Cindy Adams

Cindy Adams

Celebrity News

I’m off to Hollywood for the Oscars, and I know exactly what to expect

Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho, Hollywood I do go. Golden land of oranges and syringes. Where car parks have valet mugging. Where boobs are so big they have their own ZIP codes.

Where black bunting lies over the poolhouses because Oprah — with long false eyelashes and long red nails playing a servant’s wife — didn’t get nominated.

It’s Oscarville. Where the only word in every red-carpet interview is “incredible.”

As in, “You look incredible.” . . . “Your gown is incredible.” . . . Your work in (add the name) was “incredible.” Incredible is that nobody knows any other word.

Land of the me. Home of the crave.

Where age 25 begins your AARP subscription.

Where James Cameron’s not king of the world — it’s Harvey Weinstein. Another statuette and the famous Hollywood sign changes to Harveywood.

But all is not frivolity in Hollyweed.

Local TV shrunk their Alec Baldwin father-of-the-year coverage to only 23 hours. Covering Ukraine carnage, one anchor was so touched his toupée almost moved.

And “Entertainment Tonight” booked a surprise guest. Ahmadinejad. He’ll demonstrate how to cook leg of lamb with oregano, napalm and mustard gas.

Hollyweird. Obamacountry — from where UN Ambassador Angelina Jolie sent in her report on international relations but which our commander-in-chief never read. Why? No pictures.

Anyway, I’m here in Hollywired. Although Al Gore’s warning of warming and our East is covered in ice, the West also has problems. Ground in LA is shaking from the Mexican illegal rush for visas.

Still, I don’t mean to knock this part of the USA. We need California. Our country has to have something at the other end of it.

Hollyweed, where one admires the lifestyles. Like that gay hairdresser married to a bi makeup artist. In the prenup, she gets custody of the blow-dryer. And Sunday’s special Oscarcast security. The FBI will stick three cameras in Jennifer Lawrence’s cleavage.

Hollywow. Where everyone’s so narcissistic that they film their colonoscopies. In color. In hi-fi.

And where Ellen DeGeneres razzberry’d every gown offered with its flares and flounces, peplums and pleats, ruffles and ruches. She wears only pants. This surprised Tyler Perry, who was eager to loan his Mother Hubbards.

With all her awards one year, serial winner Dame Judi Dench — up again now for “Philomena” — was excited. Not for another statuette. For, ready? Her Daniel Craig calendar. Where she got it, who made it, where it came from, why — who knows? Aides were guarding Craig, back then a newie, in front, in back, on the sides. Minutes earlier nobody knew him, and suddenly he’s protected like he’s Joe Biden.

Oscar-shticks: When “Little Miss Sunshine’s” Alan Arkin won Best Supporting, our entire pressroom applauded wildly. Why? At least him we knew.

Back when Scorsese was up for Best Director for “The Departed” after years of snubs, Leonardo DiCaprio told him: “Well, we broke your cherry.”

Then a nominee, Kate Winslet said: “They once told me I’d get only fat roles. I’ve now had five nominations.”

Everyone asks every actress, “Who are you wearing?” but gents tart up also.

The time Armani — whose shmattas cost more than some movies — imported 19 fitters and basters, Guillermo del Toro sported Armani. “First custom suit I ever had,” he told me.

I asked, Get it free? “No, I paid. Fat foreign filmmakers with Spanish-language movies get no perks.”

Idi Amin a k a Forest Whitaker flashed pretend diamonds — 5 ½ carat cushion-cut Ziamonds from goodie bag’s On 3 Productions. You could’ve seen him in Newark.

“Blood Diamond’s” Djimon Hounsou wore white. White white. Blinding white. A gynecologist’s jacket isn’t so white.

“Don’t touch,” he ordered as my fingers nearly grazed him. “You may shake my hand.”

I shook it.

“Nothing must touch me.”

OK. Down, boy.

And John Malkovich said he loves making cakes, flower arranging and interior design. “My main interests are shopping and sewing.”

Following such splendid clothes and conversation, it’s scoot for home on impoverished airlines where captains have to pass the hat for gas money.

By Monday, I’ll be back in New York — only in New York.