a mention.) The very act of shaking Oprah's hand, meanwhile, gets three solemn paragraphs, after which we get some fly-on-the-wall observations about the temporary L.A. branch of Soho House:

The suckage of the show had nothing to do with the fact that by the time it rolled around, I was over it anyway. I forced myself into a third wind, but the fun stuff happens in LA before the show begins and essentially by Sunday night, you're all, "Dame Helen, didn't you wear that last night? It's good to see the rash is clearing up."

My running buddy for the weekend was Paramount Producer Jason Blum (currenly shooting Accidental Husband starring Uma Thurman). I crashed at Jason's Hollywood Hills Bachelor Mecca. Though Jason drives a vintage Rolls and is largely agreed to be white hot, don't get any ideas. Jason is Hetero, Hetero, Hetero....

Saturday night, Bruce Bozzi* hosted a group at the Palm and Jason I went on from there to the LA outpost of the SoHo House, which from what I could ascertain could be renamed the BlowHo house. It's a gothic/mediterranean estate above the Hamburger Hamlet on Sunset that appears to create Oscar week Bacchanalia for all who visit, which appears to be one thousand agents who have been given permission to party and smoke and drink as much as they want for that week. The energy is a desperate sense of the plug potentially being pulled at any moment on the whole thing so people are getting it while they can.

Sadly, Cohen seems to be experiencing the debilitating side-effects of a glamour overdose, as what should have been the giddiest weekend of his year instead left Andy sounding somewhat disillusioned—even, dare we say, jaded?—as if Dorothy had pulled back the curtain of the stardust factory to find the Wizard doing a fat rail of blow off an aspiring starlet's ass.

*The non-Andy half of the "Brandy" coupling.