Quincy-Part Three: Rogues Gallery

Quincy's first name is never revealed, and even Jack Klugman claims the character never had one. It just adds to the mythic, god-like persona. Zeus. Yahweh. Quincy. However, one episode does feature a business card that says "R. Quincy," but that probably just stands for Raging, Raving or Rabid.

He's L.A. county's chief medical examiner, and the chicks dig him like he's Shaft... even though he drives one grim mutha of a station wagon and his address is "One Dock Down From the Mackerel Stacks."

A fierce meddler, Quincy couldn't be content with doing his job within the confines of the coroner's office. He took on the dual role of bush-beating detective, largely because the cops in his world can't be bothered. It's also a great outlet for his Tourette's syndrome--after all, it's no fun yelling at a cadaver.

Early on, Quincy doggedly proved that every apparent suicide was, in fact, murder. However, he soon branched out and heatedly warned the world of the deadly ills of incest, diet pills and punk rock.

Before the show's timeframe, Quincy was in private practice. After he lost his wife Helen to cancer, he moved into a boat and became a coroner--a hot-tempered, crusading coroner. For several years, he was content with a bevy of houseboat bimbos, but head-shrinker Dr. Emily Hanover (Anita Gillette) shackled him in the seventh season. He gave up the babes and the boat and got married.

Klugman was married to Match Game mainstay Brett Somers, technically, for 54 years. Actually, the two separated in '74 but, because of a good friendship, never divorced.

The Klug battled throat cancer for years, lost a vocal cord, kept on acting and is still as feisty as ever. NBC has been poor-mouthing it for years, claiming loses despite strong DVD sales and the fact that the show is still being broadcast around the world. The Klug wants his residuals. It took one lawsuit to get NBC to even show him his contract. He's filed another for the residuals. To this day, he's proud of the show, as well he should be. Good luck to you, Klug.

People around the world love the Klug, as well they should. Until last year, the Church of Klugman (http://churchofklugman.blogspot.com/) kept up the Klug reverence, but, sadly, it has closed its doors. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I love Jack Klugman. For all of his work. And simply for being The Klug. Mr. Klugman, sir, you are badass.

I think we can all agree that Sam is the real brains behind the coroner's office. He's also the most patient man on Earth. He not only weathers Quincy's rants but also maintains an unflappable, professional demeanor. He does all the work while the Klug goes out yelling at everyone and 'mancing the ladies. Sam gave up more Friday night dates to do Quincy's scut work than I can count. The poor guy never got laid. I think he was patiently biding his time to take over after Quincy finally burst into flames during one of his tirades.

Robert Ito was a dancer with the National Ballet of Canada for years before diving into acting in the mid-60s. Along with Mako, Noriyuki "Pat" Morita and Sho Kosugi, Ito made the best of the Asian roles TV doled out through the 60s and 70s. I always admired the fact that Sam was never written as a stereotype. He was just a guy with a Japanese name and a Vancouver accent.

It was enough that he was great as Sam, but the fact that Robert Ito went on to be Professor Toichi Hikita in The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension that forever cements him in my esteem. I'd do the man's jail time. In fact, my admiration went even higher when I learned that he wanted the role so badly that he whipped up his own makeup job and disguised himself as an old man for his audition. According to my calculations, that's badass.

John S. Ragin was stuck with the show's thankless job, the role of the Mustache. Your better shows in the '70s and '80s had a Mustache installed: William Daniels on St. Elsewhere, John Hillerman on Magnum, P.I. and Rene Auberjonois on Benson, just to name a few. The Mustache was the hardass, the ball breaker, the sour/dour sonuvabitch who had absolutely no redeeming qualities and existed for no other reason than to be a drag on the rest of the cast. Oh, and to make the main character look better.

In this case, the Mustache is Quincy's uptight, long-suffering administrator. He was basically a prop for Klugman to rail against. He'd come in to bust Quincy's chops only to have his own ass handed to him. As a youngster, I always cheered, "Yeah! Take that, Mustache!" You just know he's the one all the assistant medical examiners and lab techs bitch about around the water cooler.

Now, as a decrepit old man, I almost sympathize with him. The guy had to be under incredible strain. You've got to imagine he spent most of his time talking the coroner's office out of lawsuits piling up from Quincy's frothing fits of rage. And he must've had a heart attack every time he signed Sam's paychecks. "Sweet Jesus! 80 hours of overtime?!" I hate to think of the depths to which he had to delve to make the office's budget, but it probably involved chaps. 

John S. Ragin played a lot of supporting roles on TV through the years. However, his finest hour was playing the ultimate Mustache, and I salute him.

By law, you can't have a detective-y show without ineffective cops. I mean, if your police force can actually solve a case, then how is your protagonist supposed to stand out? Fortunately for Quincy, Lt. Monahan maintains some slothful standards. Of course, when your jurisdiction includes an uppity coroner with a Sherlock Holmes complex, I can see where it'd get harder and harder to drag your ass to a crime scene. "Whatever. Quincy will figure it out."

