Dr. Do-Nothing?

From not-so-dreamy backstage glitter-gab to rumored snit-fits, let’s check in on what the hell went down in Oscar-ville on the Big Night! And Jennifer Hudson plays doc to Britney, can ya stand it? Eddie has left the building. That was the whispered scuttlebutt backstage at the Oscars Sunday. Apparently, Mr. Em, largely considered a shoo-in for Best Supporting Actor in Dreamgirls, took off shortly after he lost to Alan Arkin in a bit o’ an upset.

No Academy personage would comment, and none of Murphy’s peeps could be found to ask for verification at this breaking moment, when Jen Hudson was gabbin’ with me about any advice she’d give (or not) to the career self-destroyer, Britney Spears.

“Ain’t none of my business what [Britney’s] doin’,” Hudson, immediately after she won a Best Supporting job, sassed back at me, when I inquired what J.H.—being the supreme singer/media queen she is—would suggest for an expeditious Spears comeback.

“Oh, but, Jennifer, she needs your help,” I practically begged on Britney’s behalf.

“All I can do,” Hudson offered in that breathy, seen-it-all way the young gal already seems to have working for her (and the gold lamé glued to her most womanly curves certainly didn’t hurt), “is pray for Britney.”

Better get on your knees, pronto (and a lot), girlfriend! 

Hudson also mentioned she became a tad nervous, odds-wise, once Murphy didn’t win in his category. She also fessed, most impressively, I might add, to when I shot her my standard sexist query: 

“Why is it, both on- and off-camera, with men it’s called competitiveness,” I asked, thinking of the behind-the-scenes Dreamgirls stories I’d heard about Beyoncé, Jennifer Holliday, Hudson and such. “But with women, it’s called catfighting?” 

“Maybe that’s because half the time we are catfighting,” Hudson snarled, wheat-colored bugles all a twitter. “Ha!”

Obvs. Ms. H. was trained at the Simon Cowell Institute of Revenge Is Best Served with a Sneer.

Oh, back to No-No Norbitt, gotta tell ya what I did ferret out from those who know E.M. well. It ain’t pretty: “He’s very disappointed,” replied a Murphy camper, who I had asked for a gauge on Murphy’s mood. “I mean, after all,” the insider added, “he did everything [to campaign].   

“Why leave so early?” I pressed. “Didn’t he know how that would look? Why didn't someone make him stay?”

“He’s Eddie,” I was told. “You do what he wants.” Or "He does what he wants."

Yo, Murphy-dude! Scorsese sucked it up for decades before he got his big win (and Leo’s still very much doing so), think he wanted to put out that happy-face benevolence? Fuhgeddaboudit!

Oh, and Al Gore, whom everybody backstage was calling Mr. President, for some sweet-ass reason, practically ran shortly before the show, when he was asked to comment on why local big-ass David Geffen is bad-mouthing Gore’s old officemate Hillary Clinton so. Smartest thing he’s done so far, eh? “I’m not stupid,” Tipper’s man hissed, when he declined to answer the pretty decent query.

Almost as good as when I asked Best Oscar-nabber Melissa Etheridge (for Best Song in Gore’s docu-job, An Inconvenient Truth, interestingly enough) if she were to write a musical composition for Isaiah Washington, what the hell would she call it?

“Oh, Ted, Ted Casablanca,” she said smilingly, obviously stalling the politically fuelled inquiry. “I just blanked. I don’t know,” she continued, haltingly, before going on to say that her Oscar would be the “only naked man to ever enter her bedroom.” 

That’s it, Melissa!

How ‘bout “Ode to an Asshole,” for Mr. Washington? You like?

Hudson was all about showin' off her goodies in a hot-to-trot number at the Giant mag pre-Oscar shindig thrown in her honor. The Beverly Wilshire penthouse pah-tay was hosted by Jen's big-screen costar Jamie Foxx. Oh, gotta say, Mr. Ef was an absolute verbal pooper when I asked him his fave Oscar memory. "All of 'em!" he canvas-replied. "Not your own?" I sassed back. "I'm impressed." To which J.F. looked at me like I was something that should be promptly melted down and added to his glittery bling collection. But let's get back to Jen-babe, shall we?

Though it may be diet season for many a Tinseltown twig, Jennifer, curvy galore in a strapless floral number, happens to be one Oscar bunny who’s doin’ the exact opposite—which just so happens to be chowin’ down on some Denny’s! “They always make me special omelets. So, I always go and get the no-cheese, with mushrooms, tomatoes and bell peppers,” she chow-wowed to me. How anti-Mary-Kate! J.H. even added that she'd stopped exercising altogether. "I'm losing weight without working out. I don't want to lose my jelly!" Delish, no? Just can't help but love the freethinking gal's mouth in two-by-four chica H-town.

Perhaps not so yum-yum material would be the unfortunate response Ms. H. had when I asked if she missed the more outrageous Oscar days of Cher. This would have been back when the Moonstruck mama was tearing up the politically correct Academy Award environs with her outlandishly feathered Bob Mackie outfits (far more successfully subversive than Demi and her glittery bicycle shorts, in my unhumble opinion). 

"Uh, that was before I was born," bitched-slapped (tongue-wise) the gal I used to adore so. 

After I recovered, I got more to the point: "The ceremony’s a bit staid—we need your help," I replied as politely as I could. "Please vamp things up for us, think you can handle it?" 

"Oh, I’ll diva it up, that what you want?" 

Bingo, gorgeous. Yo, readers, like how J.H. came through on my request? Lemme know! 

Oh, and I must tell you all that Naomi Watts was in Miami right before the Oscars, and Desk Eff-Hell-Ay reports N.W. made an appearance at the David Yurman boutique in swanky Bal Harbour Shops. The news is Naomi-doll didn't look to be preggers, no matter what recent pics of her bundled up in NYC will lead you to believe. She was wearing a subtly polka-dotted brown cocktail dress (looked like it was silk, which, as you know, is one of the most revealing fabrics). Howevah, Ms. W. mostly stuck to water, as far as what she put down her gullet, so who the eff knows...