Where the Hell Was I?

Howdy, friendly reading person!
I'm on a bit of a hiatus right now, but only to work on other projects -- one incredibly exciting example being the newly-released kids' science book series Things That Make You Go Yuck!
If you're a science and/or silliness fan, give it a gander! See you soon!

June 24, 2011

The Craft (of the Daft)

Writing comedy isn’t hard.

Writing comedy and being a doofus — now that’s hard.

I don’t appear to have the ability — useful as it seems — to think of things to write about. Not while I’m trying to think of things to write about, anyway. Which is most of the time.

Instead, I get topics in much the same way that Douglas Adams taught us how to fly — if you forget for a moment that you’re trying not to fall, you won’t. Which is to say, as long as I’m not searching for ideas, one might actually pop into my head.

The trick at that point is to remember it. And that trick is trickier than it might initially sound. Because there are usually only three times of day when I’m not trying, at some level, to think of funny things: when I’m driving, when I’m showering, and when I’ve just woken up. None of these are ideal moments to have some Great Big Idea™. I’ll explain why.

Driving

Many people can multitask while they’re maneuvering their automocar around the city. They talk and drive, drink (non-adult beverages, hopefully) and drive, apply makeup and drive, belt out tunes and drive, and curse and shout and give me the finger for staring into their car to see what they’re doing — and drive.

That’s not me. I was always taught — by my father, who did most of the driving: “Don’t distract the driver.”

(Lucky for him, he could dispense wisdom and drive. Otherwise, I’d have badgered him into a fiery mangled wreck during my more hyper days.

That’s his story, anyway. I think he just wanted to shut me up for ten minutes at a time. Smart guy, dad.)

So when I’m behind the wheel, I’m focused on the road at hand. I can have a little music, maybe, but no chit-chat, no beverage service, no face painting — and no daydreaming about what I’m going to write about next. I don’t even chew gum and drive. All business.

So of course, it’s in the car when many ideas pop unbidden into my head. And usually unpop, unremembered, right back out again. I just don’t have a good way to capture them. I’ve tried keeping a notebook in the car — but if a nugget forms at seventy miles an hour on the Mass. Turnpike, what am I going to do? Pull over and jot it down? Transcribe ridiculous nonsense to whatever horrified passenger might be with me? Write and drive?

Clearly, no. Fiery mangled wreck, remember?

A while back I tried keeping a voice recorder in the car for such occasions. I used it exactly once. Here’s what it captured:

“Okay, so what if Marie Curie worked in a kosher deli, and — hey, all right, quit yer honking, asshole. I’m moving.

Anyway, she’s there making brisket, and — ALL RIGHT, SURE, COME ON IN, BEEMER MAN. It’s not like I was using this lane. Christ.

Now — OH, SHUT UP ALREADY! THE LIGHT IS RED. RED! For the love of… no. No, little minivan, you can’t come across in front of me to go left. No. Fill the gap. HAH! DENIED.

Oh, very mature. You kiss your kids with that mouth, lady? Nice.

Now what the hell was I saying? Ah, shit.”

If I ever take off in the comedy world, the first thing I’m doing is hiring a chauffeur. It’s the only way.

Showering

At least the shower is a stationary location, which makes the risk of death or dismemberment in case of distraction less of a concern.

Still a concern, mind you. But less.

And the problem of writing ideas down is no less severe. Can’t take paper into the shower. The water would short out a recorder or laptop. For a long time, the wisdom from the watery deep was lost altogether. Until I caught onto the bright idea of squiggling reminders with my finger on the fogged-up bathroom window. That worked well for a while.

Until the wife showered after me one day, and asked what the hell “Amputee Pimp” and “Tony Teabags, Mafia Hazer” had to do with getting clean.

I didn’t know what to tell her. She’d either find out about my half-baked comedy ideas, or think I was into some extremely weird shower porn.

I decided not to write on the window after that. The marriage seems safer that way.

