Boozer is Back

“The dog ate my opt-out clause.”

Two Jazz posts in two days! And it’s June!

Contrary to what he said in December and what most everyone was expecting, Carlos Boozer will return to Utah next year. He joins Mehmet Okur and Kyle Korver in exercising the last year on his contract to stay in Salt Lake.

What to make of this?

1. Boozer wants to get paid. Given that he played just 38 games last season and that Utah started tanking as soon as he returned to the line-up, Boozer was not getting a better offer from Detroit (or anyone else) this summer.

2. Boozer really wants to get paid in 2010. I can’t believe that Boozer wants to stay in Utah, especially after the bridges he burned last season. So I’m guessing he’ll come to play this season in the hopes of landing a sweet deal as an unrestricted free agent next summer.

3. This might actually be the dream scenario for Utah. A motivated Boozer looking to get paid + a consistent starting line-up + scrappy Eric Maynor = 2010 NBA Champs? A man can dream.

Locking up Boozer long-term would have been a bad terrible move. He’s reached the ceiling on his potential. He might be an All-Star again, but he’ll never be the dominant, go-to guy who could take a team to the Finals. Maybe he wouldn’t need to be with Deron Williams around. Regardless, Boozer’s not suiting up in a Jazz uniform beyond the upcoming season.

While I don’t expect anyone picking Utah to win it all next year, I like the way the pieces are fitting together. The question mark is Paul Millsap, who would’ve really had a chance to shine with Boozer skipping town. The two don’t play well together. Millsap is the keeper of the two, and the guy I’d prefer as a teammate. I can’t imagine he’s happy today. Keeping him next year would mean paying the luxury tax, but word is the Jazz would be willing to pay it. It should.

Eric Maynor to the Jazz

Hello, Salt Lake City!

I know virtually all of you have been dying to know how Ben felt about Utah’s showing in the 2009 NBA Draft. I apologize for making you wait an entire four days for this report.

I really like Eric Maynor. (Chad Ford called him “the most underrated player in the draft.”) You may recall that he hit the game-winning shot against Duke in the first round of the 2007 NCAA Tournament.

I really like anyone who beats Duke.

I also really like anyone who plays four years of college basketball. The fact Maynor is also VCU’s all-time leading scorer and assists leader is, shall we say, not a bad thing.

Bottom line: I really like Maynor. I think he’ll be a great back-up for Deron Williams and Ronnie Brewer. This doesn’t seem to leave room for Ronnie Price (who I like), but Price had plenty of opportunities last year to leave his mark.

Should we be concerned that Maynor will exact bloody revenge on Jerry Sloan for cutting Maynor’s dad 29 years ago? Somebody needs to make sure he’s not keeping an ice pick in his locker.

As for Utah’s second round pick, the Jazz picked Kosta Koufos Goran Suton out of Michigan State. I like that he’s also a senior. I don’t like that his game is indistinguishable from that of Kosta Koufos. Look for Suton to play in Europe for a couple years, grow a beard, then attempt to be the second coming of Mark Eaton.

I invite fellow NBA aficionados to sound off on how their favorite teams fared in the draft.

Let me also reiterate just how much I hate the Spurs and their savvy front office moves.

Friday Recommends: Eric Kraft

 

There is no writer today who gives me (Ben) more pleasure to read than Eric Kraft. I had the good fortune of being introduced to Kraft by Caleb Wilson, who insisted I give Little Follies a try. Since then, I’ve read everything of Kraft’s I can get my hands on (much of which is, for shame, out-of-print). 

The central character of Kraft’s stories is a boy named Peter Leroy, a literary alter ego of Kraft’s childhood. The books usually begin with Peter Leroy writing an introduction explaining how he came to author the present volume. Then, during the stories, we are treated to twin narratives of Peter’s childhood adventures and adult Peter’s rendering of those stories to his Ideal Reader (and long-suffering wife) Albertine — and, by extension, to us — in “real time.” So we have a metafiction in which the author Eric Kraft is writing about a younger, embellished, fictional version of himself named Peter Leroy, who himself is pretending to write his own memoirs (again, with great embellishment). Got it?

