“Our lives are about survival right now, man. It’s totally legitimate to watch ‘Survivor’ (on CBS, Thursdays at 8/7 eastern-central time baby) instead of writing your column” my favorite red-headed muse said. “So it goes,” Kurt Vonnegut added. Yes, I have somewhat of an infatuation with hot Colby and the Harvard Law School student (which is better than the description of one of the chlamydia sufferers on “Temptation Island”: “Ivy League Graduate,” which I fear will someday be my sole description. That is, if I do, in fact, manage to graduate). But despite this primetime corruption, I will give you, as promised, an Oscars column. Or an “Academy Awards column” as a kind surfer from Santa Barbara reminded me earlier this week.

I’m not really going to say anything original. I promise. In The New York Times alone in the past two months I have read the following: some infographic comparing those wild and crazy accountants from PricewaterhouseCoopers to Florida ballot counters, a piece celebrating that hag Joan Rivers, an entire article devoted to sappy thank-you speeches, thousands upon thousands of articles about how the Oscars are so cliche and bourgeois but we watch them anyway, and one long-running investigation about how much money exactly they paid Britney to whore herself for Pepsi.

So here’s the summary. Big fashion losers were all these hot chicks that made themselves look like elderly caricatures of themselves, like Kate Hudson, Juliette Binoche, and J.Lo. and her exposed nipples (speaking of accountants, I have a theory that Ms. Lopez’s made up that contrived nickname for her). Fashion winners were new power couple Julia Roberts and Ben Bratt with their black and white combination (Tom and Nicole, you are so the Old Hollywood, and not in that classy Jimmy Stewart, Lauren Bacall kind of way) and Steve Martin, who’s just classy (this column is paying homage to him by hiding some Martin adages in the text. Play at home). Pamela Anderson was wearing a denim mini skirt that didn’t make it primetime and some lady from Crouching Tiger wore a tux.

The most exciting part of the Oscars, however, was the Britney Spears video. It was promo-ed during the lame ABC red carpet pre-show and, boy, did it not disappoint. It’s her best work. Her lyrics continue to lull me to sleep: “Just enjoy the Ride. Don’t need a reason why. Everything’s alright. . .my heart will skip a beat.” Uppers will do that to you, honey. I watch her over and over on adcritic.com (this week’s Web site endorsement, by the way, for those of you counting) bopping up and down celebrating the Joy of Pepsi in a white bustier and hot little suspenders thinking about if only I drank more cola I too might have boy band rejects dancing around me on network television.

She’s the only chick I know who can simultaneously proselytize the merits of virginity and make commercials involving ejaculating Pepsi bottles in an outfit I saw on a stripper in Ocala, Fla. Her music’s like crack: You know it’s bad stuff and that kid from high school did get sent to American Samoa for liking it a little too much, but it’s just so damn addictive.

But enough of that. Someone (Yes! It’s Jerri! I hate her!) is getting voted off the island so I better wrap this up. If I learned anything from Sunday night’s airing of the Oscars, it’s that it’s okay to be trashy and wear bad clothes and let your emotional baggage slosh everywhere in public. I forgot whether that was supposed to be about the Britney video or Julia winning for “Erin Brokovich.” You decide.

Lisa S. Cohen is a junior in Jonathan Edwards College. She is currently seeking a new protege, since her last one was killed fighting the forces of evil.