You can often find the lieutenant at his desk with his feet up, gnawing on a huge sandwich. Chances are Quincy will storm in and bust his chops for not putting away the prime suspect. Monahan would utter those immortal words: "Sorry, Quince. My hands are tied. I need some solid evidence." Then Quincy would rage out the door, usually saying something snarky about cholesterol, and the lieutenant would have peace until the crime was solved for him.

Any time Lt. Monahan actually "cracks" a case, he's wrong. In Quincyland, only the big man himself can crack a case, leaving the cops to fill out the paperwork while he lounges on his boat with the ladies.

 

Garry Walberg makes the character crusty and likable. And that unique, Joe Pesci-esque voice still gets me. I always enjoyed the chemistry between Klugman and Walberg.

Walberg did a ton of TV back in the day, including the role of Klugman's poker buddy Speed on The Odd Couple. Oddly enough, Ed Begley, Jr. played a guitar burnout named Speed in a gonzo Quincy, M.E. episode involving mummified septuagenarian strippers. No, seriously.

Mr. Tovo ran Danny's, a restaurant that, literally, catered to cops and coroners. I'm sure the other clientele loved overhearing autopsy descriptions while they ate. With its dark, '70s-hell, earthtone decor, Danny's was the perfect place to deliver any given episode's epilogue over some baked ziti and vodka martinis.

The restaurant shared the wharf with Quincy's houseboat, so I'm guessing it was more a marriage of proximity instead of the draw of quality fare. Granted, Danny, all slick and smooth, always seemed like the kind of guy who could help a lonely coroner out if he were to, say, menace a health inspector every now and then. Let's just say that I'm pretty sure every time Quincy called for "take out," Danny would say, "You bet. Blonde or brunette?"

An actor's actor, Val Bisoglio appeared in all manner of shows in the '70s. On the film side, he appeared in Saturday Night Fever and Linda Lovelace for President. Yeah, that's pretty badass. On M*A*S*H, he played Sergeant Pernelli, the long-suffering cook. In one memorable episode, he was known to have said, "Would you like to pinch it or shall I?" Fortunately, he was referring sarcastically to French toast and not Gary Burghoff's ass.

Sure, there were other recurring characters, but I'm relegating them to "and the rest" a la the early Gilligan's Island theme. (Yeah, that one still burns doesn't it, Professor?) Ok, I'll mention a couple.

You've got Joseph Roman as Detective Brill, the guy who should actually be, you know, solving the cases. Instead, he's Monahan's shadow and lucky to get a line or two here and there. That was a thankless job.

For the first couple of seasons, Quince had a regular girlfriend, Lee Potter, played by Lynette Mettey. However, she vanished, and the Q adopted the Captain Kirk method of bedding whatever attractive woman happened to be on the episode that week.

Next time, we'll take a look at the formula and the fury that made this show great. Thanks for your patience while this blog gets rolling. See you then!

Quincy-Part Two: Where'd he come from?

Before we uncork Quincy's righteous fury, we need to look back to his origins. 

Did you know that Quincy was based partly on real-life L.A. County Chief Medical Examiner Thomas Noguchi? Known to 

be meticulous and uncompromising, he presided over a slew of controversial

 cases from 1961 to 1982. Noguchi picked up the nickname "Coroner to the Stars" after overseeing the autopsies of Marilyn Monroe and Robert F. Kennedy.

He was forced to surrender his chiefdom in '82 for his outspoken conduct and his habit of speaking too freely with the media, but he kept working for the county and slipped neatly into a lucrative book deal and a cushy position at USC.

Sure, that covers the "all-powerful medical examiner" facet, but Dr. Noguchi will have to share the credit as we turn far to the north to thank Canada for the rest of the equation. Yes, you heard me. Thank Canada. Now.

"Quincy, M.E." was the American incarnation of Canada's "Wojeck," starring the wonderfully badass John Vernon as a crusading coroner.

Wojeck fought for justice on the gritty streets of Toronto from 1966-1968. Mr. Vernon went on to epic, memorable roles such as the mayor in "Dirty Harry," Mr. Big in "I'm Gonna Git You Sucka" and, of course, Dean Wormer in "Animal House." 

"Wojeck" was inspired by the actual cases of unflinching Toronto coroner Dr. Morton Shulman. The show's tough, tell-it-like-it-is style is credited for shaking up what had been fairly staid Canadian television.

I caught a couple of episodes of "Wojeck" centuries ago. It was a stark, uncompromising show filmed in harsh black-and-white. Hell, just check out the opening, and you'll get the flavor. 

So take two fiery coroners, add a dash of John Vernon brashness, stir in some talented writers and bake it all in the belly of the Klug. The result is artery-hardening TV goodness.

(I would've paid to see a coroner cagematch between Quincy and Wojeck.)

Next up, we'll take a deep, dark look at our cast.

Quincy-Part One: Why, you ask?

