February 22, 2026
“I object!”
You can’t object to a question you ask yourself.
“Why not? It’s a lousy question. It’s overbroad, vague and ambiguous, irrelevant and immaterial, lacks foundation and calls for the witness to speculate.”
Impressive, huh? I know. It’s a gift.
For forty-one years I asked questions, demanded answers, and lodged objections to questions I didn’t want answered. That was my job. That’s what I did. And I was pretty good at it.
So, I often object to questions, even those I ask myself.
It’s a bad habit. Probably, a subconscious thing. I think my ego (that’s me) figures that if my id (that’s the judge) will sustain the objection, I won’t have to face facts or admit to things I’d just as soon deny.
Overruled.
“But your Honor…”
OVERRULED!
“With all due respect, your Honor: ‘Where-to-Begin’ is irrelevant. Location is immaterial.”
Answer the question.
“The proper inquiry should be a “Why?” …like… “Why me?” Or maybe a “How…like… “How did this happen?” Or even a “What?”
“What the hell did I do to deserve this?”
Counselor!
“Sheez, somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bench.”
You are trying the court’s patience.
“Yeah, well, welcome to the club.”
You’re out of order!
“I’ll stipulate to that, your Honor. Every part of me seems out of order.”
Bailiff…take Mr. Jackson…
“Okay, okay…let’s see. Where? Where did this all begin? That’s a hard one. How far back do you want me to go?”
“Stop dodging the question.”
“I mean who’s to say where this all began.”
Bailiff!
“Well, I suppose we could begin at the first visit to the neurologist. I mean it’s customary, isn’t it? You know. We place our half-wit hero on the edge of the examining table, his beautiful wife seated anxiously nearby, as the doctor takes a history and conducts a physical examination.”
“Kinda cliché, I know, but a good time-worn setting, don’t you think? Nice dramatic tension. An escalating sense of foreboding as slowly…far too slowly…our protagonist begins to realize what the characters in the scene and the viewers at home knew a long time ago.”
Let’s listen in …
“Okay, Mr. Jackson, I want you to hold your hands out in front of you, close your eyes, and then touch your nose, first with your right hand, then your left. Understand?
“Piece of cake, doc” I said, confidently winking at Cathy before I closed both eyes, and began.
“Your nose, Mr. Jackson. Not mine. Yours!”
“Oh, sorry,” opening one eye to again wink. Cathy doesn’t wink back.
“Okaaaaay,” the doc says. “Walk for me.”
“Walk?”
“Yes. Down the hallway and back.”
“I should warn you doc: ambulating is not my strong suit. I flunked skipping in kindergarten. That, and stair climbing…”
“Now turn around…”
“In my defense, I grew up in a one-story house. So, there wasn’t a lot of opportunities to practice stairs…”
“Once more.”
“Always seemed safer to bring both feet together on each step before venturing further. That whole alternating–feet–on–alternating– steps thing seemed risky. Kinda a metaphor for life, don’t you think? Man’s hasty descent into peril. I say, ‘What’s the rush?’”
“Now, turn around…”
“Safety first. That’s my motto.”
“Now heel to toe, please…”
“And skipping. Never could get the hang of it…was something about the rhythm…”
“Now, sit here and tap your fingers together as fast as you can.”
“Like castanets?”
“Reminds me of that scene in Get Smart… you know… the Tequila Mockingbird episode. The one where they spoofed To Kill a Mockingbird and The Maltese Falcon and Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns.
“No?”
“Sure you do. When Max is in the Mexican saloon and Agent 99, disguised as a Spanish dancer, is trying to get him to look under the candlestick by signaling him with her hands like castanets?”
“And he just doesn’t get it?”
“No? Probably before your time…”
“I want you to stand, your back to me. I’m going to pull on your shoulders and see if you can avoid falling. Ready?”
“Doc, I was born rea…WHOA.”
“Cross your arms over your chest and stand up.”
“Now down.
“And up again…”
“OBJECTION, YOUR HONOR. The witness is badgering the lawyer.”
The camera pulls back, pans from the doctor to the wife as they exchange meaningful “just-as-we-suspected” expressions, then to our Maxwell Smart legal beagle who looks like the guy who is always a step behind, always the last to get the joke, always too slow to read the signs.
Overruled.
Now zoom in for a close-up. Yeah, just like that. See it? The look on his face? That’s it. Half resentment, half resignation as he begins…finally… to see what Agent 99 has tried to signal him for months.
His shoulders sag. He looks down at his hands. He concentrates. Tries to focus. Like Superman did on TV. You know…George Reeves…big barrel chest, the backs of his closed fists on his hips, his trunks hiked too high, just before he unleashed his x ray vision. Straining with very neuron he can muster. All of them, his id, ego and super ego all pulling together, trying…trying…trying… to get his hands to stop shaking.
His face relaxes as a memory bobs to the surface. It’s a good memory. An apron. A lap. A voice. His mom. Holding him. Trying to pull a sliver from a shaky finger. He smiles and looks at his wife.
“Be still, Rob…hold still.”
But now, as then, he can’t. Try as he might, he can’t hold still.
Can't Hold Still 