I have long known Johnson & Johnson heiress Casey Johnson’s parents Woody and Sale. We met when they were still married. Before he owned the Jets. We’ve visited each other’s homes. Woody praised my dinner parties — not that he adored me or my food, but because 10:30 I tell everyone to leave and he’d grin: “I love that you throw us all out and there’s no worry about finding an excuse to leave so that I don’t get to bed too late.” Woody’s a practical no-nonsense type. Besides diabetes, lupus affected his family. Its premier authority Dr. Robert Lahita being my friend, he’d discuss it lengthily. Woody Johnson cannot be labeled an uninvolved parent. Impossible that he was unaware of daughter Casey’s trajectory.

Sale Johnson, accomplished horsewoman, sportswoman. Her Knicks seats were courtside. She’d invite me to the games. She was everywhere. She knew everything, everybody. She was also a fund-raiser and big on the social circuit. Handsome, outgoing, always the one out front at their evenings. I recall an event in their Fifth Avenue duplex. Young Casey kept holding the teeniest (maybe three pounds) black poodle, and Sale watched over her, fussed over her, worried over her. She was very conscious that Casey was already overspending, overshopping and overpartying.

Even before adopting a baby and becoming engaged to a freak show, this wild child had become an evident train wreck. Complaining she couldn’t stay out of gossip columns, she was told she’d stay out of gossip columns if she stayed out of gin mills. She then said — and this is per memory: “My greatest regret is not getting ‘The Simple Life’ show with Paris Hilton.” Not the most admirable hope for a young beauty with the world before her.

So, what happened? Listen, there’s no way you can do the math. There just wasn’t enough tough love to summon authorities, doctors, lawyers, psychiatrists, boards of health, boards of education or whatever professionals. Having no children, I can never know could I bear that pain since I can’t even discipline two Yorkies. I only know Casey Johnson must become a lesson for us all.

MEANDERING along in retrospec tion and introspection, I now take up Operation Tiger Woods. A few years ago a two-story ocean front manse in Southampton’s best area was for sale. It came with grounds, gardens, garage, tennis court, pool house, guesthouse, pool, guests, wine cellar, gym, game room, wood-paneled whatever, all the etc., etc., toys and eventually sold for about $25 mil. At the time I heard Tiger’s the possible buyer. Checking it out, I met with a firewall of don’t dare mention this, how dare you invade Tiger Woods’ privacy, who do you think you are that you can dare invade his private world.

I walked away from that story, but only because as it happened he did not buy the property.

What I can tell you is the man was so obviously filled with his own sovereignty and his minions so pumped with his borrowed authority that Khadafy‘s people were friendlier. That may be a partial reason as to why the dominoes are now tumbling. Not many are coming to the aid of Humpty Dumpty.

VAL Kilmer, whose home is New Mexico, selling 500 limited-edition Native American blankets manufac tured by something called Gourd People and The Dude. His signa ture’s in each lower right-hand corner . . . PBS taping an hour panel show on newspapers versus new technology with R. Giuliani, Charles Osgood, Charlie Rangel, Peggy Noonan. It’s on in two weeks . . . ABC-TV’s former anchor Charlie Gibson going away for five weeks rest. Battle fatigue . . . The Monkees’ Micky Dolenz off for the UK production of “Hairspray.” He’ll play Mr. Turnblad, which Christopher Walken did in the movie. Leave us hope he doesn’t make a Monkee out of himself . . . Jimmy Fallon answering why he was at a certain event: “Listen, anybody who buys me a drink gets me.” . . . Matthew Modine‘s New Year’s handwritten card: “Loud, raucous, knee-splitting, rib-breaking, spit-shooting, breathtaking, boisterous, throat-tickling, knock-your-socks-off laughter for the New Year.”

PLEASE. Might CNN’s New Year’s resolution be, following months of silence, to tell its loyalists whyin hell nobody announced publicly their move to this insanely stupid dumb Ch. 78 from Ch. 10, where they followed broadcast stations and everyone knew where they were? Forget CNN’s worldwide. New York is the market. And last year their Time Warner parent stuck them where you’d put a Telemundo or Al Jazeera. And never ever told anyone?!

NEW YEAR’s Day this hungover dude wandered into a coffee shop and ordered three-minute eggs. Said the waitress: “You’ll never make it.”

NEW Year’s morning 9:30 a.m. reader Francine Winkler boarded the No. 6 downtown train at East 68th Street. A passenger was sprawled out. He was however very consid erate. Despite zonked asleep flat out across a whole row thereby displacing whoever wanted to sit down, he’d removed his snowy shoes and placed them under the seat.

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