“Filters are offline, propriety is out to lunch, and decorum has been drugged and bound and stuffed in the Sandman’s trunk.”

Waking Up

I’m not a morning person. Seriously not. Proof, even.

So whatever awesome-sounding-in-my-head idea I might have when rejoining the world of the conscious has two enormous obstacles to seeing the light of day. First, I have zero judgment at the crack of awakeness. I could find a shopping list — or Schindler’s list, for that matter — hilarious when I’m only half unslept. Filters are offline, propriety is out to lunch, and decorum has been drugged and bound and stuffed in the Sandman’s trunk. So I’m as likely to sort out some actually-usable tidbit as I am to start upright and blurt to no one in particular:

‘The Unabomber hosts Wheel of Fortune! Giant condoms for Japanese bullet trains! Sarah Palin with Kuato!‘

Clearly, I need to stop eating junk food before bed. Or junk TV. Something.

The second problem is that my motor skills don’t especially kick in until noon or so. So even if I have a legitimate idea — and if I’ve remembered to keep a pen and paper by the bedside — all I scribble down while the gag is fresh is nonsense gibberish. I’ve looked through that notebook. And between the ‘Flgribben on thr Squrre parodu!’ entries and pages full of meaningless doodles — some of which may or may not, iin fact, be condomed bullet trains, or Marie Curie in an apron, slicing a slab of corned beef — I’ve got nothing.

And that’s why writing comedy is easy. But writing comedy as a doofus? HARD.

Now you know.

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Categories: A Doofus Is Me, Bits About Blogging

Tags: comedy, driving, fun, funny, humor, ideas, Marie Curie, shower, voice recorder, writing

June 22, 2011

HR’s Not Gonna Want to Hear This

There are many situations in life when a person may speak on your behalf. In court, for instance. During certain kinds of business deals. In a police interrogation room, from what I see in cop shows, if you can afford a fancy three-piece-suit lawyer.

What I’d like to know is: can I get someone to speak for me at my next employee review at work?

My last review — which is to say my current one, concerning what I’ve done in the past year — was this afternoon. Two bosses — from a cast of thousands, as they say in show biz — sat in with me for the evaluation. For most of the talk, everything went well.

Or as well as can be expected, at least. If you don’t expect too much. These are not the sorts of proceedings where it helps to be a ‘glass half-full’ kind of guy going in.

“Nobody asks how they can help me; at best, they maybe nod in acknowledgement as they’re dumping burning emergencies in my lap or carting off my Swingline or emptying my pockets of winning lottery tickets.”

But generally, things went okay. We spent most of the time going over a self-review I’d been asked to write a few weeks ago — pretty standard stuff, in my experience. It was a questionnaire that asked me to detail what I’d accomplished in the past twelve months (a couple of projects, advanced creative excuse writing, plenty of catatonic rocking back and forth under my desk), how I felt my skills matched up with the job duties (I said I’d be much more effective with an invisibility cloak), and my plans for the upcoming year (more rocking, perhaps some low keening and wailing, preferably winning a large lottery jackpot).

We made it through all of these points, and I listened to their constructive criticism and suggestions — that I move my desk to the basement and hand in my red stapler, that wailing in a bathroom stall will produce the most haunting reverb, and that nobody wins the lottery any more and if I want to throw my money away on an obvious scam, there’s always our 401k to think about.

I thought I was out of the woods at that point. I figured we’d wrap up, agree to make me try harder, and I could take my megaphone and fetal position down to the handicapped stall in the john downstairs for a nice moaning sob. But that’s when they threw me a curveball. They went off-script, and out of nowhere asked me:

‘So how can we help you be more productive?‘

I was unprepared for that. Nobody asks how they can help me; at best, they maybe nod in acknowledgement as they’re dumping burning emergencies in my lap or carting off my Swingline or emptying my pockets of winning lottery tickets. But help me? Inconceivable.

So I had to think — on my feet, which is already strikes one through six, and counting — about the challenges I face at the office. If they’re willing to help — or even willing to say they’re willing to help — then it’s up to me to lay out what they’re meant to help with. Not so easy, on the spur of the moment.

