…President-Elect Donald Trump has bought off Kimberly Guilfoyle, 55, with an Ambassador to Greece appointment…a neat and tidy “shut up” payoff…signed, sealed, delivered.

Get thee to Athens, oh my aging Kimberly, where you will most certainly hook up with your next wealthy boyfriend.

At 38, Bettina is 17 years younger —- an obviously brighter future indicated for the nearly 47-year-old Donald Trump Jr.

Under-45s have no cable subscriptions, and they sure as hell haven’t been watching the Oscar telecast in increasing numbers over the past few years. So the Hulu add-on makes sense.

And if the Oscars really don’t want to be toast they’ll need to trim their sails in terms of the DEI wokey virus by raising high the roof beam carpenters while praising films about real-deal people and real-life currents minus any traces of bullshit AMPAS progressive instruction (some Anora, Conclave, A Real Pain and Babygirl action would be excellent antidotes).

Will Hulu streaming energize the Oscar brand? Will the emerging new wave (enuf with the intolerable wokey) sink in before it’s too late?

HE continues to frown upon the bourgeois brunch-munching but LAFCA has done a good thing by boosting Sean Baker’s farcical Brooklyn dramedy.

The other night in the Village Market I was struck by a decades-old memory pang. The creased but attractive face of a middle-aged, possibly 60ish woman in a black overcoat is what triggered it.

I was 85% to 90% certain I’d run into her back in the ‘70s, so to alleviate that 10% to 15% of doubt I did the unthinkable: I politely approached her in the soaps and Febreeze and detergents aisle and asked if she’d been running around Wilton in the mid ‘70s, or if she was a contemporary of an ex-girlfriend of mine who’d graduated from Wilton High in ‘75 or ‘76.

It wasn’t her negative reply (no biggie) as much as a resigned or forlorn look on her face that suddenly colored the mood. For she hadn’t graduated in the ‘70s but in 1989, she said, or 35 years ago. Which means she’s currently around 53, give or take.

Alas, my question had indicated (and there was no going back on this!) that her appearance, in my judgment, might be that of a lassie in her mid ‘60s.

Honestly? Fetching as she is for an older woman (she has a cute chipmunk face), she could have been 65 or thereabouts. I’m sorry but some of us look our age or younger than (especially if we’ve had some Prague touch-ups), and some of us look a bit worse for wear. And now I’d insulted this poor lady in a supermarket aisle, and there was no honest way to apologize.

Chipmunk lady had entered the market as a woman in her early 50s, a GenXer feeling pretty good about her life, and left it as someone 12 or 13 years older — a retirement-age boomer looking at a biological downslope.

…being dropped because of hung jurors…anyone who approves of the prosecution of Daniel Penny being downgraded to criminally negligent homicide is almost certainly a racist and probably a Trumpie.

Okay, not really.

Seriously, any veteran NYC subway commuter who’s had encounters with aggressive mental wackos was on Denny’s side from the get-go.

Maybe the legions of other wackos out there will ponder the sad fate of Penny’s choke-hold victim, Jordan Neely, and mutter to themselves, “Hmmm, maybe I should make a greater effort henceforth to not make subway riders cringe and cower when I go into my routine?”

In all my years on this planet I spoke to Sean Connery only once, during a roundtable at a 1982 New York press junket for Richard Brooks‘ Wrong Is Right.

I wasn’t much of a fan of the film (nobody was) but it was thrilling to absorb the vibe and smell the aroma of the manly, bigger-than-life Connery.

He wasn’t much of a kidder but he had an engaging smile. Every answer he gave was straight from the shoulder, bordering on blunt.

The word around the campfire at the time was that Connery had made a successful advance upon a female journalist during a hotel-room interview, although not necessarily during his Wrong Is Right activities.

We all have impulses, of course, but we control them for the sake of decency and our careers and reputations. But if you were Sean Connery back in the day, perhaps not each and every time.

Restrained but affirming machismo will always be cool. The calm, sensible mindset of a guy who wields a certain kind of rugged glamour and a certain amount of entertainment industry dominance…it was good for the soul to sense that, and even taste it through close proximity.

Connery was clearly a gentleman and imbued with a certain diplomatic finesse, and he was very handsomely-dressed in that hotel room, and he smelled good (soap, subtle musk cologne) and wore newish, polished, well-crafted footwear**.

When I was sitting three or four feet away from the then-52-year-old Connery I felt the right kind of vibes. This is a good place to be, I said to myself.

The world was a whole different place during the early Reagan era. Urban gay culture had begun to flourish (the Studio 54 heyday had happened only three or four years earlier) while AIDS was only beginning to be whispered about, but notions of abundant diversity had yet to manifest (the Central Park Five injustice was only a year old at the time) and white hetero straight guys like Connery were, unlike today, not regarded as inherently problematic or regressive or morally arrested — they held a certain sway. And fine sexual opportunities for young heteros like myself were rather wonderful, I don’t mind saying.

Merit ruled over equity (what’s equity?), transitioned biomales weren’t competing in women’s sports, Oscar handicappers didn’t know from identity campaigns, woke merely referred to not being asleep, etc. E.T., The Verdict, Blade Runner, Tootsie, First Blood, Five Days One Summer, The Year of Living Dangerously, etc. I would have that time again.

** Nobody wore whitesides in 1982 — civilization had been spared as they hadn’t been invented yet — but if by some bizarre quirk of time-shifting style or fashion Connery had somehow been wearing whitesides that day, the whole subdued machismo thing would have been shattered.

HBO-wise Adam Driver peaked with “Girls” but theatrical feature-wise he peaked with his Stephen Sondheim-singing moment in “Marriage Story” — I loved him in that scene.

But then he all but assassinated himself by starring as one of most loathsome, thoroughly demonic characters in cinema history in Leo’s Carax’s “Annette”.

Then he played a morose pot-bellied academic flabby-ass in “White Noise”.

And then he played two — two! — Italian business-brand magnates (Maurizio Gucci, Enzo Ferrari) within a couple of years of each other. And I really liked Ferrari as far as it went.

And then he delivered the self-annihilating coup de grace by wearing James Mason-in-“Julius Caesar” hair in Francis Coppola’s mind-blowingly awful “Megalopolis.”

And then Driver appeared in a Kenneth Lonergan play at the Lucille Lortel theatre wearing GOLD-TOE socks, and that’s what really did it, I think.

Driver is finished for now. Not altogether but he needs to lay low. He’s certainly living proof that nothing recedes like success. He’s a good actor but I don’t want to ever, EVER sit through a histrionic, definitive-statement, large-personality Adam Driver movie EVER AGAIN.

Glenn Kenny to Ben Reddick in mid 1930s: “Stop trying to make the term ‘Oakie’ happen. It sounds like something a 12-year-old would say, and I don’t care if Woody Guthrie had used it a couple of times “

Nothing horrible or turbulent, all good.

It never really registered before today that Julie (Creature From The Black Lagoon) Adams has a significant costarring role in Arnold Laven’s 1957 film, which I’ve never seen but is loosely related to On The Waterfront.