He's everywhere. At every meeting. In everyone's hair, which he frequently ruffles.

If he were into hip-hop, he'd be all up in your grill.

"I'm just a pain in the buns," he said.

But the people who encounter him the most describe a passionate man with a heart of gold - and an X-rated vocabulary in private conversations that joins unprintable four-letter words in a way that would make accomplished poets envious.

A polymath when it comes to facts about Anne Arundel County, the 64-year-old Severn resident's resume includes a laundry list of civic roles.

Mr. Sinclair has been a part of the county Base Realignment and Closure Task Force, active in local Republican politics and a past president of the Greater

Odenton Improvement Association - a position he held just a few years before he was permanently exiled from the group, an expulsion that eventually resulted in an appearance by county police.

He's at nearly every community, County Council, political and school board meeting.

"Harry likes to describe himself as a gadfly. He is someone who is interested in everything and likes to be everywhere," said Claire Louder, executive director of the West County Chamber of Commerce and a frequent crosser of Mr. Sinclair's path.

While his presence is always anticipated, his arrival is never a surprise, he drives an aging, rumbling, diesel-powered, gleaming-white Mercedes with a pile of sun-bleached ball caps in the back window and magnetic yellow and red, white and blue ribbons affixed to its fenders.

A retired lieutenant colonel in the Army Rangers, the civilian uniform he wears now is just as distinguishable as camouflage and nearly as consistent day to day.

It's either a beige suite or a blue one with pinstripes, always with a red bow tie, and always topped off with an ancient, sweat-stained University of Maryland baseball cap with a bill that looks like it was used in a long game of tug-of-war with an unusually slobbery pit bull.

Yeah, he's thatguy.

Mr. Sinclair is also well known by county officials. A recently installed security system that limited access to the county executive's fourth-floor office at the Arundel Center in Annapolis keeps him at bay as does a not-so- subtle sign barring anyone but employees.

For Mr. Sinclair, there was a special reminder, in small print, that he is not on the county's payroll.

"Harry, you are not a county employee," the sign read.

And whenever there are a pair of ears in the room, he usually has something to say. In short, he's hard to miss.

And for some, that's a problem.

'Dem goofs'

Mr. Sinclair's persistence and propensity to speak his mind without any sort of filter can get him into trouble, say people who know him.

If he disagrees with what's being said, someone is going to get called a "goof," a catch-all term for anyone who is an idiot, charlatan, liar, hack or all four. Most likely, many people will get called a goof. And if the goofs are coming in gaggles, it's "dem goofs."

If there were a drinking game where you had to imbibe whenever you heard the word, driving home would be dangerous.

People do what they can to reel him in.

Former Greater Crofton President Torrey Jacobsen had the patient, and often-effective "Alll-right, Harry," which turned into a curt, quick "Haaa-ry!" if his first tries were in vain.

David Tibbetts, president of the Greater Odenton Improvement Association, will let Harry talk until he's winded, even if off topic - as long as he's civil.

"The problem is that he's very passionate, but he's pointlessly offensive. But he's right about a lot of things. A lot of times we come out of meetings and say 'You know, Harry was right,'" Mr. Tibbetts said.

Last spring, the association had to change its bylaws with the "Harry Amendment," rules that allowed the group to expel members who created a persistent disturbance.

Soon, Mr. Sinclair found his neck on the chopping block. And like Marie Antoinette, the group he once ruled gave its former leader the ax. So far, he has been the first and only person to go.

But he attended other GOIA meetings and the police were called. No report was taken, but he was told that if he returned he could be in trouble.

"They tell me that if I come back they may have to arrest me," Mr. Sinclair said in June 2007.

Mr. Sinclair said he knows people perceive him as a problem, but that's fine. He said he sees it as a part of his job. He wants to jostle people from complacency, to get them to stop swallowing whatever is being spoon-feed to them.

"It's sad. We have 100 people come out to a meeting and none of them challenge anything that was said. Well wait a minute now, there is no way that whoever was speaking was saying everything correct," he said.

'Hooah' Harry

Confrontation has always been Mr. Sinclair's way, said County Councilman Jamie Benoit, D-Crownsville, who has known Mr. Sinclair for years through his sister, the best friend of Mr. Sinclair's daughter.

