I had entertained images of lycra-clad bearded ladies, acrobatic midgets, and impossibly rotund fat men in the days leading up to our meeting, making the drab man behind the chipped pressboard desk all that much more incongruous.  I expected Len Conroy to be some colorful amalgamation of a tattooed freak and a human pincushion, but he wasn’t.  He didn’t look the part at all.  His distressing plainness made me question whether I wandered into the wrong office, but the brass and marble nameplate. . .