At first, I thought of going with that. In a sort of ‘You can help me by not making me have this conversation and thinking up ways you’re supposed to help me‘ way. And that would have helped. But it seemed a little ‘meta’ to be the right answer. The higher-ups aren’t typically quite so subtle in their web-weaving diabolicality.

So I came up with something — an actual issue, and one that they might genuinely be able to assist with. Only I didn’t have time to put my thoughts together — and didn’t have some fancy silver-tongued lawyer speaking for me — so it didn’t exactly come out the way I wanted. And now I don’t know what the hell they’re going to do for me. Or to me. Or in my general vicinity. Here’s what I told them:

‘Well, we do a lot of multitasking around here, which is fine. Having several different types of things to juggle can be interesting, sure. I don’t mind keeping a few balls in the air.

It’s just lately it feels like I’m juggling someone else’s balls all the time. And I think I’d like to minimize the time I’m doing that.‘

They looked at each other and blinked. One boss gently tried to get me to reword what I’d just said: ‘You mean, you want to minimize your time spent…?‘

I wouldn’t be rephrased so easily. “Well, you know, like I just said…‘

‘Juggling. Someone else’s balls?‘

‘Right. Less time doing that.‘

‘I see.‘

Eventually, they gave up on getting me to put things in a different way, and simply agreed that this ‘other-ball jugglement’ was clearly not in the best interests of the team’s efficiency as a whole. But I don’t know whether they were understanding metaphorically, as I wanted them to, or whether they… well, didn’t. I don’t know what a literal interpretation of my suggestion would entail, and I’m not looking forward to finding out.

(Company-issued codpieces come to mind, and there is no way in hell I’m getting into that mess.

Not again. That one incident at Chik-Fil-A was plenty enough for me, thanks.)

So tomorrow I suppose I’ll see what’s implemented or planned to keep other folks’ balls away from my own juggling hands. Figuratively, I hope. Otherwise, there’ll be a lot of uncomfortable looks shooting around the next time the overlords come to my office to chat. And I certainly don’t need that.

Because I’ve already got my hands full, with all these damned other-people balls to attend to. And now I’m scouring the Yellow Pages to tind a good personal spokesman, so this sort of embarrassment doesn’t happen to me ever again.

I suppose I could find a spokeswoman. But I’m just not sure she’d have the… oh, what’s the word? The cojones for this job. There really is an awful lot of juggling involved. Did I mention that already?

I did? And to the bosses, during a formal review? Oh, goody. Yaa-aaay, me.

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Categories: Awkward Conversations, Potty Talk / Yes, I'm a Pig, Work, Work, Work

Tags: boss, comedy, employee review, fun, funny, humor, juggling, multitasking, office, other people's balls, review, work

June 20, 2011

When You ElderCare Enough…

(…to say the very worst?)

My wife is going to stop taking me anywhere eventually. I used to only be a liability at family gatherings, company picnics, fancy dinners, shopping malls, my office and most nearby bars and taverns.

But lately, I’ve found a way to make the situation uncomfortable, no matter what the setting. Last week, I even managed to do it in an old folks’ home.

To be fair, many situations are uncomfortable in an old folks’ home. But this time was different, for two reasons. One — I wasn’t related to any of the old people involved; and two — the uncomfortableness didn’t involve too-tight trusses or misfitted dentures. So this was virgin octogenarian territory.

(Try not to think too hard about ‘virgin octogenarians’.

And for the love of Christmas, don’t Google it. There are some things you simply can’t bleach from your eyes. Step away from the internet, and nobody gets scarred.)

The missus and I had taken a Saturday afternoon to visit a nice old lady at a nursing home.

“I forget exactly why we were there, whether the lady was a friend of the family, or the great-aunt of a coworker or she served tea and coffee and charcoal pencils to sketch artists on the Titanic or something.”

