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Happy Work Week! Say, anybody find a wallet in Dupont Circle on Friday containing everything that makes me whole? You can keep the cash, just give me back my Bruigher Beard Club membership card.
Oscar was a grouch to James Cameron, far as the big-ticket prizes were concerned. In the end, Avatar took what it deserved, which were the art awards. Kathryn Bigelow doubled up on Cameron, 6 to 3, inspiring vicarious pleasure in the embittered divorcees who’d been feeding off the Battle-of-the-Exes media narrative. For more on Oscar night, read anything else.
By the way, everything I said in this post was right. Not just about the Oscars, either.
Speaking of shameless self-indulgence, Quentin Tarantino didn’t win take home Best Director for Inglorious Basterds. But don’t fret: I have high hopes for Q’s rumored joint with Chris Tucker, who apparently still gets invited to parties.
After the jump: MGMT requires that its fans have high left-brain function.
Speaking of cult directors, sometimes the ones who make the worst movies are the most revered! WaPo reprints a thin treatment of this phenomenon.
Speaking of bad movies that people like me find inexplicably appealing, remember Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist? Remember how the organizing premise of that movie was that this uber-hip band was sending all these uber-hip kids on a ridiculous treasure hunt designed so that only the uberest, hippest of earn the privilege of seeing them perform? MGMT remembers.
In other music news, Rihanna made out with a robot.
Sorry if this roundup was a little chippy—I lost my wallet on Friday, see, and my Bruigher’s Beard Club card was in there.