Eyelash-Batting, Bosom-Signing and Feeling the (Faizon) Love

The night begins with what would seem to be a ridiculous episode of Punk’d at the , which is debuting its  new exhibitions.

“Wow. Plexiglas, in a big pile of sand. Are we supposed to take this seriously?”

I say this, turning to my girlfriends in disbelief. Anna-Maria and Lisa attempt to coax me into sitting in the sand for a photo. Lurking in the corner is a chair with a thousand rusty nails in it, along with a razor blade and other random debris.

Apparently, this is art.

I assume things can't get worse, but I'm proven wrong. In the adjacent room, among many other gems, one piece stands out—a large, rectangular, stretched, white furry thing.

“The North Pole called … it wants its polar bear rug back,” I blurt to an elderly woman next to me. She ignores me and walks away.

Anna-Maria turns to Lisa and I. “The label says White Furry Painting. That's not a painting, it's an acrylic faux-fur rug on a wall!”

At this point, I'm super-pissy. I didn’t want to go out in the first place, so I speak up.

“I'd rather go to church than stay here any longer, guys.”

We drive over to for a late dinner. The music is tribal, the ambience is sexy. I’m back from the Dark Side.

We’re seated, but soon there’s a commotion across the room. Trailer Park Girl, being loud and crazy for some unknown reason—and it’s only 9:30!

Our first round of drinks arrive, we toast, I sip. “Oh. That's why she’s hammered.”

The lychee martini warms my throat, but later, the big, beautiful African mojito tries to murder me—it’s potent witch potion.

My gluttonous side sets in as I order more food than any self-respecting girl should eat. My gal-pack looks at me like I'm crazy—“What? I’m going to share!” The apps arrive, and I'm like a primal animal, ripping into my first juicy prawn, which I’ve drenched in spicy sauce. My mouth is … on fire! And then the mahi-mahi in all its tender glory, and the spicy fries, and then …

… is that Faizon Love across the room? The guy from Couples Retreat?

“Hey, Faizon!” I yell, then run over to give him a big cuddly hug. “I write a nightlife column,” I announce, then grab his big hand and drag him over to meet the girls so we can snap some pictures.

I ask him for his digits, he’s jotting in my notebook.

“Oh—and your autograph?” I say, batting my eyelashes.

He scribbles it in my book. Shamelessly, I ask, “Would you autograph my bosoms?”

He smiles. “Maybe later. Text me.”

“Awesome!”

I give him another hug and The Faizon heads out. We head upstairs for some dancing to a Beatles tribute band, when I notice that “Paul McCartney” is actually the guy I saw a few weeks ago being “David Bowie” in a Bowie tribute band! ”No, no, no …” I sputter, and we all laugh hysterically.

I dance for a song, but all the drunken couples bumping into me (along with the fact that I had eaten too much) was a turnoff. Then I spot an adorable Italian boy in the corner and sit right next to him. He says “hi.” I realize he’s wasted … no longer interested.

As for the Oscars themselves, I stop at the for the broadcast and wait for Christian Bale to make his appearance … there! Finally, he's on the red carpet. I don't like the beard. Or the suit. But I still love you, Christian!