(And my apologies to the liver spot crowd if I’m mis-interchangeably-using terms like “old folks’ home”, “nursing home”, “assisted-living unit” or “anguished purgatory” here. I don’t know what the hell these things are called, or who’ll get their plus-sized granny bloomers in a knot if I call one the wrong thing.

And by the time I get shoved into one — in a year, maybe three, max — I plan on being too far gone to give a damn myself. Three square Jell-Os and a pack of pills a day, and I’ll be just peachy. So far as I know.)

I forget exactly why we were there, whether the lady was a friend of the family, or the great-aunt of a coworker or she served tea and coffee and charcoal pencils to sketch artists on the Titanic or something. I was just told by the wife to be there, don’t touch anything, be nice and DON’t EMBARRASS ME. AGAIN.

Eh. Three out of four isn’t bad.

Two-and-a-half out of four, actually. I wasn’t trying to be mean. It just slipped out.

I’m not even sure it registered with the lady, actually. We were sitting in her room, having a nice civil chat about the weather and The Price Is Right and the Duke Ellington Band and the many thousands of problems with the youth of today — which evidently includes anyone younger than Andy Rooney, according to the Methuselah lady. And she mentioned — in a very un-Rooneyesque admission — that she’d recently managed to receive emails at a computer terminal in the main living area. And how nice it was to get correspondence from her loved ones, though of course it wasn’t as personal or heartfelt as the handwritten letters of old.

(She didn’t say why. Maybe ‘LOL’ written with a quill pen on parchment feels more ‘authentic’ than on a monitor screen. Maybe one day I’ll read through the U.S. Constitution or the Magna Carta to see how the ‘ROFLMAO’s feel in context.

I expect most of the signatures on the Declaration of Independence to be written in the margins a couple of paragraphs in, with tl;dr beside them. Some self-evident truths never change.)

My wife pounced on this topic — since we were trying to be engaging, and hadn’t had much to say about ’20s jazz or whippersnappers who should be getting jobs and cutting their hair, or how the Showcase Showdown has gone straight into the crapper ever since the pudgy crew-cut guy took over for Bob Barker. At a significant risk, she adopted the position of “technology good” and laid out a future of what assisted purgatory boxes might be like.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Email and the internet have really been revolutionary. So much is changing these days. Why, I bet by the time my husband and I are in a nice facility like this, there’ll be computers and wifi networks and video game consoles in every room.”

Now, I’m kind of a technical guy. So I figured this was my chance to contribute. I could have — scratch that, should have — just hopped in and agreed with my wife, then gone back to staring at doily patterns on the tea cozies. But the way she had put it didn’t seem exactly right to me, from what I’ve read about, so I decided to slip in a sliver of information of my own. Just to show I was paying attention.

“Yeah,” I said enthusiastically. “Heck, the nice ones have all that stuff now.”

The words hung in the air for a few seconds. My wife just turned and stared at me, jaw on the floor, as I realized what I’d said. I might as well have gone ahead and tossed in the unspoken implication: “You know, as opposed to this rancid dial-up shithole you’ve been shackled into.”

But I didn’t. Thankfully, I didn’t.

And luckily, the nice lady was either extraordinarily gracious or ridiculously hard of hearing, because she just nodded and said, “Oh, my yes — my grand-niece has been trying to set me up on the Tweeter, or some such thing. So much information!”

So I sort of got away with it, I guess — though I really didn’t mean to be snarky in the first place. It just happens now, like an instinct or force of habit or something. It works through me, as a vessel — and it’s hoping I pants someone one of these days, apparently. Or myself. The snark doesn’t seem too concerned which.

But my wife just crossed another line off the List of Places I’m Allowed to Go In Public. I’m not seeing the inside of that geezer ranch again.

Not until she checks me in, at least. Which at this rate, could be any day now.