"He doesn't mince words. He can sometimes be politically incorrect. But I maintain that Harry is out there doing this stuff because he cares for the community. ... I don't think Harry is out to hurt anybody. He really cares about the community and he wants things done now and well. He's a typical Army officer," said Mr. Benoi, a former Army officer himself.

Some Army habits don't die. After the Pledge of Allegiance at meetings, Mr. Sinclair blurts out "Hooah!" and uses the term, like most soldiers, to mean anything, usually a synonym for "yes," "right on" or "I agree." Things as drab as a change in zoning can merit a Hooah!, if he deems it worthy.

And the order, precision and sense of personal accountability of the military still holds sway in his civilian life, Mr. Sinclair said.

He shows up for every meeting early. He is well-versed on the day's topic (even if he decides to digress from it as business passes). He is the first to mention when things are behind schedule or running too long. He's the first to interject and the first to question, often loudly and aggressively.

"He wants responses now and that's not always possible," Ms. Louder said.

And he has an uncanny ability to get under people's skin.

For example, before a Greater Crofton Council meeting in June, what appeared to be a jovial conversation with Greg Welker, an engineer with the State Highway Administration, turned into a confrontation.

After Mr. Welker made reference to Mr. Sinclair's attire - that day an exotic ensemble that included plaid shorts ("Harry, where's the rest of your pants," the engineer said) - it went downhill from there.

Mr. Sinclair suggested what he believed to be the best solution to a traffic problem: a trip to Home Depot for some yellow paint and rollers to restripe the road.

Mr. Welker, whom Mr. Sinclair calls "an overall good guy," was unimpressed and unresponsive.

Ears in the room perked up, as if eavesdropping on a couple's quarrel in a restaurant without trying to be too obvious about it.

"You're pretending that I'm annoying you," Mr. Sinclair said.

"I'm not pretending. Harry, I'm going to ask your compatriots to get you under control or else I'm going to leave," Mr. Welker said.

Mr. Sinclair laughed, but quickly stopped and took his seat.

And then for once, there was an awkward silence in a crowd that included Harry Sinclair.

And sometimes, but not always, he really tries to keep things quiet.

"I go with this in my brain: I really don't want to have get up and say anything. Because if I do, it's just going to reinforce the perception of people that I'm a pain in the ass," he said.

Raising a stink

Mr. Sinclair was born in Hattiesburg, Miss., where he lived for just a few months.

He grew-up in Gambrills (he pronounces it "GAM-ber-ells") on land that eventually became the median strip for busy Route 3, an arrangement that made life as precarious as an eagle laying eggs in a nest on the side of a cliff; one bad move and something is going to break.

"We couldn't have a bike, and we lost a couple of puppies," said Mr. Sinclair, who has also suggested that heavy traffic on the road was part of a greater conspiracy to see him hit by a truck.

He attended Millersville Elementary and Arundel (he says "aye-RUN-day-l") High School before going to the community college and enrolling at the University of Maryland College Park.

He qualified to become a Navy aviator but decided against joining.

"I was already in college for six years," he said.

While he turned down the Navy, Uncle Sam would put him in the Army. He attended Officer Candidate School and became an airborne infantryman and an Army Ranger - he proudly wears a pin from the elite fighting force on his lapel.

He married his wife, Janine, and was soon sent to South Korea. After he was promoted to captain, he went to Seoul and his wife joined him overseas where they had a daughter, Heather.

He had a varied career in the military, spending 28 years in the regular Army and Maryland National Guard, retiring as a lieutenant colonel. Today he works in real estate and his business cards read "Harry $inclair, Jr."

Despite his civilian status, Harry's military mindset is always apparent. He admires late President Dwight D. Eisenhower, an Army man himself, and he frequently invokes him in discussions about transportation. But he doesn't emulate him, preferring the likes of two of the military's brassiest, larger-than-life characters.

"I'm more like Patton or MacArthur. But you know the other part of it, they were dyslexic, and so am I and so was Einstein," he said.

He would eventually make Odenton (he says "OWE-den-tin") his home in September 1975. It was around then, at the urging of his wife, that he became involved in local civic life.

And he never held, or stopped to look back. He said he has no other hobbies and delights in raising a stink.

"I harass people," he said. "It's the only thing I ever did well."

But it's his way of holding people accountable, sticking them to the rules and employing a quick sense of what's fair is what keeps him involved in, well, everything, he said.

"Hey, we have a wonderful county with a lot of things that can be derailed or wrecked without proper oversight," he said.