If that sounds at all daunting then I have already done a disservice to Kraft. The books are sheer fun to read. As cerebral as they can be, they are not a bit pretentious, even though reviewers like to compare Kraft to (among others) Proust, Borges, Nabokov, Twain and Cheever. This hints at the difficulty of pitching Kraft to would-be readers: he’s a moving target. Trying to describe anything he accomplishes in his books risks omitting a half dozen other essential parts. This usually sends reviewers (as it will me too) back to broad, glowing endorsements. Two of my favorites are from Malcolm Jones — “Charming but never sappy, droll but never cynical, Peter Leroy’s adventures constitute one of our wittiest and most acute portraits of America at mid-century. In the bargain, they are the literary equivalent of Fred Astaire dancing: great art that looks like fun” – and Andrew Ervin — “The only American author since Pynchon to completely erase the line between the literary novel and the spit-out-your-coffee comedy.” 

My admiration for (and envy of) Kraft has mostly to do with the literary terrain he explores: childhood, memory, love, adventure and family. On one hand, I feel deep regret that someone else has captured something essential about each of those subjects (or, often, a combination of several at once if not occasionally all five) far better than I ever will. On the other hand, I can find it in my heart to forgive Kraft because, again, he’s a joy to read. And I should say that we’ve borrowed much of the inspiration for the back-and-forth of our online personas (Ben and Erin Voreblog) from Kraft’s Peter and Albertine. If you’re going to steal, steal from the best.

While I still consider Little Follies to be the best introduction to Kraft (you can read customers reviews about it here), Flying is a pretty good one too. Collecting two previous novellas (Taking Off and On The Wing) and adding the final part (Flying Home), Flying recreates young Peter Leroy’s supposed airplane flight from his hometown of Babbington, New York, to New Mexico and back, all in a homemade flying motorcycle (or “aerocycle,” whom Peter names Spirit and has a running dialogue with). At the same time as he’s writing this story, the adult Peter Leroy drives cross-country with Albertine and tells her the truth, one painfully obvious to the reader: Peter never left the ground. But he did have some adventures, almost all being of the digressive sort, which young (and old) Peter believe to be the adventures themselves.  

The closest thing I can compare the Peter Leroy stories to is Calvin & Hobbes. Both are, on the surface, whimsical stories of precocious kids with fantastic imaginations. You get pulled in because they’re fun. But once you’re in, you begin to appreciate how many levels the creator is working on. In the same way Calvin & Hobbes was a profoundly creative accomplishment that crossed all the boundaries of what a comic strip could do, the Peter Leroy stories do the same in their own medium.

If I have piqued your interest to even the tiniest degree then I consider my work here done. At this point you should proceed directly to the source material. Short of buying a book, at least visit the portal to Peter Leroy’s world that is Eric Kraft’s website. You’re in for a ride.

Sneak Peak: The Very First LocaVoreblog

PART I:  The Appetizer

You may recall we made some new year’s resolutions about eating healthier. You may also recall our obsession (primarily Erin’s) with Michael Pollan’s eye-opening and addictive books, The Omnivore’s Dilemma and In Defense of Food. In short, Pollan submits that the best and healthiest way to live — for people, for the animals they eat, and for the local economies in which they live — is a primarily local diet free from over-processing, hormones, chemicals, or any food with ingredient lists full of hard-to-pronounce words. 

Nearly six months later and nary a paper to grade, I (Erin) finally made my first trip to a local farm. Indian Hill’s Green Acres Farm is a mere five minutes away, and as my friend Katie pulled into the drive, a herd (at least I think it was a herd, maybe it was a gaggle? A pack? A litter?) of sheep were munching on green grass underneath the shade of tree. Bucolic and serene, it was something out of Anne of Green Gables or Little Women. It was also blazing hot. Some of the sheep were panting and looked like they wanted to jump out of their winter coats. Gail and Katie brought their babies, and I think they enjoyed the sheep as much as I did. One lamb suckled from the teat of his mother. I threw up a little in my mouth.

