F'ing Donny

Donny was my uncle. My mother's side.  Very strange dude. In my earliest memories, he was an insane story-teller. I was perhaps 7 years old when he arrived at our house in Gallup; and he, my mother, and I left for what was a long drive to Albuquerque. My father was somewhere, but not there.

Uncle Don took it upon himself to entertain me, given that car radios did not work much in those days and that we had 3 or 4 hours of drive ahead of us. Somehow, he roped me into the world of Roger. I fell for it and asked who Roger was, and he began spinning a tale about a fellow who had a pointy head-- no hair up there. He did have hair fringe-- front, back and over the ears. No hair on his pointy top. He was short--maybe only 5 feet tall. Roger also had a speech impediment. Donny delighted in talking like Roger. Like Donny, Roger's last name was Nylund. Roger, of course, said "Hewwo, ny mame id Roner Nynan." This was huge for a kid my age. I fell out completely, breathlessly, with stomach cramps because I was laughing so hard. Like most 7 year old kids,  I was not sensitive to the conditions of others. As I was rolling around on the floor of the backseat (no seatbelts in those days), I asked my mother why she had never told me about Roger, but she never really answered. Some kind of remark about how Roger was just a special friend of Don's.

The miles rolled by, and I learned how Roger tried to eat an ice cream cone but smacked himself in the forehead with it. More hilarity as Donny mimicked how Roger licked the ice cream as it melted down his face and cheeks. I heard about the time that Roger managed, despite his speech problem, and after a long dialogue with a waitress,  to order a " Moot Meer Fnote" and then pour it in his lap.  After a few hours, Uncle Don's Roger stories dried up, but kids that age are awfully annoying. He switched into stories about real members of the family, which were equally hilarious but somehow a little scary. 

Did I forget to mention? Donny was a Catholic Franciscan Priest.

Not long after planting Roger in my brain,  he was off to Paraguay to manage some parish in the jungle. He was already fluent in Spanish, so whoever was in charge figured that he could hold his own. Most of his parishoners, however, were native Guarani, and lots of them didn't speak Spanish. He became fluent in Guarani in a few weeks, and he even menaced the local Cura who invoked against the Holy Roman Church. This was his first mistake, perhaps: The language gift was on record. He learned some other native dialects, met some unshady folks who dealt in stolen goods, bought a huge Macaw to be his guard-dog, and put in maybe five jungle years. 

He came back to Los Angeles, and the next time I saw him, he was in some LA hospital (actually a single bed in a double room) after a heart attack. Maybe I was 11 or 12. He looked awfully pale. He had the oxygen thing in his nose and a couple of IV drips going. His mood was good, despite the recent event. At some point during the visit, a nurse came in, and there were intro's all round. She told us that they were trying to figure out the problem, but were really not sure what was going on. The problem? It appears that, every morning since Donny was hospitalized, the empty bed in his room was ruffled, as if someone had slept there. All that Donny could tell them was that there was a short man named Roger, bald on top, fringe all round, who slept there. Unky Don had lots of hospital staff looking for a vagrant with a speech impediment and a small dog who was his constant companion. Roger's dog was named Roger, as well, and he apparently barked funny.

Time goes by. I didn't see him much during the in-betweens. Next time I am accurate about hanging with him, I was in my first year of college. I was at UW Madison in pre-med, but that was a doomed venture. I blame my sanity and The War. I flew to see my parents, now relocated to California, for the holidays, and we drove down to LA to see more family. My folks wound up leaving me with Donny at the parish in Compton, CA. They took off to have a vacation. No... no molestation from any of the priests that I met. And gangsters were just being born.

What there was, was plenty of weird behavior. I stayed in a guest room at the rectory, and I ate when the Maid served food. First night, we were dining--just the two of us-- when the doorbell rang. His words were " I hope it's not another fucking Mexican." Curiously, in 1969 Compton, it was. I could never see him in the same way again. Donny carried a version of the bad gene, and even as a priest, he let it out for a walk now and then. Either Thursday or Friday night that week, Donny informed me that we were going out to Malibu for an overnight... He and I and three other priests. I rode on the back of his Harley, and we met the three other priests on their Harleys at a double-wide on the beach near Point Mugu. We played poker and drank Bourbon. I was 18. I didn't pass out, and I didn't barf in the Pacific. Not a single priest touched me. They were very interested in hippie girls, however. Needed lots of detailed information.

The night before my parents re-appeared and hauled me back to the safety of the Bay Area, Donny and I got into one. He was talking about how he told fortunes and could see the future and how he could do all this great bullshit that had nothing to do with being a priest. At some point, I scoffed and baited him and dared him to tell my fortune. He went to a closet and retrieved a black, velvet bag. In the bag was his crystal ball, of course. He removed it, polished it, peered into it for about a minute, and said "You will never finish premed; you will never be a doctor. You will be a teacher and writer, and you will actually make money writing." I blew up. Had a real tantrum. I swore an oath that I would never be a high school English teacher. At least I was right about that one. I worry about the rest. All of it.

Saw him one more time during his tenure as a priest. My college girlfriend and I took a spring break during my senior year. It was my only, for real, college spring break, but there is no way to catch up now. We drove down to LA with an invitation from another uncle-- Don's younger brother Charles,  the baby of the family, and Chuck to only a few of us. In 1973, Chuck was outrageously gay and out. He died because of AIDS complications in first wave of AIDS deaths. He was my favorite uncle, perhaps because all the rest were so unpredictable. We had a great time with him.  I will always treasure that visit, but not the girlfriend. Chuck took us out to a restaurant on Sunset, where I had abalone. Best ever and nothing like that since. The day came, during the visit, when Chuck had some business, and Don was called to entertain us. When he arrived, we piled into my car, a 1972 AMC Gremlin (Fuck You Purple), and headed, with him at the wheel, for the Santa Monica pier area. Unc Don had recently been directed, by his Bishop, to dump his Harley and get a car. He figured that a nice little two-seat Porsche 914 was the car for him. When he hit 40 or 50 mph in first gear, I had to remind him that he was in my car--not his. This mostly pissed him off, but he did shift. On the way, he explained that we were going to visit my cousin Mike-- same Mikey from the Bad Gene story. Donny the priest explained that when Mikey came back from his 4 year absence in the Haight, his hair was down to his waist. Uncle Don found this so offensive that, in his words, he "put a curse" on him. Told him that if he didn't cut it off, it would ALL fall out. He laughed as he recalled (and Mike did not laugh when he confirmed) that a few days later, the hair began falling out in handfuls. It stopped when Mike went to an old fashioned barber and buzzed it down. I think I know how he did it, but both he and Mike are dead. All I have are one or two untestable hypotheses.