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Categories: A Doofus Is Me, Awkward Conversations, Just Life, Married and a Moron

Tags: awkward, comedy, Email, embarrassing, fun, funny, humor, internet, old folks' home, retirement home

June 18, 2011

You Can’t Fight Tate

As promised — or ‘threatened’, if you prefer — today’s piece is a short sketch featuring Detective Jack Tate, a character dreamed up for my skit writing class and introduced when last we danced.

“Now pay attention, Fleshpot, because I’m only gonna say this once.”

Since that leaves very little writing to do (as opposed to copy-and-pasting what I wrote earlier in the week), this seems as good a place as any to report that the Mug of Woe collection including a story of mine will be officially available soon. On Amazon, no less!

(At least until Amazon gets wind of this, after which I’ll probably be relegated to passing out literacy pamphlets in the back of a Starbucks.)

And now you’re up to speed. Let’s talk to Jack. Happy weekending.

JACK TATE, AMNESIC DETECTIVE

[Interior of a police interrogation room. A seedy perp sits cross-armed at the table, uncooperative and bored.

A frustrated detective stands near the door, holding a file with the perp’s picture and info clipped to the front.]

DETECTIVE: You want to do this the hard way? Fine.

[Detective raps hard twice on the door.]

DETECTIVE: Now you gotta deal with my partner.

PERP: Whatever.

[Detective Jack Tate enters the room, old school and all business. His partner passes Jack the file as he leaves the room.]

DETECTIVE: He’s all yours.

[NOTE: Where Jack’s lines are in quotes, he’s pausing to read conspicuously from the file jacket.]

JACK: All right… “Fletcher”. How’s about you tell me about this… “where you hid the stash”?

PERP: Get bent.

JACK: Oh-ho-ho no. That’s the wrong attitude, punk. You’d better come clean right now about this… “where you hid the stash”.

PERP: Are you… reading that?

JACK: Hey. I’ll ask the questions around here, Flanders.

PERP: Fletcher.

JACK: What?

PERP: Fletcher. My name is Fletcher.

JACK: [confused, scanning the file jacket] Fletcher? Fletcher… Fletcher… Wait — you’re Fletcher? Listen here, bub. I wanna talk to you about this… “where you hid the stash” business.

[Jack turns his back and opens the file to scan the contents.]

PERP: Holy god, it’s like being questioned by my grandmother.

[Jack closes the file, but doesn’t turn to face perp again yet.]

JACK: Now pay attention, Fleshpot, because I’m only gonna say this once.

PERP: [under his breath] Yeah, _that’s_ unlikely.

JACK: Kid, I can be your best friend here, or your worst nightmare.

[Jack whirls around dramatically and faces perp, leaning close across the table. He drops the file on the table, close by but not where he can easily see it.]

JACK: But if you want my help, you’ve got to talk to me about this… uh, this… thing we’re talking about. Come on, Flipchart. Work with me here.

PERP: Damn. You are the worst cop I have ever seen in my life.

[Jack takes a step back from the table.]

JACK: Yeah, wise guy? Well, who d’ya think you are — the chief of police?

PERP: Yeah! Maybe I am.

JACK: [taken aback, worried] Wait. You are? Really?

PERP: Uh… sure, that’s right. Yeah. I’m the chief.

JACK: And you think I’m a bad cop?

PERP:Oh yeah. The worst. You’re a disgrace to the force.

JACK: Wow. I had no idea.

PERP: Yeah, well — the truth hurts sometimes. And you suck.

JACK: So do you want… I mean… should I turn in my badge?

PERP: Uh… well, yeah. Right. Give me your badge, yes. And your gun. And… a pack of breath mints.

JACK: [pulls out badge and gun, checks his pockets] I’ve got Juicy Fruit. Will that do?

PERP: See, this is just what I’m talking about. Disgrace to the force. You’re finished, flatfoot.

[Perp beckons with his hand for the badge and gun. As Jack leans forward to hand them over, he glances down at the file, stops cold, looks at the perp, then the file, then the perp again, and yanks back the gun and badge. The file stays on the table.]

