Today the Beverly Hilton Hotel becomes flack infested as the 45th ICG Publicists’ Awards are announced by the Publicists Guild at its annual gala luncheon. When a studio mouthpiece first told me I’d been nominated for the Press Award, tantamount to being named Flack-Friendliest Journalist Of The Year, I immediately thought it was a hoax. Unfortunately, it wasn’t — even though I am one of the least publicist-friendly journalists out there. (Actually, I’m a lot less scary on the phone than I am in print or post. At least that’s what the flacks tell me.) I’d never been to the awards luncheon, and never even contemplated attending, yet everyone told me I had to get out of my sickbed and go just for the hell of it. But the Publicists Guild never invited me to the luncheon. “This has never happened before,” an Executive Committee bigwig assured me yesterday. And then I was informed by the leadership that, even though committee members from the various studios invite the Press Award nominees to join them at their respective tables, no studio wanted to seat me. To quote Hillary Clinton, “Well, that hurts my feelings.” Nah, not really. Actually I’m kinda proud. So much better to be scary than sycophantic.