When we got to the pier, Don drove up very close to one of those horrible pier apartments that used to exist and probably still do. He hammered on the horn and got out of the car. He banged on the window of the apartment and screamed all sorts of outrageous gibberish and threats. "I know you are in there you little son-of-a-bitch! If you don't come out, I'm coming in." They didn't get along so well in those days, and I really wondered why we were doing this.  On the other hand, I was not in charge. Mikey never came out, and that was a good thing. If he was assaulted by our Unky Don in that state of mind, Mike might have hurt him badly if not worse. We left with Don in a huge sulking pout. I wonder how his mood would have changed if Mikey actually emerged from his shack. 

Not long after that incident in 1973, Don was done with the priesthood. He had been fooling around with a woman named Kathy, and the fooling got serious enough that they got married. I never actually met her, but what I know is interesting. They both had gifts for languages. Somehow their talents were noticed by the right people, and they were offered joint positions for an entity that Donny only referred to as "The Company." They moved to Washington, DC, where The Company kept headquarters, and I never saw him again, although the news kept coming in. My mother went to visit them; and by that time, Don and Kathy were living on some large farm-like setting outside of DC in Virginia. The Company must have paid well. She enjoyed the visit, but Uncle Don had a sideline business breeding wolves with German Shepards. The resulting guard dogs were bought as soon as they were bred, but my mother, usually a sucker for dogs, didn't like them.  She said they were beautiful, but they were always sneaking behind you and lurking there. 

Next big news I remember was that Don and Kathy got their first overseas assignment for The Company. Beruit Lebanon in 1983! Can you imagine? Lots of family were proud. I wasn't sure what to think. "I hope it's not another fucking Lebanese?" Yes, they were both fluent in Lebanese before they took the trip. 

And then there was the bombing of the US Embassy in Beruit. Somehow, both Donny and Kathy were in the embassy building when it blew. Apparently, The Company was doing bidness with the Embassy. They both survived. In a telephone conversation with Uncle Don, he described how he was up on th 3rd or 4th floor (I don't remember) of this office building. He was heading out of an office area toward a door to a hallway, carrying a bunch of documents that he was supposed to destroy (for The Company). Just as he reached for the door knob, he dropped the files he was carrying. 

When he bent over to pick them up, the building blew up. He was tossed away from the door. No bruises, no harm, no foul. He stood up and opened the door to the hallway--just to see what had happened. There was no there there. The entire piece of the building beyond the door was gone. Kathy was somewhere down below. Alive.

The Company sent them back to DC for language training. Next was Moscow, where, because of  6 weeks training, they were fluent in Russian.  Moscow stressed them out. Back to DC to learn Swahili. Off to Chad, Africa. Too many gunshot attempts and back to Washington. Somewhere in the timeline, I lost track. Last I knew, they were living in Virginia, near DC. They were about to sell it all and move back to California. They had no pensions. They had no retirement accounts. They died, hungry and sick,  on the roadside on their ways home. 

Despite all, in his last days, Donny was a corporate fascist. He never confessed that The Company was the CIA. He was an ugly person who defended the Death Penalty and Gun Rights and championed any Bigotry you can spot-- including that against  his own brother's proud Gay Life. 

This is what happens when you work half of your life for Church and the rest for the CIA. Choices have consequences.

I love my Uncle Chuck forever. My demented mother still thinks I am him, whenever she thinks I am anybody. My other two maternal uncles were Warren, who stole money from us, and Don. I'm not sure who wins the "worst" prize. I'm leaning but haven't decided yet. Soon. One time when we bailed Warren out of jail, he brought his pet monkey to our house. That tilts the scale a bit.

Bud

I met Bud at my first, and last, job interview. He was my patron saint of psychology from that day until his death in 2007. I will never forget him, and there are lots who will never forgive him. One of a kind. No contenders.  The scary part is that I think he genuinely liked me and respected me. Some people tell me that this makes me a character of dubious distinction.

I had completed a presentation to my dissertation committee late July, 1977. I showed them the data and analyses, and all but one were seriously skeptical. As I was concluding the presentation, I saw that one of those in attendance was passing around a note... just like little kids in a 5th grade class---except that these were serious Full professors at The University of Michigan. When the "Kick Me" note finally made the rounds, one of the big guys passed it to me and recommended that I re-analyze my data according to the instructions on the note. If I knew then what I know now... "Any linear transformation of the data will yield the same results." ... I could have ended the trial then. Of course, any change in the script would have resulted in an entirely different play and I would not be writing this little story now. Who knows? 

My next 30 or so hours were spent at the computer center. In those days, nobody had PCs or laptops or anything like that. You went to the computer center on campus, found a machine, and did your work. My work took about 30 hours and hundreds of Fortran punch cards (Google it). Grad students today are spoiled punks.  