Let's get one thing straight: I love Jack Klugman. Years from now, entertainment anthropologists will know him as The Klug Man, a mysterious uber-being every bit as lovable and as fearful as the Sasquatch. I would never speak ill of the man. In fact, I would beat the snot out of any detractors foolish enough to hate on him. He bears the heavy crown of the badass.

Back when the Klug used to shill for Steak-Umm Brand leathery meat product, I framed a photo of him grinning around a big sandwich. For years, I used it as a character yardstick, rejecting any co-worker foolish enough to say, "Who's that?" The ones who gave knowing nods I accepted as (damaged) kindred spirits. Sadly, I misplaced the photo in a move, and my character judgment has suffered since.

I admire the Klug in all of his incarnations. From classic "Twilight Zone" episodes to "The Odd Couple" and beyond, that hangdog face always entertains. No one does impassioned outbursts quite like him, and no show registered on the Richter scale quite like "Quincy, M.E."   

The show debuted in 1976 when I was an impressionable six. It had all of the right elements: a guy who lives on a boat, gets all the chicks, does a little science, solves crimes, yells at people and walks away at the end of the day knowing that he'd put things right no matter how many sacks he had to bust along the way.

If you're lucky enough to have the RTV Retro Television network, you can witness the Quincy magic every weekday. I watch the show now with renewed love and respect. From my 39-year-old perspective, the show is completely gonzo. The clothes, the cliches, the cars, the tirades, the preachiness. Every episode is packed with laughs, but my admiration has only grown.

One of the few good qualities of the 70s was that you didn't have to be pretty to be on TV. Hell, you could have one ugly mug and get your own show! Talent was the deciding factor. The one good thing in that confused decade. Oh, and your show had to have a badass theme. There's another point for the 70s: the theme songs were awesome.

Klugman kicked America's ass every week as a loose cannon coroner who refused to play by the rules, and he has my deepest admiration. Sure, the latter-day episodes detoured into wackiness (the "punk rock kills" episode, anyone?), but the show really tried and there's no denying that Klug charisma.

So strap in for an exploration of the phenomenon known as "Quincy, M.E." We'll delve into its history, its cast and all of the facets that make it classic television.

The Righteous Fury of Quincy, M.E.

I had planned on some devilishly clever and insightful entries that would have blown your mind, but that nonsense will have to wait.

A grizzled angel visited me and demanded that I devote days, perhaps weeks, in praise of the one true television show: "Quincy, M.E."

So strap in for a loving tribute. 

How Not to Use Photoshop

Oh, Microsoft. You scamp. By now you've heard of the budget-minded blunder in which they Frankensteined a replacement head onto an ad model's body in an effort to curry the favor of the Polish market.

You'd think a world-dominating corporate giant could come up with other ways to save money. Instead, of springing for a new shoot, you do a ten-minute Photoshop job so conspicuous that you not only draw attention to the practice of stingy edits but also get everyone thinking you're racist.

I know you have to walk a fine line between diversity and market-specific targeting, but must you be so clumsy about it?

Here's what I came up with during my own ten-minute bit of Photoshoppery:

It's rough but much more evocative. And, no, I'm not being racist toward Mexico. I just love luchadores. They make everything better.

You've got to admit this now looks like the rare meeting where something actually gets done. Every PowerPoint session should end with someone getting a suplex.

So it begins...

Atrocious.

It's a fantastic word. It sounds like an enormous rock chucked into a murky pond. KER-PLOOSH-glorsh.

You just don't see this word enough, outside of stuffy old Masterpiece Theatre parlor dramas where its power is lost among the haughty blah-blah-blah.

The English language is a gorgeous beast—musical, evocative and fun to play with but likely to take your fingers off if you rub it the wrong way.

In high school I was trained to write massive sentences that didn't so much flow as flood. We're talking William Faulkner jumbos stacked with participial phrases and garnished with appositives. Things of beauty.

In college, that writing style drew praise from some and derision from others. My favorite incident involved a grumpy literary criticism professor known for scribbling angry red diatribes on students' papers. Unable to find anything wrong with my arguments on Wuthering Heights, he'd punctuated my paper with a single snide remark:

"You have atrocious gramma."

As this was written to the edge of the page, I gave him the benefit of the doubt that he'd scrawled the absent "r" on his desk and that he wasn't insulting my grandmother.

For years, I've had that sentence up on my mantle next to some of my all-time favorites. It even has a similar cadence to the ultimate catchphrase: "He say you brade runna."

Who the hell am I? In a nutshell, I'm a graphic designer who's sitting around waiting to become the next Terry Pratchett. I was going to call this blog One Man Bland, but some cunning individual beat me to the name. However, that forced me to think beyond the pun, stirring that professor's comment up from the silt in my brain. The name says it all.

So my goal with this blog is—what am I saying?! I was an English major; I have no goals. What I plan to do is dress this blog up in several shades of nonsense involving graphic design, writing and pop-culture, layering it all in a nice, eye-watering plaid.

So stick around for crullers. You might be entertained, and maybe--just maybe--you'll learn something about yourself (most likely that you're sick of reading pithy blogs).

-Randy