JACK: Hey! You’re not the chief! You’re not the chief at all! You’re Fletcher! And I’ve got a bone to pick with you, buddy, about this… “where you hid the stash”!

PERP: [burying his head in his hands] Oh good lord.

JACK: Now are you gonna spill what you know, Flaxseed? Or do I have to get ugly?

PERP: For the love of god, I’m not talking to you, I don’t have any stash, and MY NAME IS FLETCHER!

[Jack sees the perp is upset, takes a deep breath and turns away, switching to a ‘good cop’ approach.

In the middle of Jack’s line, the perp gets a bright idea and steals the file off the table, hiding it under his shirt with smug satisfaction.]

JACK: Look, kid. I’m asking for your own good. I’ve seen guys like you. You’re not made for prison, trust me. You’d never last a week in the joint. And none of us wants that.

[Jack turns around to face the perp, and the now-empty table.]

JACK: So talk to me here. You can trust me. Help me to help _you_… [Jack looks around for the file, doesn’t see it, stalls] …um, you… [finally guesses at the name] …Fletcher?

PERP: Oh, I’m not Fletcher. Fletcher’s gone, baby.

JACK: Gone? What happened? Did he talk?

PERP: Nope, not a peep. You said you could never break a guy like him, and you let him go.

JACK: I let him go?

PERP: Yup. You said he was the smartest guy you ever met, and he walked right out that door. Said he was real good-looking, too. Nice cheekbones.

JACK: I said all that?

PERP: ‘Fraid so. Can’t win ’em all, pal.

JACK: Well, I’ll be damned. But then… who are you?

PERP: Me? Uh, well… I’m… uh, Flintstone.

[Perp cringes at coming up with ridiculous name, but tries to play it off anyway.

Jack responds in disbelief, slowly walking around the table to end up behind the perp.]

JACK: Flintstone?

PERP: Yep. Flintstone. That’s what I said, all right.

JACK: You. Are Flintstone?

PERP: Sure am. Flintstone’s my name, don’t wear it out.

JACK: I see. You’re Flintstone… [Jack pounces at the perp, grabbing him in a headlock and jamming his gun into perp’s forehead] — the serial killer I’ve been hunting for the last fifteen years?! The godforsaken animal I swore to put in the ground?! Oh, Flintstone — I’m puttin’ a bullet in your brain right now, and I don’t care who sees me!!

[As Jack finishes his line, his partner walks through the door, while the perp screams in terror, ducks and throws the file back on the table.]

PERP: Gaaah! No! I’m Fletcher! Fletcher! I’ll talk, all right? The stash is in my basement! I’ll show you! Just get this nut away from me already!

[Jack mouths ‘Fletcher?’ to himself, trying to place the name. He notices he’s holding his gun, shrugs and reholsters it.]

PARTNER: That’s some great work, Jack. Another scumbag off the streets, eh? I’ll get him down to processing.

[Jack nods distractedly. Partner collects the perp and prepares to march him out the door.

Jack says to no one in particular:]

JACK: Now what the hell did I come in here for?

[Jack notices the file on the table and picks it up. He does another double-look at the picture and the perp as his partner takes the perp out the door. Jack chases after them.]

JACK: Fletcher! Hey! You get back here, mister! I’ve got some questions for you!

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Categories: Articles 'n' Zines, Tales from the Stage

Tags: amnesia, class, comedy, detective, Fletcher, Flintstone, fun, funny, humor, ImprovBoston, interrogation, Jack Tate, sketch, skit

June 16, 2011

One Sketchy Character

I have a new assignment this week in the sketch comedy writing class I’m taking over at ImprovBoston. This session, we’re focusing on ‘character sketches’.

(As opposed to sketches without characters, I guess. Which would be an empty stage. So that’s unfortunate, because those seem a lot easier to write. Though the punchlines are probably a bit more subtle. Still.)

“I may not go out with a ‘bang’, but they’ll have to pry the snarky motorboating keyboard from my cold, dead hands.”

Our ‘real’ assignment was to conjure up some new character and write a description of him — either in first- or third-person format.