When I finished transforming my data, according to the instructions on the note-- and saw the same results because any linear transformation.... I staggered back to my apartment, drank a beer, and welcomed a coma. That was when the phone rang.  A woman identifying herself as the Social Sciences secretary at Hamline University asked if I could come for a job interview. I told her that I would call her back and resumed my coma. For reasons that I'll never really comprehend, when I woke up several hours later, I remembered the phone number. Two days later, I was on a flight to Saint Paul, with no clue whatsoever how they found me or what I would do when I got there

When I got off the plane, there were two guys waiting for me. One of them, who introduced himself as Bud, greeted me and told me that I had to be Matt Olson. I agreed that I had to be and shook hands with him and his colleague Jerry. Bud explained that my graduate advisor, one of the founders of Brooks Cole Publishing, was helping him develop a textbook when the man who had a  (my) one-year, temporary appointment in the department walked in and resigned. Given that this was the end of July and that classes would begin in the first week of September, Bud went into a slight panic. My grad advisor, who wanted nothing more than to get rid of his last graduate student and retire to Monterrey, calmed Bud down and assured him that he knew the perfect person for the job. Two birds, one stone. And that is why Bud and Jerry knew to look for a longhair with some turquoise around his neck as passengers came off the plane. He suggested that we stop for a snack before they drove me to the university and leave me for the night, and that seemed like a dandy idea.        

The bar where we snacked had two main rooms. One included strippers, but Bud thought they might be too distracting and that we would have better conversation in the other room, and we did. He asked if I could teach a section of General Psychology, a course on this, and a course on that. I lied and told him I'd be glad to do it. I had the training, mostly. It was likely that I was a little smarter than some of the students. And I could read faster. If nothing else, grad school helps you to learn to read fast. Sure, I'd be glad to teach all those classes. 

Once that was settled, we had a grand time. Some of it was actually spent talking about the small, private college called Hamline University and all the things I could expect from students and colleagues. Some of it was me dropping the names of the relatively high power faculty that had kicked my ass around for the previous 4 years. I knew there had to be a good reason for associating with those bastards, and here it was.

 A few drinks later, as we were leaving, Jerry leaned over and told me that, if he knew Bud, I had the job. Still, I'd have to go through the interview process the next day for the ritual of it. Plus, it was really too late to recruit anyone else for the position. The ritual was not a major problem. Have breakfast with students, some of whom were pissed that I was replacing one of their familiar faces. I still have a deep friendship with the former student who rescued me from that snake pit. Sit for interviews with a couple of committees, both of which were sparsely populated because it was summer. Go out to eat with other faculty so that they could be assured that I didn't eat with my paws and lick my plate. And then a return trip to the airport, during which Bud assured me that I had the job because he didn't give a damn about what the committees thought. And there it was.

Marce was not exactly delighted when I told her that I had a job offer in Saint Paul, Minnesota. When she agreed to stay on this ride with me, at least in the short run, I agreed that I would not take jobs in Mississippi, Alabama, Texas, Tennessee, or Alaska. When I told her about Saint Paul, she said simply "I should have thought more carefully about the list." I reminded her about the arts scene in the Twin Cities, the progressive reputation of Minnesota, and the fact that this was a one-year, temporary appointment. She agreed to come along. 

When we moved to Minnesota, we managed to find a place to rent--in this case, the lower half of a house about 5 miles from campus. Both bicycle distance and, when winter set in, easy public transportation from the campus. I kicked dissertation writing into high gear, selected a few textbooks for the courses I was assigned. And work began.   

Marce found out about the Minneapolis Institute of Arts and managed to find a job there. I thought a professor's salary was supposed to be higher, but no. Together, we would be able to pool our funds and make it.

By the time the semester started, I was ready. The first morning I arrived for classes, I walked up the sidewalk leading to our building, eager to begin the semester. Our offices were and are on the first floor, and the sidewalk passes by them. The buildings crew was not so efficient or professional in those days, and as I walked by Bud's office, I noticed something a little ... well...different. In the grime on the inside of the window, written backwards from the inside so that passersby on the sidewalk could read it clearly, was "Chicago + 3." That was it. I didn't think much of it, even that night when I watched the Chicago Bears play some opponent or other on Monday Night Football. The Bears won by a healthy margin, and it all became a little more clear the next morning when a procession of faculty members "dropped in" to say hi to Bud and pay their losses. Later that morning, he came to our offices and called for a quick meeting out in the common area. Once assembled he checked our teaching schedules and announced that we were going to lunch, and off we went. Most Mondays had the betting line in the window smudge; most Tuesdays included lunch with Bud, all paid for by the Bears, the Packers, the 49ers ... I once asked him if, as a native of Chicago,  the Bears were his favorite team. His response: "I don't follow football."

Those first years revealed that Bud was an avid gambler. No, he wasn't a fan of football, baseball, basketball or Olympic sport. On the other hand, if there was a bet to be made, he was keenly tuned in to the event. And he appeared to win at this craft. He and my other colleague, Jerry, also participated in a sport called "penny stocks."  I don't know if such things exist today, but there used to be initial public offerings of stocks that sold for a penny or a nickel a share. Bud, who had extra money because of his gambling and textbooks, and Jerry, who had a private clinical practice on the side, would each toss $500 in a pool and buy "penny stocks" every month. Sometimes they lost their money; but it only took one or two successful stocks --St Judes, Sears, etc-- to make the whole thing work. They both retired in comfort. I, on the other hand, was making about $1,000 each month. I knew that the penny stock game was out of my league, and I'm sure Marce would have agreed. Bud and Jerry once convinced the other new faculty member, paid about the same as me, that he should play penny stocks. He did, and it was a bad month. They lost all their money. My new colleague went into such a funk that Bud and Jerry wrote him a check for $500. He never played again, and I felt wise.

As his gambling hobby grew, Bud began taking frequent trips to Las Vegas, and when his retirement rolled around, he bought a condo on the northwest end of town. Part of his interest was gambling, of course, but his condo was right on the fairway of the second or third hole of the golf course that came with this gated, condo community. Bud loved golf, which he had taken up only a couple of years earlier, and he was frighteningly good at it. Within days after moving in, he went to the pro-shop to inquire about the course. He asked what it cost to play, and the pro told him that it was $50. Bud remarked that $50 was a really affordable annual fee. When the pro corrected him,pointing out that it was $50 a round, Bud's golf days ended as abruptly as they began. He would sit out on his patio and wait for golf balls to land nearby. The golfers attached to those balls were out of sight, perhaps 100 yards or more away. Bud found it amusing to scurry out on the course and steal the balls. When the golfers finally arrived, looking here and there for the balls that ought to be around there somewhere, they would ask. He, of course, denied ever seeing them. Anybody who ever visited Bud in Vegas went home with a couple dozen golf balls.  

