The Brian Williams Day.

Asked about his plans for the following day, a wise man once said, "I don't make plans that far ahead."

On Monday, I made plans to go see Dolly Parton at the Press Club downtown the next morning (she was speaking about her literacy program.), but I decided that even though it might be fun to watch, there was no way I could imagine myself actually bringing myself to write a story about her. So I decided to go see Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner (but he lets me call him Tim) and Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke.

(Here's the article I wrote about it. My first financial piece, eeik.)

But let's backtrack. Cut to 9:30 a.m. I make reservations with the United States Treasury, because the Secret Service does background checks before you're able to attend events within the building. There were two separate, high-profile press conferences going on inside and the economics nerd in me pined to go.

The first one was at 11, with my pal Tim.

Well, Secret Service at the gate had other plans. After what seemed like hours, repeatedly checking with the guard, my name still hadn't showed up on the list. A pool of journalists stood outside the Treasury building on an unusually warm winter day in Washington, also denied access. Although I never did get into the building (the person who was supposed to send my information never did), what I witnessed outside became even more entertaining:

An unnamed big-deal Washington Post A-section staff writer began huffing, puffing and throwing a big 'ol tantrum when he couldn't get into the building. Blackberry in hand, desperately throwing out names and guarantees of confirmation and expletives under his breath, didn't get in for at least another half an hour.

I know you've paid your dues, dude, but welcome to being an intern.

A little while after that incident, suddenly, the heavens parted. A man in a fine suit walked down the visitors entrance steps. He never took off his sunglasses; just simply walked up to the security booth. Having my camera, Randy, slung over my shoulder, it took everything inside of me not to (creepily) snap a photo or run up to him with my reporter's notebook and beg for an autograph. Instead, I looked wide-eyed at the poor, pity-party of press standing next to me and lipped, "oh. my. god." The 30- or 40-something journalists weren't nearly as excited as I was (maybe it's 'cause they're guys).

"Brian Williams," the tall man said, handing the guard his ID.
"Brian Williams is here," the Secret Service guard said over the phone to whomever at some computer, somewhere. "You're good," he said, handing back his ID.
Williams either just smiled or said something jokingly, like, "that easy?"
"Yeah, I think I've seen you on TV a couple times," the most-laid-back-Secret-Service-agent-I've-ever-met replied.

I later told my mom that, "his skin is so creamy!" It is. His hair's perfect too. Maybe that's because he has an eight-figure salary.

I've always sort of flown by the seat of my pants, and this is an affirmation that not making plans can work out just fine. Or even better.