Iran’s crown prince may be making a comeback — but I’ll always remember him as a little boy

Royal meet opens gold doors

News stories have dredged up the name Reza Pahlavi, son of his birth country’s once supreme majesty, the Shah of Iran.

It is because of the shah that I am on The New York Post.

A Dec. 3, 1979, photo of Farah Diba, the handsome queen who lives in Paris, and me is on my wall. Back then, while His Majesty entered his final days, my phone rang. His twin sister, Princess Ashraf, unbelievably asked me to go to his hospital room.

Police, reporters, photographers and Iran troublemakers rang the building. Nobody allowed even close to the hospital doors. The situation, tense. Me, nervous. I was told I’d have security and that His Majesty had requested me.

That night I was to dine with our paper’s then-first editor, Roger Wood. When I explained why I couldn’t have dinner with him, there was a thud.

The shah’s hospital stay was several rooms together. He was in white silk pajamas, on the bed’s edge. Feet dangling in slippers.

In 1981, I joined The Post.

Now, 45 years later, I read about his exiled son. Back then, Reza was a little boy. I didn’t spend time with him. But I remember the floor-to-ceiling gold doors inside Saad Abad Palace. Servants on both sides opened these doors if a family member was coming through. His mother told me: “For his birthday, we’re going to let him open these doors himself.”

On the topic of leaders, there’s word Pete Buttigieg may limp for president. Please. A once minor electee in a substandard position in a state where the few born there remain. His husband, Chasten, told me, “When we’re in the White House, we’ll play loud music. We’ll have parties. We’ll have fun.”

Tidbits ‘flash’ to mind

Other interesting facts about our interesting VIPs: Kelsey Grammer got his face “sanded” periodically . . . Eddie Murphy paid $19,500 for a Jimi Hendrix headband . . . Lee Trevino, fearing lightning, jumps from the flash of a camera . . . Chloë Sevigny nixed half a mil to do a comedy and her brother stopped speaking to her for a week.

Political hot potatoes & coffee

An unretouched photo of Bernie Sanders in your drawers, button your fake leather coat, put on your plastic hat, pedal your bike over to mama’s for tofu.

Give thanks to our mayor. Poverty is suddenly big time. Whatever’s in is now out. Being broke is newly admirable. Whatever you do, do not suffer over a cup of coffee. Workers who gather the beans are underpaid. Underinsured. Underappreciated. Under-unionized. Underslept. Under time off.

The government in DC spends billions more than it makes. It’s funds to raise rabbits. It’s hiring some unemployed landlady to run a whole organization. It’s another young blond with long hair reading comments with a zoo-full behind her who know little, say less and nod along. And what is it?

It’s America. Land of the free, home of DC’s unemployed.

I mean, in Washington, what’s another loophole? Another few bucks and you could either get a sweater, or Greenland. Or Venezuela. Or Iran.

Oy. Only in DC, kids, only in DC.