By that time, he had brought me on as a writing partner on two of his textbooks, and he summoned me to Vegas about twice a year so that we could work on our writing projects. My first visit was revealing. We worked all day long drafting sections of text, and at the end of the day, he suggested we, including his girlfriend,  go out to a nearby casino. I explained that I wasn't much of a gambler and wasn't particularly interested, but he insisted. "When you live here you never go out to casinos. The only time I get to go is when visitors come to town." Somehow this made sense to me, and I agreed to go out and play. He was disappointed that I only brought 3 or 4 rolls of nickels to play the nickel - slots, but off we went. 

We went out to the casino nearest his home. As you walk into this place, there is a cashier's cage where you can exchange money for chips or vice versa. The cashier looked up and hollered "Hi Bud." Bud walked on as if he hadn't heard the greeting. Twenty feet or so later, we passed by a Blackjack table. The dealer looked up "How you doing Bud?"  And once again Bud, who only went to casinos when friends came to town, walked on. Bud led his girlfriend to these horrible Keno machines, and asked her to show me how to play. He wandered off to do his own thing. 

I have tried to forget the damn Keno. You put your money in the machine, pick a few numbers between 1 and 80. If I recall, you get 5 or 6 picks.  The machine randomly selects perhaps 20 numbers between 1 and 80. If you match numbers with the machine, you win. If all of your numbers match, the payoff is pretty large (for a nickel game). It sounds like an easy one to win, but the house always has the edge. Bud's girlfriend, also his savant editor, kept picking the same 5 numbers--over and over again. I finally pointed out that she hadn't won a thing yet. Why not change it up?  "Oh no!  These are my lucky numbers. I always win with these numbers."  After watching her lose for about 15 more minutes, I wandered off to find some nickel poker machines.

Perhaps an hour later, Bud showed up with a bucket full of quarters that he won, and we went off to find the girlfriend. By that time, she had lost more than $40 in nickels playing her magic lucky numbers. Out of nowhere, a waitress appeared with a bottle of Andeker beer on a little tray and said "Here's your beer, Bud."  He looked surprised and asked aloud where it came from. She said "After all Bud, it is 11 o'clock."  

When he finally left Vegas, Bud had to clear up three lines of credit at different casinos. That debt plus the discovery of a body in the trunk of a car in his neighborhood convinced him that it was time to go.  He put $450,000 in cash in a suitcase and headed for Bellingham, Washington. Bellingham is a lovely place on Puget Sound where his youngest son lived. Bud had 7 kids in all. He had some contact with his eldest son and had a very positive relationship with the youngest in Bellingham. The others basically ignored him and never communicated.

Back in the 1970s, Bud noticed that Radical (Skinnerian) Behaviorism was not represented in the department, so he basically became B. F. Skinner. He wrote a book called "How to Shape Your Child's Personality," invoking every behavioristic principle on the table. For example, birthday presents and parties are foolish, non-contingent reinforcement. No reason you should get a present just because you are there on your birthday; if anything, your mother should get a present. So, no more birthday celebrations in Bud's family. Same for Christmas, Easter, whatever. Halloween was viewed as an awful event where children are reinforced for begging at a stranger's doorstep. Bud had no problem making fun of people who celebrated these events, and of course his kids became the neighborhood misfits and outcasts. Most of his kids and his wife resented this transformation-- all except the youngest who was too little to be aware of what was going on. Too bad they didn't hang in there until the 80's when Bud noticed that Humanistic Psychology was not represented in the department. He left Skinner behind and morphed into Carl Rogers. Fascinating 180-degree transformation. 

Once in Bellingham, Bud located some premium condos right on Puget Sound. He just went door-to-door, introducing himself to the occupants. He would open up the suitcase and show them the $450K and offer to buy their condo. Strangely, it worked, and he wound up with a beautiful place with a panoramic view of Puget Sound. Once moved in, he was out one morning and encountered three neighbors. They did the introductions all round, and one of them asked how he liked the small condo village. Bud said he liked it just fine,  but he wondered "What kind of asshole has to have a huge flagpole right outside the door?"  The three neighbors, one of whom was a very proud asshole with his patriotic flagpole, never spoke to him again

At about that time, Marce and I were learning to sail a little 17-foot Daysailor. I was talking to Bud about it, and he told me of his plans to buy a 28--30 foot sailboat and anchor it in the Sound. I expressed my surprise. Told him that I didn't know he was a sailor. He told me that, of course, he was not. Had no interest at all in sailing. He just wanted the boat as a site where he could have parties. He went so far as to make an appointment to visit a sailboat that was for sale. Once on board, he noticed several used condoms casually tossed here and there, and that was it. No more boat interests whatsoever.

Bud had a strange relationship with modern medicine. His grandfather was a physician, and Bud dedicated one of the books to him. Apparently, it was his grandfather who inspired him to stay in school. Makes a nice story, but Bud disliked physicians and didn't see them often.  One evening in Las Vegas, he started to have severe abdominal pains. Rather than call an ambulance, he just stayed home and drank Pepto Bismol.  After his appendix burst, he was found unconscious in his condo. His story is that one of the sororities at University of Nevada, Las Vegas,  offered to come to your place, get topless, and clean. He claimed, at least to me, that it was the topless sorority sisters who found him. Maybe so. 

He was in the hospital for almost two weeks, lost about 80 pounds, and was finally discharged. Probably went out to the casino as soon as he was mobile. One might learn from such an experience, but no. While in his Puget Sound home, he began to experience chest pain and pressure. More Pepto Bismol.  This time it was his son who found him unconscious. About 2 AM, one July 2007 Sunday morning, my phone rang. It was his eldest son, explaining that Bud had a massive heart attack and was on life support at the Bellingham hospital. He knew Bud's wishes, and they were disconnecting the machines later that day. He would call me when it was over.

