I met Dabber Jansen in 1979 on a trip to Arcata, California, to see my ex-girlfriend, who was his girlfriend at the time. He was at work driving a truck for Eureka Fisheries when I arrived, and …. turned out to be a self-styled radical intellectual, like me. Dabber was thirty. I was twenty-three. He and I stayed up long after my ex had gone to bed, drank all the liquor in the house, and discussed Planck’s constant,The Marriage of Figaro, and the influence of Joseph Campbell on the work of John Steinbeck. Fattened on the milk of the beatnik revolution and disenchanted with science, law, organized religion, journalism, politics, and the military, we both viewed Art as the last noble pursuit. About four that morning, Dabber dragged out his manual Royal typewriter and inserted a piece of paper into the roller, and, along with a few pickled poems, a friendship was born.
Complete essay available online at The Sun.
For reasons I don’t quite understand, I never fell for the romance of the offbeat intellectual anti-hero – the Jack Kerouacs and Hunter S. Thompsons. It all just seems very self-indulgent to me. Maybe my attitude is a combination of envy of those who understand everything so easily, coupled with a terror of finding myself on the street with nothing. How do people live, even in the short term, going from nothing to nothing, taking what comes, getting by on what’s to be had?
Ballantine and his friend Dabber show different routes through the seeming aimlessness through the lens of male friendship. That friendship hits a few bumps in the road, particularly on a trip to Mexico, but they patch things up later and find themselves reminiscing while their children play.
The title comes from an amusing scene: the mistaking of St. Francis for Junípero Serra. While one is universally acclaimed for his benevolence, humility and grace, to the point where admonishing a bird would be viewed as completely out of character, the other has a more complicated history.
The last paragraph seems to be Ballantine’s repudiation of the artistic life, or at least a reluctance to pass it on to the next generation; I’m not sure I quite buy into it. I have to believe there are many artists who have not been miserable and self destructive, and who’s to say those who are would be any happier if they were truck drivers or computer engineers? Yet I remember Salieri’s words from the film Amadeus : “If [God] didn’t want me to praise him with music, why implant the desire? Like a lust in my body! And then deny me the talent?” Lack of talent doesn’t seem to be the issue for either of these friends, but for one of them, it just isn’t enough.
Then again, the scene at the end smacks of happy domesticity. Come to think of it, even St. Francis went through a bad-boy phase. Maybe Dabber’s path was the right one for him, after all.