Anyway, we walked into the farm store, listened to a very friendly and sweet employee give us the farm spiel after telling her that we were first-time farm goers, and I quickly grabbed a dozen eggs and an entire chicken.  Yes, friends, the Vores are now the proud owners of our very own chicken.

If Scooter-Thomas tries to eat me, so help me God I will peck his eyes out.

So far he seems happy.  Ben affectionately calls him Darryl, and he happily clucks his way through our back yard.

Actually, Darryl looks more like this:

All I'm missing are my feathers, head, and feet! Adorable!

The only caveat is that Darryl came frozen. Green Acres slaughters two steers a month, and only has fresh chicken when they are ready to, uh, go on “vacation” to a sprawling “Canadian Farm” to drink daiquiris all day.* Currently, Darryl is thawing in the fridge next to some old Mexican left-overs and a Yuengling. Tomorrow, per the helpful lady’s instructions, I will preheat the oven to 350 degrees, cook Darryl for twenty minutes or so, take Darryl out of the oven, “pull his legs,” whatever that means, baste him with butter, rub him with rosemary, massage him with salt, stick him back in the oven for an hour or so, and enjoy his flavorful flesh.  

As a two-time vegetarian and someone who generally feels a mixture of sadness and nausea about meat, I’m actually excited to get my hands dirty with this bird. I’m hopeful that it will be a success and that our first adventure as real locavores will encourage us to go back time and again.  

 

* = They do not go to a farm in Canada or anywhere else. They get dead through a process I don’t like to think about. 

Scooter Thomas Calls Shenanigans

Our Monday post this week chronicled our decline into rabid obesity ever since we got married. Our cat and occasional guest blogger Scooter Thomas asked for the opportunity to respond to our portrayal of him in said post, and to what he called our “malicious slander and contemptuous imbecility.” In an effort to make him stop barfing all over the house, we have granted his request.

 

libel - noun –  1 a : defamation of a person by written or representational means  b :  the publication of blasphemous, treasonable, seditious, or obscene writings or pictures.

Libel, dear friends. The kind of word that makes one shudder. Or at least, one would shudder if one had, say, a soul.

But I’m beginning to question whether or not my contemptible owners in fact do have a soul. Let’s consider the evidence:

In the plus column, they are usually consistent in refilling my food dish on a daily basis. I might prefer it to be attended to a bit more frequently than that, but no matter.

They find time in their oh-so-busy schedules to remember that I, being a cat, am forced into the humiliating necessity of pooping in a tiny one foot by two foot box, and that this box, about every other day or so, needs to be scooped of my excrement. I certainly do not want to be accused of failing to appreciate their efforts in this arena.

Finally, they will, on very special occasions, purchase toys for my recreational pleasure, notably colorful mice filled with delicious, delirious catnip. And on very very special occasions, they treat me to the Cadillac of feline toy products, Kitty Hooch.

Truly, I want to acknowledge that my owners are not complete and total monsters. They are what one might call serviceable, making the occasional (though rare) gesture at something above the status quo of parental obligation. One might do worse, I suppose.

I think we’ve now exhausted the plus column. On to the negatives:

These perverse ogres find inexplicable joy in depicting me in a light which is not merely unflattering but downright degrading, riddled with caricature, reckless with slander, and profane in every particular. Based on a recent post on their contemptible blog, they would have you believe I am so portly that I cannot even launch myself onto their bed. Ha! I call shenanigans! Not only can I jump on their bed, I can occasionally do it without a running start and the gravity-defying assistance of those kind angels whose wings bear me up just long enough to reach the edge, at which point I may need to scrap and claw just a tad to leverage my bulk over the precipice. 

My owners would have you believe a smorgasbord of outright lies pertaining to some of my physical characteristics. For example, that my percentage of body fat is 82%. Imagining a creature of such corpulence is positively disgusting to consider. As I consult my file here for the results of my last trip to the vet, I see that my body fat clocks in just a shade over 50%. No, I may not be a model of trim svelteness, but I’m also not late Marlon Brando.