Next day passed, but there was no phone call. Of course, they were grieving and would contact me soon. Tuesday went by. No phone. On Wednesday, I did a computer search and confirmed that there was only one hospital in Bellingham. I called and lied that I wanted to send flowers to a patient there, but needed to know how to direct them. The receptionist asked who the patient was, and when I told her she said "Oh, don't send them here. We are discharging him today. " 

I waited a day and called him at his condo, and there he was. As big Bud as ever. I asked how he was doing, and he said "I remembered the joke!"

Bud had a reputation for butchering jokes. You could tell him the one about discovering Bugs Bunny in the refrigerator and Bugs says "This is a Westinghouse, right? We'll, I'm westing!"  Bud would retell it to his friends at lunch. He would start laughing before even choking the joke out "This guy discovers Daffy Duck in the refrigerator and Daffy says "Frigidaire!" He would cackle as his lunch companions looked on helplessly. We tried to teach him the joke about how to circumcise a whale-- send down four skin (foreskin) divers.  Pretty simple pun, right? I was at lunch with the gang when he started coughing and wiping his eyes. He asked me if he could tell the whale joke, and I couldn't wait: "How do you circumcise a whale?   Scuba Divers!!'  And down he went laughing so hard he could barely breathe. It was not unusual, on days he went out with his pals for lunch, to hear a knock on my office door in the early afternoon. All the lunch companions were there. "Please tell the joke about the alligator."  or "Tell the one about the fertilizer salesman."  Once they heard the real thing, we would sit howling as they recounted how Bud slaughtered the joke beyond all recognition. One of the football coaches and I made it our mission to teach Bud one joke, just one, that he could get right. That joke will not appear here because it is so foul. Nonetheless, he learned it and it became his favorite. 

So in my post-heart attack, telephone conversation, he told me that he remembered the joke. The context was this: He was unconscious in the life-support room. For whatever reason, he remembered the joke and woke up laughing. When he really became aware of where he was, he began removing tubes, IV lines, those little monitor clips-- everything. He became so damn obnoxious that they decided to discharge him. He told me that a nurse was at his condo, checking up on him; and as soon as the nurse got out of there, he would tell me what his 36 year-old girlfriend did to cause the heart attack. I never got to talk with him again, but I was curious. Bud was 72. Two, maybe three weeks later, he called his eldest and youngest sons together and said it was time. And it was.

Are we a good dad?

A number of recent events in the news have made me question my role as a dad. My daughter, Mira,  is now an adult, married to a wonderful man, starting her own business, and otherwise thriving. Like all of us, she has anxious days, struggles with stress, and gets walloped by unexpected events. When you see someone that talented and motivated and disciplined, you have to wonder if you helped shape her; and you have to wonder where you screwed up. The recent news events in question have to do, of course, with the problem of corporal punishment. Is it OK to beat on your child? Does it do any good? What could be wrong with a little, old-fashioned, Biblical thumping? I could go on listening forever to professional athletes reminisce about how they were abused and how it helped make them the sociopaths that they are and how they are passing that great tradition on to their kids. 

Here's the truth. We "spanked" my daughter 5 times in her life. Never used a tool for the job. Always with the flat of a hand. The only time her Mom hit was her was to knock a tube of potentially toxic oil paint out of her mouth. Seems like it could have been a good idea.  My first attempt at spanking came when she was about 4 or so. She was determined to disembowel all of her stuffed toys... why, I am not sure. First I asked her to stop. Next I told her to stop. Next I warned her that she would receive her first spanking with 3, count them, 3 swats if she kept emptying her toys of their viscera. When I finally pushed this preposterous ritual to conclusion and made her bend over my lap, I was laughing so hard that the swats on her behind were meaningless. She knew it; and so did I. 

The episode in the snow was her second spanking. We had a big snowfall in the great White North, and I had to go out to shovel the sidewalk. The streets had been plowed, so there was a bit of traffic on our busy street in South Minneapolis. Mira wanted to come out and "help" me shovel. So be it. Bundle her up in a paralyzing snowsuit, and out we go. I asked her to stay close and, above all, to stay out of the street. She grinned and nodded and waited for me to let my guard down. As soon as I started shoveling, she was headed out into the street. I grabbed her and reminded her about the street problem. As soon as I was back on the shovel, she was headed out to the street again. This time, I turned her toward the sidewalk and gave her a slap on her heavily padded rear end with a heavily gloved winter hand. This, of course, accelerated her toward the safety of the sidewalk. Even better, she whirled around to see where this slap on the butt came from. I whirled dramatically with her. "What just happened? Did you feel that?" She did not venture out onto that dangerous street with its butt slaps again.

There were other corporal moments, but they all had the same comical quality. One evening, when she was in the psychosis of 13 and 14 year-old girls, she was really razzing on me about money. Why didn't I make more so that she could have more? Indeed. I threw a spoon (with peanut butter) at her. She remembers this differently. She still thinks I threw a knife at her. I know that I did not. And there's no way to change her memory of that event. I will always be sorry. Important part was that I missed by a foot. And I was the one who had to clean up the peanut butter.

Onward. The question seems to be "Where did I learn to be a dad?" The obvious answer is that I learned from my own father, and he learned from his, and on and on. Usually, there are no textbooks or classes for this, and television is not the place to learn. Make up your own examples here.

My father was the child of Norwegian immigrants. His father had changed his name at least 3 times to get into the United States around 1900. No explanation for why. I suspect he was running from somebody in the old country and needed to hide. What I knew about my father's childhood was not really pretty. His mother, all 4'10" of her, was the primary family disciplinarian. She did not spank any of the 6 children on the farm. She punched. She punched right in the nose, and she knocked her kids down and out. Once, upon learning to fear this little woman, I made some remark or other about how mean or sad or awful that was. My father's comment was something like "You would rather have her punch you in the face than have grandpa get mad." He and all his siblings had a deep, horrible fear of their father.

When he was in sixth grade or junior high, my dad joined the school choir. If I remember correctly, he also sang in the church choir. He had a love for classical music, and would often turn the family radio (no TV or internet in those days) to a station that played classical music. For these unmanly transgressions, his father referred to him as "The Sissy." "Tell The Sissy to shovel snow." or "Tell The Sissy to pass the potatoes. " The result was predictable. My father grew up to be a vicious son-of-a-bitch. 

