So here's what I mean about access and the illusion of access:

Late yesterday afternoon, after a session with creator and some of the cast of HBO's "The Sopranos," I found myself on the outer edge of a scrum around "Sopranos" star James Gandolfini.

Not for the first time, we had him backed up against a wall, looking a little less like a deer in the headlights than he did a few years ago, but still nowhere near as tough as Tony Soprano.

Being short, and OK, not as quick as I should be, I'm in maybe the third ring, my arm balanced on the shoulder of Dallas Morning News critic Ed Bark so that I can get my voice recorder within spitting distance of Gandolfini's mouth.

Which is moving. I can see that, but he speaks pretty softly and I can't hear everything he's saying -- although I manage to catch the answer to the question I ve managed to squeeze in -- and I'm taking it on faith that when I transcribe the interview later, it'll make sense to me.

And also not for the first time, it occurs to me that this is a strange way for an adult to be making a living.

After several minutes of this, I decide that it's time to pack up, give Ed back his shoulder and try to track down Edie Falco to ask a question that had occurred to me while watching the clip of the show's new season, something she might actually be able to answer, since I don't think it would give away any plot points. There are fewer people around her, but there's also a publicist at her elbow, looking impatient, and just as I arrive, the woman declares the interviews over -- a good 10 minutes before anyone else connected to the show leaves -- and starts ushering Falco toward a room down the hall that's off-limits to reporters.