I have had many low points in my career as a journalist. Such as covering a Colorado high school football game when it was 10 below, trying to keep notes wearing ski gloves that kept my fingers a degree or two above freezing and upon returning to the office had about five minutes to decipher scratchings in my notebook that resembled petroglyphs inscribed by a prehistoric man with really bad sharp-stonemanship. Then there was the time I had to conduct an interview with Norm Macdonald, alleged comedian, while talking to his agent (also on the line) as he was in the midst of moving into a new home. Me--“Obviously things didn’t work out for you on Saturday Night Live, so did you need time to think about your career or did you want to go-“ Norm-“Jesus, hey Chuck, what the hell is my address here, I think I may have sent some stuff to the wrong place.” Chuck – “I’m not sure, look, is there some mail there? Or maybe you can look for a number somewhere outside.” Norm- “A number? What kind of number? Can you please just tell me where the f--- I am?”

But I could actually hear a the distinct scraping sound of my career hitting bottom (much like the sound that must have kept Ben Affleck awake as he made Gigli) when my office phone had not rung by 11 a.m. on a Monday.

Elmo had definitely blown me off.

Yeah, Elmo. Of Chicken Dance Elmo. Limbo Elmo. Tickle Me All The Way to the Bank Elmo. Yup, 2.3 pounds of foam rubber and red fuzz had told me in celebrity speak (refusing to return a call at the appointed time) to take a flying leap. Maybe I could understand if Elmo was an A-list Muppet, like Kermit or Miss Piggy. I could even understand if it had been Gonzo, because he’s kind of flaky anyway and spends way too much time with chickens.

But Elmo? High-pitched squeaky-voiced redheaded fuzzball Elmo? Whose habit of speaking about himself in the third person has worn thinner than Sesame Street’s relevance?

The publicist had given me a choice. I could talk to either Grover or Elmo in connection with an interactive health-related exhibit opening here soon, since it featured several Sesame Street residents. If I had my preference, I would have wanted to talk to Ernie because we are always striving to represent diversity, and it would have been nice to feature an alternative lifestyle.

Instead I chose Elmo because my instant reaction to Grover was, “What the hell is a Grover?” Besides, I had a picture in my mind when it came to Elmo (never mind it was of moms fighting over the Tickle Me Elmo doll several years ago, which I recall as “The Holiday a Vibrating Muppet Senselessly Boned America”).

After calling Elmo’s official representative (yes, a doll has someone to make appointments), it was set up for 10 a.m. the following Monday. I was asked to remember that Elmo was just 3 years old and, as such, could only answer questions appropriate to that age. So there went my first question – “Elmo, that high voice of yours. Were you neutered?” Which I had assumed would have been a mandatory part of the adoption process.

No matter. I could always ask Elmo his feelings on the – no, wait, that wouldn’t work. Maybe on how he views – nope, that would be inappropriate too, because I am pretty sure no Muppet has a sex life, especially a Muppet that is allegedly just 3 years old. So much for the goal of getting Elmo to say a curse word (a sound bite that definitely would have brought more than a few bucks as a ringtone).

As the appointed time approached, I connected and tested the tape recorder (would not want to misquote someone who is now in Bartlett’s for the quote, “Ooohh, that tickles, now get your hands off me, Michael”). My questions were lined up, ranging from “What’s you favorite color?” to “Have you ever been inside a Turkish prison?” the last to be used only if his agent was on the other line discussing his move to a better Sesame Street neighborhood.

Only the phone never rang.

“I’m so sorry, he was supposed to be in his office by now,” his publicist said. Elmo has an office. Salt in the wound.

“I guess this is the last day of taping and they’re all at the wrap party,” the publicist continued. “To be honest, I’m not sure he’s going to be here any time soon. Maybe it would be best if we postponed.”

I imagined Elmo at the party, having a few too many, bumping into that flaming yellow seven-foot bird and screaming, “You’re not so big!” Or Oscar following him around saying, “Tickle this, Elmo.” And of course the while thing is captured by Bert, who’s been working for the Weekly World News all along.

The bottom line, however, is that I was blown off by Elmo.

Think I’ll just sit down and watch Gigli so I can feel good about myself again.