I am the only person that I know-- for a fact-- who was ever punished by my father's father--my grandfather. I was about 10 years old for that visit to the grandparents. By that time, they had a television, but in those days, TVs were a chore. The picture would sometimes be shifted right or left of center. There was a little dial or knob for "Horizontal Hold," and one turned it to center the picture. Sometimes, the picture would flip up or down, and we had to use the "Vertical Hold" to make it stop. 

My grandfather was in his upper 80s at the time. He would get up in the morning, have a glass of sweet wine, eat breakfast, put a chew of tobacco in his cheek, walk to the living room with his cane, and sit down with his television. He would sit there for about 3 hours. He did not move, nor did he spit tobacco juice. On the morning in question, the Vertical Hold was not behaving, and the picture on the screen was flipping endlessly upward. It was a serious headache. I got up, told him I would fix it, and kneeled down in front of his television. He said clearly "Don't touch it." I started to say "I'm just..." and all of a sudden, he was beating  the hell out of me with his cane. No idea how he got across the room that fast. Later when I told my parents what had happened, my dad said "Told you." Lots of sympathy there. My grandfather never mentioned it. Too bad he died before he could apologize. I'm sure it was on his bucket-list.

My father, as referenced above, was vicious. He hit me with whatever was handy-- usually too much trouble for the old "take-off-the-belt" ritual. I got clobbered with a length of rope, a shovel, and other random tools. I received no orders to go and cut a switch for him. He relished the thrill of the hitting occasion. Waiting for me to choose his weapon would never do. Now is the time for hitting.  On one fine day, we were driving from Holbrook to Winslow on old Highway 66. I was in the back seat of the car; my dad was driving, and my mother was the front passenger. I must have said something... no idea what it was. The old man held onto the steering wheel with his left hand and took a swing at me with his right. He missed, and I made the mistake of laughing out loud. He pulled off the road and stopped to make sure he didn't miss again. Great fun.  And I was still laughing when he beat hell out of me. We can spare other specifics. You may get the idea from this little snapshot. 

Am we a bad dad because, between the two of us, we spanked our daughter 4 or 5 times? I might be the wrong person to ask, but I say No. Pretty damn good given how I learned to be a dad. Sissy. 

How to be a Professor

On multiple occasions, students asked me to recount how I became a psychology professor. It usually happened once a year, due to projects that other professors assigned to first year students. Some of the visits were perfunctory: "What degree do you need to be you?"  Others put out the bait: "What inspired you to be a psychologist?" The students who asked that one were glancing at the door, fumbling with cell-phones, or otherwise tuning out long before the answer was complete. Perhaps what follows will save me and them trouble in the future. I never imagined the possible benefits that this website might bestow. Here you go:

I was initially inspired to become a psychologist by a girl I knew in Holbrook, Arizona in the 60's, between 5th and 8th grade. Her name was Liz. I say no more, because now she is, I’m told, a retired City Attorney in a southern Arizona city. I'm sure she doesn't want any part of this. Between late 6th grade and end of 8th, when I moved from Arizona, forever, I had a hard crush on Liz. Problem was that she loved my best friend--really a best friend until his death in 1992. They were always in a major fight, and she would call me late at night for advice and support. Being the upstanding and faithful and honorable person I was, I always took those occasions to convince her that I should be her boyfriend, and that these fights were only the beginning of an awful relationship with him. Good Guy. I can be your best friend too. 

The problem was that she always laughed at this stuff. As I was opening up my heart, she told me how my humor helped her think better. Thanked me for helping her get things straightened out. And our conversations always ended with "You should be a psychologist. I can talk to you about anything. You are just like a brother."  It took me many years to get that "brother" comment. I had no chance and I never knew it, which must happen often as testosterone makes adolescent boys insane. Nonetheless, there was the seed. I should be a psychologist. I wasn't quite sure what it was, but what the hell? 

When my 9th grade year rolled around, Arizona was behind and I was home in New Mexico. This time it was Albuquerque. My favorite class that first semester was Civics, which I understand is not taught much these days. Then again, who cares how government is supposed to work when we have Fox News? I think the teacher was Mrs Kline. I could be wrong... I had several teachers named Kline, Klein, or Cline early on. The only thing I'm sure about is that their first names weren't Mrs.. At one point during the class, we had a "Career Unit" and we were all going to complete a questionnaire called an "Interest Inventory."

Before we began the exercise, the teacher went around the room and asked what we thought we would be when we were out of school and had jobs. My turn was coming.... psychologist, psychologist... what the hell did it mean? How could I explain it.? Everyone else had Teacher, Doctor, Nurse, Carpenter, Cop.... mostly male jobs in those days, of course. It was 1964.

I have believed in divine intervention since that day. My turn was 3 away. The guy 3 ahead announced "Fireman!" and most of his friends laughed because that was his intention. Alby S. was about 4'8'' tall. He didn't evoke images of fire-hose hauling and chopping through doors and carrying folks down a ladder.  John M,, 2 seats ahead, who was a great guy to hang with and smoke cigarettes, announced proudly "I wanna be a Cowboy!" Most of the class, including the teacher, fell out. I crossed my fingers. Next guy was Jim L., who I sorta knew from back in Gallup as little kids. Jim's stepdad owned a bar, so we always had a great source of stolen booze. Jim was popular.  His time came. She asked what he wanted to do for his job. He actually stood up, presented himself with a slight, comical bow, and said proudly "I want to be a Pimp." End of exercise. I didn’t have to mention psychologist or even try to explain what one of them might do. Safe for now. I was always grateful to Jim L.. First guy I knew who caught the Clap. Man, he made me laugh.

Finally, the class settled down and Mrs. Cline Klein distributed the questionnaire. We all set out to do well, as 9th graders always do. About 10 questions into this multiple-choice nonsense, I realized it was nonsense. (And I still think so!!) I began to answer every item with the most absurd possibility or the answer I thought was most humorous--and you know the quality of 9th grade humor. I had the most (school) fun in 9th grade that day, and I delighted in handing in my first official psychological inventory--the first as far as I knew. 

