Now that the Dude has been given his shiny prize, here’s another reason to look forward to his next project: He’s reprising the 1969 classic “True Grit,” the western that even non-John Wayne or western film fans fell in love with. One did, anyway.

What perfect casting! What a great location! New Mexico, land of endless sunsets and wealthy celebrity farmers. Even non-fans of “Crazy Heart” have entered the December date into their Google calendars.

Let’s talk about the elephant in the house.

Pigs flew on Broadway, so why not a pachyderm?

So figure Disney honchos and Broadway producers, who see gold in them thar “Dumbo” ears.

And we’re not talking down under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. We’re talking family bonding time.

Just don’t wreck this classic 1941 cartoon classic, or you’ll have a stampede of angry mothers wreaking havoc in Fantasyland.

Oprah Winfrey scored one of the best 15 minutes of television history when Roger Ebert and wife Chaz put themselves in front of millions of viewers on Tuesday.

After reading Chris Jones' devastatingly honest Esquire feature on Ebert as he is now, ravaged by thyroid cancer and still missing his grumpy pal Gene Siskel, what more could this guy do to teach us humility?

Finally, NBC’s coverage of the yawn-fest that was the Olympics paid off, big-time.

Normally my disdain for watching hockey is overshadowed by my husband’s love affair with it. He’s more than just a watcher; before his knee surgeries, he was an avid player. And he covered it for the New York Times.

Even when living in the dust bowl of Tucson, Arizona, he found a way to play. He would drive two hours to Phoenix just to breathe Zamboni fumes.

Oh, those wacky Polygamists and their assorted lusts: casino gambling, (but no booze!) sex, money, politics and bloody, squirty violence.

What’s not to love about this last episode of "Big Love?" Save for an arm-shearing or two, a very icky pregnancy, retail therapy, father/son tension, gambling aficionados and bomb-planters, this is merely a primetime soap opera. Writ large.

What would Freud think of the antics emanating from this baby-crazed eight-is-not-enough clan? Sometimes a cigar is not just a cigar.

Jeff Bridges has been one Hollywood’s most authentic actors since the old studio days. No matter what his age, Bridges has always exuded a manly charm without ever slithering into gonzo machismo.

This is a delicate dance not successfully completed by most of Tinseltown’s male “elite.”

I can’t believe I agree with Sarah Palin.

But she’s right. Kids of public figures should be off limits to media scrutiny, mockery and savaging.

Especially if a child lives with a disability. That in-your-face “Family Guy” bit (which doesn’t deserve repeating) was disgusting and asshole-y, as Palin might say.

Alec Baldwin needs a wake-up call. And not just because he may have taken an Ambien and was transported to a New York hospital. But because not all broken marriages involve mature, responsible adults who take pains to shelter their children from public fascination with celebrity fallout. Alec: it’s time to step up and do the right thing. For Ireland. Whether his ex-wife tweeted his whereabouts to reporters or not, we all now know (or think we know) about a private matter that should have remained private.

No offense to hillbillies. It’s satire, get it? Satire, according to Sara. Palin’s definition when dismissing Rush Limbaugh’s love-affair with the word “retarded.”

But that was last week. This week is all about subterfuge. Sleight of hand, like a magician.