You may have noticed, over the past couple years, a distinctly Irish name crawling over the tops of stories that used to bear my byline. Fires in far-flung places, brawls in downtown Lewiston, the weird and sometimes violent interactions among the people who populate our corner of the world.

Doug McIntire is the bloke’s name, and he came weirdly prepared for the job. He never needed much coaching or advice on how to approach the ugly, mixed-up world of the police beat, and with few exceptions he’s enjoyed being thrown head-first into the fray. This makes him a true weirdo, in my book, and therefore perfect for the job.

He’s Irish, he rides a motorcycle and he understands instinctively that editors are out to get him. Toss in a natural disdain for the weather story and you have Doug McIntire, my brother from another mother. Below, Doug explains how he became so freakishly warped as to take on the police beat with zeal.

Who are you and where did you come from? Well, I’m still trying to figure out the former. I guess technically, I’m Charles Douglas McIntire Jr. or Cathal Doughlas Mac antSaior in Ireland. I’m Doug to most, or just “that guy is hanging around in the dark, back corner of the newsroom again.” That last “name” I got from the guys who run the scary machines in the back of the building.

As to where I’m from . . . as a Navy brat, I mostly grew up among the feral children in base housing in Brunswick. I was born behind the gates of Patuxent River Naval Air Station in Maryland on a snowy Friday the 13th. From my youthful days in Brunswick (and upon recommendation of the juvenile officer of the Brunswick Police Department), I joined the Navy as an air traffic control specialist and saw much of the world before I was old enough to order a beer (stateside). From there, I have been a pizza guy (but not that kind), furniture maker, restoration expert and spent several years in a cabin in the woods of northern Aroostook County.

How did you stumble into the exciting world of journalism? At a young age I fell in love with writing. About third grade, I realized that writing was like telling a really elaborate fib — but one you didn’t have to remember the details of because you already wrote them down. As an adult, I worked as a freelancer. It’s funny how “freelancer” begins with the word “free” and ends with a long, pointy object intended to dislodge you from your horse. I wrote for just about every startup magazine that ever went down in flames. I was a food writer, a parenting expert (have you SEEN my kids?), and a writer and copy editor for a women’s business magazine. Each came with the promise of little to no pay, but oh, isn’t one’s name on the masthead intoxicating? Though I was slightly damaged, jaded and cynical, the Sun Journal dusted me off and offered me a stale sandwich and a secondhand coat. No, maybe that was the soup kitchen, but I’m sure they were similar circumstances.

What do you do in your day job? By day I work at a private, special-purpose school. There, I am a teacher, tech guy, medicine dispenser, web editor, newsletter writer and editor, photographer, marketer, grant writer, emergency response member, media communications guy and tenured Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Honestly, most of my work is in the latter.

What’s the funnest part of the police beat? We run toward things sane people are trying to get away from. Police have guns and body armor. Firefighters have protective gear and an ample supply of water. Me, I try to wiggle in just as close to the troubled maniac holed up with a gun as I can, armed with a Paper Mate Ink Joy clickable pen (only clickable pens will do for reporting as it’s impossible to look cool while searching a dark street for your pen cap while a drug bust is going down). Trust me, being among the first to roll up on a fully involved structure fire in the middle of the night while “Gimme Shelter” is blaring from the car radio is a sublime experience full of surreal black-orange skies, the acrid taste of burnt timbers and the sense of the awesome power of nature in its purest form.

What’s the lamest? Note to editors: You know I love you, so please stop reading here.

Two words: weather stories. Editors are convinced that everyone is standing in their doorway each morning just waiting for the paper to arrive so they can read about another snowstorm in January. Whether it’s snow in the winter, thunder in the summer or the bizarre way low-lying areas flood when placed adjacent to water, they just can’t get enough of these obvious tidbits of non-news.

Recorder or notebook? Yes — in fact I will often use a boom mic on my iPhone, a smartpen and my notebook simultaneously. Several technology fails have reinforced horrific paranoia around my habits. I once had the honor of reporting from a gathering where several holocaust survivors were speaking. I used my iPhone and was so pleased with myself that I captured so many wonderful and deep quotes that day that I darn near skipped back to my car. Imagine my horror when I discovered only 15 seconds of recorded audio, and that apparently was from when the phone was in my pocket. I had a couple jotted notes I had taken just for flavor, describing the room, but only my shoddy memory to write a front page story from.