A couple of weeks later, the results came back. Every student's result showed 3 possible careers. Sometimes one career dominated the others; sometimes three occupations were about the same. On my results, Teacher was low, but it was there. Sociologist was next, still low, and who the hell in 9th grade knows what Sociology is? Dominating, almost 4:1 over everything? You got it: Psychologist. This is the return for entertaining myself and attempting to subvert a process. I can see this pattern throughout my life.

The next assignment for the class, of course, was to contact, call, write, or annoy (there was no email) a person who did what we were supposed to do.  I first talked to my parents, who knew about counseling psychologists—family therapists and the like. No idea beyond that. They didn’t know any, and of course they distrusted the profession. Next step, why not call the University of New Mexico psychology department? There must be a few of them there.

I called the University psych department and talked to a nice lady who listened to my story. She put me on hold, and then told me that she was transferring my call to the head of the department, Frank Logan. For those of you who don't know-- and I didn't until I was in grad school-- Frank Logan was a very influential neo behaviorist-- probably best described as being in the Hullian rather than Skinnerian tradition. If that makes no sense to you, no worries. Anyway, here is this 13 year old kid asking what psychologists do and then listening for more than an hour while Logan described Pavlov's research (remember the drooling dogs), the behavioristic era in American psychology, and several of his own experiments with rats. I really had no clue what the hell he was talking about, but I took great notes and wrote an "A" paper. Unfortunately, my fire for being a psychologist was damped. Rats? Learning Theory? 

About a year later, now in Wisconsin and distanced from my Liz lust, my mother set me straight. I didn't want to be a psychologist. I wanted to have a career where I helped people. I wanted to be a Psychiatrist!  Aha!  Lay down on the couch, tell me about your Mother! Tell me your most lurid dream!!  I can do this. And so began three years of high school targeted at pre-medical undergrad and eventual med school. No pressure there. 

I managed to get out OK... eventually graduated 6th in a class of 686. My folks were disappointed, however. Problem was that I had become political. I joined the NAACP Youth Council in Milwaukee in 1965 or so, trained in non-violent resistance, marched for open housing, sucked down more tear gas than I want to remember, and got whacked in the head by a fat, Milwaukee pig-cop. By the time college came, that whack in the head had re-directed me. I had a nominal books & fees scholarship to University of Wisconsin and headed to Madison. Knew something might be askew when I skipped the pre-med advising session and wound up handing out SDS anti-war pamphlets instead. I was on strike by mid-November and eagerly dropped out of college the following May. 

When I went back to college a year later, it was at University of California, Davis, and I was basically on my own. My disappointed folks were not tuned to the notion of helping with tuition and the like. I took all courses that I couldn’t take in that pre-med haze. General Psych, Sociology of Black Americans, and The American Political Process were my first three classes, and I earned an A, a B+, and a C, respectively. Psychology major, here we come. Given that psychiatry was out, I set my sites on becoming a Clinical Psychologist. You can counsel and help and do "therapy" but no MD and no writing prescriptions. Seemed fine. 

Almost 2 years later, I got a chance to practice being a Clinical Psychologist. It was actually a class assignment: Find a friend, do 5 sessions, and write it up like a case study. Easy. My friend Kathy seemed eager to help me with the assignment. Only minutes into our first "hour," she told me how her brother, uncle, and grandfather raped her repeatedly when she was 6; how she was so ugly as a child that boys would chase her down just to beat her up; and how her first menstrual period lasted 6 months. The next sessions only got worse. Worse. I was sure that, if this was my job, I would go home and hang myself. The professor actually read my paper aloud to the class-- laughing at the parts that were the most awful. In the end, he announced that the assignment wasn't a good idea, after all, and that he would never do it again. He said that I had to get my friend Kathy into real therapy. I suggested in class and out loud, that he could deal with that, given that it was his goddam assignment, and he laughed some more.

I was pretty depressed. First I screwed up pre-med--actually didn't even give it a chance. And now this. I had built up to being a Clinician, but it was not for me. Next quarter, I took some courses just to stay in school, but I was unsure about what might be next. One class I was taking was “Experimental Social Psychology” from the great Al Harrison. Class was about 250 people, and Al was eccentric as hell. He always had a cigarette in the lower-right corner of his mouth; and as he lectured, the ash would get longer and longer until it finally dropped on his lecture notes--when he would suddenly notice his cigarette like it sneaked in there and surprised him. The material was about racism, group formation, prejudice, and conformity. He littered his lectures with sly jokes and jabs-- at least I thought so. Often, in the class of 250, there was only one asshole laughing out loud. Al would look up and acknowledge me, cause he knew he was funny as hell.  He deserved the appreciation. One day, it just struck me like a bolt of lightning. Al was a PSYCHOLOGIST! He didn't have to deal with clients who would tell him horrible stories that he had to carry home and try to forget. The weight of another person's mental health did not burden him. He taught. Important stuff. He changed my life, for sure. And that was it. I knew I wanted to be a professor who taught undergrads important and even uncomfortable stuff.

I followed Al back to his office that day. He noticed that I was following and tried to speed up a bit. I'm sure he thought I was a mugger or some other stalker type. I was tenacious and made it back to his office right behind him. I remember him scooting into his office and finding that safe-space behind his desk. Kinda nervous, he asked me "Is there something I can do for you?" I told him "I want to do what you do."  After I clarified what I was up to, he let out a sigh of relief, and made a plan. The plan was not kind or easy. First, as a junior, I had to take and pass his doctoral seminar in Experimental Social Psychology. Next quarter, I had to take Ed Turner's doctoral statistics seminar in Analysis of Variance. And of course, I had to get my senior project up and running. 

When it came time to apply to grad school, I asked Al what he thought, and he suggested a couple of schools. He emphasized repeatedly that I should apply to Michigan. I conceded, although I secretly hoped I was done with the midwest and snow and all of that.

