Nobody much even seems to care who grabbed an Oscar. Nobody much even saw most movies. Nobody even understands why winner Jane Campion’s dog thing runs longer than the Amber Heard/Johnny Depp divorce. But everyone’s onto champ Chris Rock and contender Will Smith. That particular TKO got more attention than Sunday’s whole crappy show. The slapcuff mishmash — such a good scene that Spielberg could’ve directed it — helped ratings. I’d actually turned the thing off long before the awards were over. Far as I know Pola Negri won Best Supporting. Smith — heroic, guilty, who knows what else — defended his woman. Alopecia is not nice. I am aware. I’m fighting it. We’ve all got problems. So you buy a $9.95 wig, add the $10,000 gown, hit the after-party — and shut up. Whatever other marital demons were being excised, who knows. I only know the slapping and yapping juiced up Rock’s bookings. TickPick reports his comedy tour tickets shot up from $46 to a $341 minimum. He’s newly being nudged to emcee the June Tony thing. Great idea. If not, maybe Alec Baldwin? Jussie Smollett? Pelosi’s hairdresser? More. This I don’t personally know. This I’m actually told. Backstage afterward, Denzel calmed Will. Execs said Will needed counseling. Anger management. Can’t give vent to emotional issues. Needs to just build on his great career win. Smoother ways can handle guilt. Took Monday for the full apology.

The Sleeping Giant’s waking. Here’s what’s coming: Lincoln Center doing a new version — opening Dec. 8 — of Lerner and Loewe’s “Camelot.” The book will be by Aaron Sorkin who’s so creative it could be all Rodgers and Hammerstein songs. The p.r. rep, in an individual e-mail, tells recipients to be aware: “There are two H’s in my last name’s spelling.” “OK, be hhappy. I hhave noted thhat.”Comes an exhibition at the Shed. It’s “Tomás Saraceno: Particular Matter(s).” Large gallery, experience with spiderwebs, air currents, cosmic web and sensory experience (which I, personally, have not had since my wedding night). Netflix. April 26. David Spade comedy special “Nothing Personal.” In it he’s “sharing his disdain for crabs”— crabs? Yes, crabs — to his unique approach in terms of turning down drugs. He says no topic is off-limits. Crabs? Manhattan Theatre Club premieres “How I Learned to Drive” at the Samuel J. Friedman Theatre, W. 47th, opens April 19. Written by Pulitzer Prize playwright Paula Vogel, stars Tony winner Mary-Louise Parker, producer’s Daryl Roth; required vaccination and masks for all attendees.

Yentas at Broadway’s “Plaza Suite” audience got into the slap heard round the world. Cynthia Nixon: “Violence is never the answer.” Rachel Dratch: “I love Chris Rock!” Andy Cohen: A: “The whole affair was sad” and B: “Great how Rock maintained his composure.” Mikhail Baryshnikov: “It was distraction from more pressing matters around the world.” 

Julia Roberts has a brother. Eric. Age, 65. Older than she, less famous than she, but works more than she. He’s run through 455 films and 191 television credits since 1978. What Eric Roberts is in now, who knows. I only know Julia’s brother is the single most prolific screen actor today, so I figured you should know that too.

Oscar voter to a Tony voter: “My son has never gone to a psychiatrist.” Tony voter replied: “Really? What’s wrong with him?”

Only in New York, kids, only in New York.