The waiter just refilled my iced tea and brought G another “iced tea” as well. But again, nothing bad to say and I won’t say anything else. It’s just that … well, she was just really mean to Reese, and I adore her (Reese … well, both G and Reese, but Reese more because we really get each other, you know?). You know the one thing about Reese that I find the most endearing is that her enthusiasm is real. She doesn’t need Method or Scientology or Kalalblalallah to express her true inner self, which can best be described as a cheerleader who just won State. Goldie (who I also adore, of course, and not just because she saved my life) notices Reese coming over to the table to say hi to me and, rolls her eyes and says loudly so even the cooks could hear her, “Oh gosh, where’s your Chanel dress? Did Kirsten Dunst spill something on it or did they finally pass it on to someone else? A crossing guard? A homeless person perhaps? A tranny hooker? Who was next in line for that thing anyway?” And then she laughs really hard and keeps banging the table with her open palm until everyone is looking. Reese just made a run for the bathroom, tears starting to well. I hope I can capture all this on the tiny little SideKick pad!

“Goldie, you can be so mean some time. I don’t know how Kurt puts up with you,” I said, in an accusatory voice. The whole horrible story is that Chanel gave Reese a dress to wear that Kirsten Dunst wore just three years before, and they told Reese it was vintage.

“It’s because I PUT OUT for him!” she (kind of) slurred, the emphasis completely wrong in her retort. But she found that funny as well, and returned to banging the table and laughing.

I grabbed my stuff excused myself and headed to the back to find a collapsed Reese in the phone nook. “Listen, we’ve all been diddled by Chanel and humiliated by Goldie. It’s a rite of passage in this day and age. They’re both practically Wal-Mart brands anyway, so what does it matter?” She looked up, wiped the mascara off and said, “Really?” “Of course. And next year when you win, which you will again, next year you get to choose your designer.” I pulled her up gave her a little hug, and she escaped out the back through the kitchen. I headed back to the table.

“Hey, where’d Pointy McChin go?” Goldie asked?

“Oh she’s on her way to film a movie. How about you? How’s your career going, Goldilocks? Book anything lately that didn’t cast you as an ex-wife, living or dead? Oh that’s right, you did that infomercial for VIBErant(tm) hair care products. It was very nice, really. I saw it on late late late one night on … I think it was UPN or WB. You looked so … thin … then.”

Goldie likes a good jab and knows when to shut up. I went back to chewing my sandwich, Goldie went back to crunching her lettuce. “I just can’t believe how loud this sounds in my ears!” I’m thinking the same thing, Goldie. And we should have gone to IHOP.

I was able to find a taxi driver that we had to pay $1600 EACH to for a quick escape out of Lebanon. Paris kept wanting to stop to shop, however. Finally I gave up and slipped her (another) Xanax after the third time she screamed, “STOP!” outside yet another boutique that had been bombed. “Paris, it’s burning,” I said. Her reply? “In a war zone you can get crazy good deals on couture!”

While we’re on that topic of flying covertly into a war torn country, risking your life to track down a friend, and finally rescuing your friend and expecting at least a thank you, can I just say that Paris Hilton is a BFFW – a Best Friends Forever WHORE! The whole time on the private jet back, she talked on the SkyPhone to You Know Who. And she actually asked me if I’d go get her some warm peanuts from the galley. And a diet coke. She can be so insensitive sometimes. So I slipped her another Xanax and called it even.

Looking back I feel so foolish – all the “friends” around her who she just burns through like Whitney on a bender. I guess I was blinded by happiness … I thought I really was her BFF. Now I’m just another person in the background of some spontaneous porn video or lewd party photo. But I’m glad I got her back home to her real friends safely, and that makes me a better friend than she’ll ever be or ever have again.

I’m just another name programmed on her speed dial, sure to disappear the next time she loses her SideKick.

But back to the Missing PH: We were having lunch at Fred Segal, talking really loud and dropping names, hoping someone would buy us more champagne, when she gets this page and said she got invited to jet-set to some country “she didn’t know how to pronounce” (god, yeah, that narrows it down, PH), and that they had a bulldog who’s ready for the open bar. “Must be the name of the club or a secret pass phrase.”, says the wise PH with humble certainty – her parents certainly synergized up on the “gene” ladder. An open bar for Paris is like pointing out a lonely, rich Filipino businessman to a hooker – she just can’t say no to a good time! I dropped my napkin and by the time I picked it off the floor and looked back up, she was gone, leaving just a little pink butterfly barrette spinning in mid-air like when the witch in Bugs Bunny would zip way very quickly and leave that black … bent … thing … spinning in the air. She was gone that fast!

I only just recently became concerned this evening, however, because when I went to check out the New York Times to see if they had kept their promise to use my pen name and not my real name in the “What’s Up Slut?” article, (which really is a true article title!!!!) written mostly by my gal-pal Maureen Dowd, who I really really admire, and it made me think of Paris. The next article down I see “Hezbullah: We’re Ready for Open War” and there’s a little voice in the back of the back of my head telling the back of my head something is wrong. “Oh dear.”

Please, if you see Paris, do tell her there’s no open bar, that there’s no bar at all. And frankly there’s nothing funny about war like this, except when you imagine a perpetually drunk, rich, white pampered heiress wandering around the crumbling sidestreets of a little Middle Eastern town, all puffy-faced from the vengeful sun, her little doggie days-dead in her purse from dehydration, asking anyone who will listen if they’ve seen “His Bulldog”, the new, hot club that opened up somewhere near … somewhere, “‘Cuz she’s on the guestlist, she’s on the fucking guest list, slut!