• Last Wednesday night at the Showbox, a vast array of Seattle art folks turned out to roast James Keblas, the beloved former director of Seattle's Office of Film + Music, who was unceremoniously (and, many say, unwisely) deposed by Mayor Murray. Among the many zingers of the night: Sir Mix-A-Lot (who appeared via video) hailing Keblas as "officially a black man" because he was "fucked by the man."

• Last Friday afternoon, a handful of people sat on couches and cushions in the lobby of On the Boards for an informal screening of Robert Wilson and Philip Glass's five-hour opera Einstein on the Beach. Chips, hummus, and beer were served, and a few hours in, some attendees stretched their legs with a "Lucinda Childs dance-along," kicking and spinning in the style of the Einstein choreographer to Glass's vertiginously repetitive score.

• Saturday night's Independent Spirit Awards ceremony brought not one but two blasts of NW-scented triumph: Bob Nelson, the former Almost Live! cast member turned Oscar-nominated screenwriter, won best first screenplay for his beautiful Nebraska script, and Nat Sanders, editor of Humpday, Your Sister's Sister, and the forthcoming Laggies, won best editing for Short Term 12.

• Word on the street is that the AWP after-party thrown by women's-lit org VIDA turned into a rowdy bacchanal Saturday night. Drinking and dancing continued until the wee hours, articles of clothing were shed and lost, and the next morning, partyers were found asleep on the Hugo House floor. "It smelled like a frat house," someone who stopped by on Sunday said.

• Overheard at AWP: "We love Seattle! We like it better than Boston. We're going to move here."

• Overheard at AWP, post–poetry reading: "I'm not the solipsist here."

• Somehow, the 86th Academy Awards were the most-watched Oscars in the past decade, even though Ellen DeGeneres's idea of hosting was walking through the audience and the influx of theme songs from the 900 best-picture nominations meant there was more than an hour when no awards were given at all. The President of Movies™ managed to say she was proud of their diversity without laughing once, even though the Academy is 94 percent white and 76 percent dudes. No one knew how to read the teleprompter, John Travolta's onstage stroke launched an epic meme, and after Brad Pitt threw in $60 for his cut, we learned that Hollywood's elite have no idea how much a pizza costs. The best part: when Matthew McConaughey said that his future self was his only hero, proving that white male privilege is literally endless.