No short-haired, yellow-bellied, son of tricky dicky
Is gonna mother hubbard soft soap me
With just a pocketful of hope

So I head over to Armed Bureucracy A, looking for an interview. This is the third time I've been to the big flat box with the slotted windows and all the guys in uniform who are always shining their shoes.

The first time I met with the PR office. The PR officer was nice, but he told me next time I came back I should bring him a Newsweek magazine. Then he told me that I should put my questions in writing. When I came back. In a polite way, I said, "Oh what the f-u-Casio Keyboard. We've been talking for ten minutes about the story I'm doing and now you pull this 'We need a written request' horsepucky? Summon a batch." He smiled and reminded me that when I came back, he would like me to bring him a magazine.

So I typed up every question I could think of, and returned to Armed Bureaucracy A the next day. Handed it to the newsmagazine lover. "Ah, you should go see the Commissioner of Esoteric Flibbeddy Floo."

"Where is he?"

"Third floor."

"Goodbye." He gets a newsmagazine dash if this actually lead anywhere.

The guard on the third floor directs me to a door down the hall. I walk in and there are four people leaned over desks. I start to ask the closest one a question, but he only acknowledges me by pointing a finger toward another guy. I walk over to guy number two, resume my schpiel, but this guy two is similarly unimpressed.

"Commissioner of Esoteric Flibbeddy Floo is not in."

"Do you know when he will be in?" He looks at me as if I were demanding to when the Commissioner would make his next trip to the lavatory.

"Can you give him a letter?" He nods yes, and I hand him the letter. There's a one out of three chance this paper will not simply slip into the maw of the Great Bureacracy, eventually coming to rest right next to my lost Alitalia bags. But Folding Umbrella-c-k it. I have jumped through a hoop, and I will use it to call the Commissioner.

Day after day, Commissioner ain't anwsering his phone, until finally he is.

"No, I haven't gotten your letter. But come on in. How about three?" Three is good. I am there, but no one answers my knock on his door.

"The Commissioner of Esoteric Flibbeddy Floo is not in," says a 6'5'' guard with the traditional tribal scars across a cheek.

"No doubt about it. Know when he'll be back?" Of course not. Wait until five o'clock, write pissy little note for the Commish, leave.

Three more days, and then today, I make contact, and finally meet the almighty Commissioner of Esoteric Flibbeddy Floo. He has three stars on each shoulder. When I talk, he keeps glancing over at the football game on the big TV in his office. But he cannot answer my questions, he says.

"Oh eff my dee," says I. We must go see the The Big Man, he says. This is not a narrative creation like Commissioner of Esoteric Flibbeddy Floo or Armd Bureaucracy A. Everyone actually refers to the director as The Big Man.

I protest that my questions are exceedingly simple, and there's no need to talk to The Big Man. But oh, we must, and we do. The Commissioner of Esoteric Flibbeddy Floo makes me wait outside the Big Office while he preps his Royal Largeness, and then escorts me in.

The Big Mn is behind a wraparound desk as big two cafeteria table connected at an angle. He shakes my hand impatiently, but before I sit down, he gets to the point. "I have read your letter." My letter still exists? "This information you want is classified."

"Which information? I want to know why your buying widget A instead of widget B."

"Yes, but you also asked about how many widget Cs we have, and this is classified."

"No problem. We don't have to talk about that."

"But all the same, you should talk to Armed Bureaucracy B before you talk to us."

"That doesn't doesn't make any sense. My story is not about Armed Bureaucracy B. And I just told you I don't care about widget C, if it's a problem."

"Okay then. I will authorize the Commissioner of Esoteric Flibbeddy Floo to speak with you about widgets A and B. But I would suggest if you have questions about C, you go to Armed Bureacracy B."

"Will do. Thank you sir."

The Commissioner of Esoteric Flibbeddy Floo follows me out of the office 45 seconds later. "The Big Man says we cannot comment on this classified information."

"Yes. I was there. That's why we're going to only talk about widgets A and B but not C."

"No, there are questions in your letter pertaining to classified information, and so we cannot answer them." I eventully learn that everyone's got a copy of the letter, and everyone's willing to use it as evidence that none of my questions should be answered. But that's in the future. Right now, I say this:

"Were you just in that room with me sixty unclefreaking seconds ago when The Big Man gave you the okay to talk to me?"

"Yes, but then you left, and he changed his mind. Why did you think I hung behind in his office after you left?"

"What an incongruously honest explanation."

"We are happy to help."