All of my applications (paper in those days) were about the same. Identifying info on top, and then a line that asked "For which area(s) are you applying?"  Areas --PLURAL. Two spaces to fill in. My choice, cause of Al, although I never did consult with him, was to write “Experimental/Social” in the two blanks. Made sense to me. Took his class and his seminar, both called “Experimental Social Psychology.” Had a couple of thick texts by the same name.

My first rejection came back almost as soon as I dropped the application in the mail. Colorado was not funding its program for the upcoming year. Oh well,  I could have enjoyed Boulder. Next 3 rejections came pretty quickly too. Santa Barbara, Iowa (Iowa?), and New Mexico all rejected me with a line like this: "You don't have the prerequisite courses for our program." WTF!! I had multiple stats and social psy and research courses all over the place. I Aced two doctoral seminars as an undergrad. How could I miss?  Near end of April, when I was starting to think about masters programs at Humbolt or Sonoma or San Francisco, my letter from Michigan arrived. The previous nasty rejections were one-page memos. From the heft of the envelope, I could tell that my Michigan letter was at least 2 pages... maybe more. Not only were these bastards going to reject me, they were going into detail about my failures. I opened the letter.

"I'm happy to inform you that you will be accepted...on behalf of the Experimental Psychology Area Committee...." Strange letter, but I decided that it was a possibility. In my mind,  here was this special "Experimental" program for people who came close but didn't actually qualify to get into grad school. The program must do remedial work for a year or so and then help you get into a real grad program. I'd have to consider it.

Couple of days later, I was in Al's office for something or other-- probably just to bum a cigarette. He asked if I had heard from Michigan, and I said "Sort of."  He stared me down until I dug into my backpack and dug out the letter. He only started to look at it and said "Experimental!" I waited for him to continue… "How the hell did you get into Experimental?" I pointed to books on his desk with titles like "Experimental Social Psychology," and Al started to laugh. I asked if it was a practice program to get people ready for grad school, and then he laughed so hard he had to take his cigarette out of his mouth. Here is what he said: "You just got into the top-ranked Experimental Psychology program in the country, and you don't even know what Experimental Psychology is." He reminded me that I had classes from this prof or that, and I said yes I did but I hated those classes. He said "That's what Experimental Psych is all about." Uh oh. 

As a recent grad, I somehow landed two TA positions that last summer at UC Davis, and when those classes wrapped, I headed for Ann Arbor. Al told me to watch for a meeting for all new grad students. He told me that when the business was done, I should find Bob Zajonc (google it) and tell him about my application screw up. Bob was chair of the Social Psychology program and director of the Institute for Social Research-- a heavy hitter. Al said that Bob could simply sign a couple of forms and move me to Social Psychology asap.

I waited until the happy hour after the business meeting and found Zajonc. I did not kiss the hem of his gown or his ring. I told him my mis-application story, and he laughed so hard that he blew beer out of his nose. When he finally composed himself, he told me that he would NOT move me to the Social program. He promised me that if I stayed in Experimental for a year and still wanted out, he would transfer me to his program. He said he would honor the deal even if I flunked out of the Experimental zone. He said I'd be OK. 

As part of my Experimental Psych education, our small incoming class had to take a special, hellish course.... every day. Two hours M, W and F, but only one hour T and Th. There were 9 of us. One guy had worked for the CIA for the last 5 years. Another was recently out of Air Force Intelligence. There was a Japanese guy who had invented touch-tuning for Zenith television—  Scary smart. I was the only one in that group of 9 who actually wanted to teach college. They thought I was strange and their subsequent industrial salaries show that they were right. 

Our first 3 weeks were about Artificial Intelligence, about which I knew nothing. I was lost beyond words--had actually never even seen a computer until that semester. But I made it. Not smart but stubborn. About a month into it, Artificial Intelligence was done and we were off to other abstractions. Clyde Coombs came to the seminar to talk a little Utility Theory and math modeling, and damn damn damn. For the first time, I was the only one in the fucking room who got it, and I delighted in helping my friends get it. I knew then and there, that I would stay in Experimental, but I wound up spread all over the map. Math Psych from Clyde and Frank Yates, Motivation theory from Ed Walker and Jack Atkinson, and Psychobiology, the seed that became Neuroscience, from the best there ever were...  Valenstein, Butters, and Utall. I was hugely educated and absolutely unemployable.

Summer '77 was approaching. I was nearly done, and my advisor was ready to scrape off his final graduate student and retire. There were 3 jobs in the country that wanted someone sort of like me. One was at Yale, another at New Mexico, and a third at some southern university. My wife told me that she would come with me anywhere except to Alaska, Mississippi, Alabama, Texas, Tennessee , etc. SO, there were only two jobs out there. I called New Mexico to see if the job was still posted. They said no. So I applied to Yale. We stayed in touch for a couple of years, Yale always wanting to see copies of my publications. I kept throwing away their letters because I had no publications at all.

Late July of 77, I had been crunching data at the Michigan computer center for about 24 hours. I took a bus home, had a beer, and crashed. I was awakened by the telephone and a nice lady who wanted to know if I could come to someplace called Hamline University for an interview. I told her I would call her back, finished the beer, and took a long nap. When I woke up, I remembered the telephone number. Not sure how, but I did.  I made arrangements to visit Hamline University in Saint Paul, Minnesota. My wife said she would like to edit the "no go" list, but too late now.

What had happened was this: My grad advisor was one of the two founders of Brooks/Cole Publishing Company. He was at Hamline, helping the department chair develop a book. Some poor guy who had been offered a temporary Hamline teaching job for the next year walked in and quit because the salary was so low. As the Chair began to melt down, a the new semester only a month away, my advisor saw his window to retirement. He told the chair that he knew just the right person for the job and that he could get me there immediately. Before my flight, I asked my advisor how I should approach the interview-- you know-- some tips for success. He told me “Lie to them. Tell them yes, you can teach any of that stuff. You'll be fine."

So there you have it: a blueprint for becoming a professor. Count on your own failures, misunderstandings, errors—along with random events— to guide you. As you go, figure out what you don't want to do. If you carve those parts away, it gets a little easier. Worked like a charm for me and it will not fail you.