D1 and D2; Alan Jacobs

Daniel’d been having trouble seeing through his bangs, so we gave him the most drastic haircut of his life.

“Wow … different kid,” his Uncle David remarks.

I’m inclined to agree: I’d assign metaphysical import to this haircut. One boy, D1, used to live with us; another, D2, has taken his place. The genetic, psychological, and behavioral characteristics remain unchanged; but whereas D1 was innocent (if mischievous), D2 is responsible for misdeeds.

The leading corporeal, mental, and biographical theories of personal identity fail to account for this. I have more evidence, then, for my outrageous pet theory that personhood and personal identity are response-dependent properties. … I don’t really subscribe to this but suspect it’s as defensible as any response-dependent theory of anything.

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People in my orbit have been quoting from and forwarding blog posts by the consistently enjoyable Alan Jacobs. I never thought I’d have much interest in Thomas Mann’s Joseph and His Brothers, but Jacobs has changed that; and here is his nice little manifesto, “Bring Back the Blog,” of which I wholeheartedly approve.

Today, reading about Goodhart’s Law (but how well does it describe sports?, I wondered), I followed links and came across, in someone’s book, a reference to Jacobs’s admission that baseball, one of his lifelong passions, has come to a dead end. And my respect for him grew tenfold.

Our awful diet; crime; the diary

We have another mouse in our mud-room. We had recognized the signs for some time, and today I actually saw the mouse. Jasper and Ziva were uninterested. And who could blame them, since we took away the previous mouse after Jasper killed it.

Today, while I was cooking for Samuel – a mash of black beans, egg, and mayonnaise – he decided to take matters into his own hands and poured a bag of Cheez-Its onto the kitchen floor.

Ironically, he ended up preferring the black bean mash, while I ate the Cheez-Its (the least-contaminated ones).

Yes, our diet is awful. I don’t know how it got this way. It’s not even that I dislike nutritious food.

Or clean food.

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And now the crime report. On Saturday, Karin & I got haircuts. It was Karin’s first haircut since the pandemic began. My hair also had gotten quite long. Anyway, we both got our locks cut short. This is not the crime. The crime, or crimes, already had been committed. What the haircuts revealed were the forensic traces: the many nicks and scratches, on our faces, inflicted by Samuel.

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I have blogged for so many years now, I often think of entries well in advance of posting them, and sometimes I even write them in advance. (Of course, certain regular columns – the poems, the movie reviews, the World Cup qualifier reports – make some content foreseeable.) And then there are the entries written just before midnight on the due date, with little planning of what I’ll say. They are the most diaristic entries. Tonight’s rhapsody has been of this kind.

R.I.P. Cruyff

The high school has installed a new computer in my office (the old one was put in in the ’90s). I was so delighted, I stayed at work even after I clocked out, to view the fonts.

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R.I.P. Johan Cruyff – arguably, the greatest soccer figure, ever. He was a patriarch of the Netherlands, of Ajax, and of Barcelona; a prescient strategist; a brilliant dribbler; and a Beatle-head.

He died of lung cancer.

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World Cup qualifier this afternoon. Ecuador vs. Paraguay, in Quito. Five o’clock U.S. Eastern Time.

On the one hand, we usually win this fixture, and lately the Paraguayans haven’t been very good.

On the other, we have a slew of injuries. Our front line is especially weak. Felipe Caicedo hurt himself recently in Catalonia. Miller Bolaños suffered a jaw-break in Brazil.

Énner Valencia returns after a long absence. But, everyone worries, is he truly fit?

Pray for Ecuador to win.

Lame

Foot pain has been preventing me from running. I’ve ordered a new pair of shoes: until they arrive, I’ll sit back and rest. Which is to say, I won’t get any rest, because all the while I’ll feel antsy.

Because of the foot pain, whenever I go on errands I walk with a ridiculous limp.

On Sunday I was jaywalking with Stephen. “Let’s cross here,” he said. “All right,” I said. And when we were halfway across the road, a car loomed up and I had to limp with double speed.

Yesterday I rode the bus to Walmart and then limped over to Great Clips for a haircut. The stylist had plenty of piercings and tattoos, and her manner was aggressive. I felt obliged to pretend to be a badass.

“Cut it very short,” I said.

“You do realize,” she said, “when it grows out, it’ll stick up in the back.”

“Honestly I don’t even care,” I said.

“You don’t like to get your hair cut, do you,” she said.

“No, I don’t,” I said.

“When was the last time — eight months ago?” she said.

“Five and a half,” I said. Bam.

Admiringly she said: “Your hair grows really fast. You’re really healthy.” I said: “You mean, like, I don’t have cancer.”

She was amused by that.

When it was done she said I looked like a different person. I asked whether that was a good or a bad thing. “Well, I enjoy the shock value,” she said. “I will, too,” I said.

“See you in six months,” she said. “If I come back at all,” I said. Bam.

I have no idea how to do nice, normal smalltalk.

Kenny asked which stylist it was. He knew her. I told him about the conversation. He said I should ask her for a date. Kenny is always telling me to ask people for a date. But I don’t want to go on a date.

Kenny’s mom told me I need to drive a car: if I won’t drive a car, I won’t get a wife. You make a good point, I said. Kenny’s mom told me she’d pray for me to get a wife. I told her I’d appreciate that prayer. I’d appreciate any prayer on my behalf, including that one.