At LAX, in cabs, restaurants and traffic jams the talk of Los Angeles is one thing. Oscar weekend. We've been bumbling around in Tuesday's underwear trying to figure out what in fuck is going on. Here's what we've found.

City blocks are closed. A giant Oscar statue outside the Kodak Theater is shrouded in plastic. Cops are out in force searching for post-party DUIs. The official party list, via Variety, is here. It's the usual bunch of sponsored-by, blah-corporation-brings-to-you, in-honor-of tongue twisters. To which we are not invited. We'd also heard that the restaurant of choice was Street, a hyper-LA concept—upscale "street food"—that celebs literally and metaphorically eat up. Will Ferrell and the cast of Lost are all "friends" (the word always takes quotes here) of the chef. They were guffawing knowingly at faux-street delicacies there last night, say our sources.

We were not. We sat in the Gawker Oscars Bunker (Motel 6, complete with meth heads, odd motel smell and Hot Pockets), trying to think of something to write about the same old crap. Then we decided to just go to the one party we were invited to—for New York ping pong club Spin—and figure it out later.

Around the glowing blue pool at the Mondrian hotel Susan Sarandon, a partner in the club, sipped vodka gimlets with the St. Barts/downtown NYC crowd, Jamie Foxx and a bunch of LA models. Foxx (or "yo Foxx" as everyone called him) looked out for a good time—he was whacking the little plastic balls with great joy while yelling, howling and dancing to Busta Rhymes. Nearby, eavesdropping on various conversations held by people with international, Pierce-Brosnan-esque, accents, we gathered that the best parties were in fact (secret) and not on the Variety list anyway. Like New York!

Soho House is opening an enclave at the top of a nondescript new office building on Sunset Boulevard. Its official debut is Monday, but until then, we gathered, they are having top-(secret) invite-only parties, the most notable of which is the Weinstein company bash on Saturday. Using the popular internet website www.google.com, we found the address—9200 Sunset, for your reference. Former NBC honcho Ben Silverman, apparently dressed as a Wes Anderson character in a beige blazer and green pants, swept past us. Juliette Lewis, in a black dress, followed suit. As we walked away, Jamie Foxx strolled in with the fawning remnants of the Spin party and a small smile. No howling, but it looked imminent.

We moved on to another rumored hotspot—"sex" club Voyeur (think burlesque lite) on Santa Monica Boulevard. The paparazzi were out in force, along with their homeless mascot Kevin Jones. The car park had four Bentleys, a Ferrari, nine Mercedes, a vintage Mustang and one Toyota, crying gently to itself. As we stood outside, taking notes amid suspicious glances, Foxx swept past us once more, this time with a larger entourage of hangers-on and giant grin on his face.

Tonight we will mostly be not getting into the houses of super agents Bryan Lourd of CAA and Ari Emanuel of William Morris. Foxx with his new Tutankhamun beard and pied-piper-esque group of LA friends will doubtless best us again. If you need us, we'll be sitting outside In-N-Out Burger working on our Ray Charles impressions.