(Second-person always gets the shaft in these things. ‘You’ is probably pretty pissed by now.)

In what comedic scientists call a ‘sneak preview’, the teacher told us that this would lead up to writing an actual, honest-to-goodness sketch including that character in the week following. If we were ready for it by then, and didn’t feel too dizzy or winded from the effort. If we were feeling really extra super-human — or were maybe unemployed, with a lot of free time on our hands — we could go ahead and work on the sketch. So long as we were careful. Nobody wants to be found dead of exhaustion, hunched over a Word document titled “Jack Tate, Amnesic Detective” or some such nonsense.

Me, I threw caution to the wind. I may not go out with a ‘bang’, but they’ll have to pry the snarky motorboating keyboard from my cold, dead hands. So if you’re inclined, please read on below for a third-person (sorry, ‘I’) description of the character I concocted. And if that whets something curious in you, tune in again on Saturday for the sketch involving him, entitled:

Jack Tate, Amnesic Detective

Like I said. Cold. Dead. Hands.

The Distinguished (Nearly Extinguished) Detective

We’re here today to honor one of our finest men in blue, Jack Tate. Detective Tate has served our fair city for twenty-four years in uniform, working his way up from parking enforcement to beat cop to full detective. His dedication, integrity and commitment to protecting our citizens and property is second to none.

I’ve known Jack for many years on the force, and I can personally attest to his dogged pursuit of justice. This is a man forged in the mold of the old-school detectives, relying on his gut and his guile to get results. Jack was never a fan of newfangled gizmos or state-of-the-art doodads. It’s that simple, old-fashioned approach that kept him out of harm’s way in the line of duty for more than two decades.

Right up until this spring, when he tragically mistook his taser for his ringing cell phone. Double-tapped himself right in the temple. Got ’em in there good, too — we had to get needle-nosed pliers to yank those things out. Jack always was a good shot.

The doctors told Jack he was finished on the job, that his short-term memory was fried.

Then they’d tell him again, because he’d forget all about it. Every ten minutes, Jack’d say, “Doc — when can I get back to work?” And they’d go through it all over again. They finally wrote him a little booklet called “Jack Tate Doesn’t Work Here Any More”, just to hush him up for a while.

But I’ll be damned if that tough old S.O.B. wasn’t back in the precinct the very next week. Sure, it was the *wrong* precinct. And he went out checking parking meters in his old uniform, which is _several_ sizes too small now. That was… uncomfortable. To put it mildly.

But we got Jack straightened out. Tattooed his rank on the back of his hand. Taped a map to the station on his steering wheel. Gave his old uniform the proper wake it deserved. And just like that, Jack was back on the job.

Now, you might wonder if he was the same man. Could he still get the job done? Maybe after the accident, his arrest records went down?

No chance. If anything, they’ve gone _up_. Jack has some challenges, sure — but in the interrogation room, he’s a wizard. A regular artist with the perps. We’ve brought guys in on misdemeanors — petty theft, disturbing the peace, impersonating a soccer referee — and after ten minutes in the box with Jack, they’re confessing to murders, bank jobs, treason, you name it. Stuff you’d never dream they were into. But somehow Jack nails ’em.

Of course, we occasionally have him talk to a known mobster or felon, and they wind up walking out with a jaywalking ticket or something. But still, that’s *something*. And those citations _stick_, dammit.

Unless Jack forgets to show up for the hearing. Which is most of the time.

Still, Jack Tate is one of the most valued members of our force, and I’m damned proud to present him with this award for Excellence in the Line of Duty.

Or I would be, if Jack were here with us tonight. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to make it. He’s probably stuck in his apartment building’s revolving door again, because he can’t remember whether he’s going in or out. That hard-nosed bastard will stay in there all night sometimes, till he gets the spins and passes out. That’s just the kind of cop Jack Tate is. Like a bulldog. A less hairy, really forgetful bulldog. Congratulations, Jack, wherever you are!