My owners would also have you believe that I am so demented — my psyche so contorted by an insatiable need to satisfy my hunger — that I have at times considered them as prospective food for my consumption. This is where we must revisit the definition of slander. Is such a claim blasphemous? Check. Treasonable? Check. Seditious? You betcha. Obscene? Ding ding ding ding ding! We have a winner! Come on down, owners, and claim your trophy! You’ve just won yourselves a lawsuit, suckers!

I will not rest until restitution has been made. Unchecked, my owners would shred the very fabric of a decent, moral society. Believe nothing they say, dear reader. I am not the beast they would have you believe I am. Consider the plaintive look on my face so that you too may feel but a fraction of my outrage and a portion of my yearning for justice. Thank you.

 

“Nobody’s hand goes down anybody’s underpants!”

– a mom, overheard by Bevin Beers at a pool in Nashville earlier today.

Marriage And Our Rapid Decline Into Morbid Obesity

Couples who live together are more than twice as likely to become obese than those who live separately, new research shows. Penny Gordon-Larsen, associate professor of nutrition at the University of North Carolina, said … people living together – married or not – tended to eat meals together, possibly cooking bigger meals or eating out more often than they did when they were single.  - The Telegraph, June 12 

 

[Entry from Erin's journal, 8/14/04] 

Getting married today! I’m so glad I found a man who cares about his physical health as well as regular exercise and sensible eating. We agreed we’ll join the Y next month. (Couples discount!) I am certain that marriage will lead to a shared, lifelong commitment to healthy living!

[Entry from Ben's journal, 8/19/04]

We climbed Grouse Grind on day five of our honeymoon here in Vancouver. No taking it easy on the beach for us! 2.9 km basically straight up (a 853 meter elevation gain). For fun, we took the tram back down and then ran up the mountain the second time. Erin beat me by a nose, but we both clocked in under 40 minutes. I love a woman who’s in better shape than I am!

[Entry from Erin's journal, 9/14/04]

One month down! Marriage is off to a good start, although I’m eating more than I anticipated. Need to remind myself that I don’t need to keep up with Ben. Also to keep my portion sizes down. I know I can do it!

[Entry from Ben's journal, 10/21/04]

Weighed in at 180 this morning, up 15 lbs. from wedding day. I guess we have been eating out a lot lately. And it’s been harder to exercise than I thought. Next week I’ll definitely sign us up at the Y. 

[Entry from Erin's journal, 12/26/04]

Our first Christmas together as a married couple. Everything was beautiful. Ben did gorge himself on the Christmas turkey, then put back an entire pie for dessert. Father cheered him on for seconds and thirds but appeared repulsed after sixths and sevenths. I was brushing my teeth tonight when he got on the scale. I sneaked a look: 209 lbs. That’s up almost 50 from the wedding. Oh well. There’s more of him to love, I guess. 

[Entry from Ben's journal, 3/23/05]

We celebrated Erin’s birthday at Golden Corral. I thought it a curious choice until I saw the all-you-can-eat buffet. Two please! But while I found the restraint to stop after four trips, Erin went back for nine helpings. After the seventh I said, “Honey, maybe you should slow down and let things settle” when she snapped, “Maybe you should shut your trap, lardo — it’s my birthday!” When we got home she finished both Ben & Jerry’s pints in the freezer. I had been hoping for at least one of them.

[Entry from Erin's journal, 11/24/05]

Thanksgiving, our favorite day of the year! Despite the fact we’re both over 200 pounds now (Ben is pushing 300), we felt like we could indulge a little (or, in Ben’s case, a lot). It was poor taste for Ben to push my nephew Timmy out of the way for the last piece of pumpkin pie, but Timmy can be a brat sometimes. Mother said she was disturbed by the way Ben sat in the corner gnawing on that pile of turkey bones. “I thought you two were joining a gym,” she said. “What, and cut back on our ten hours of TV a day?” I shot back. On the way home we stopped at Honeybaked Ham and rooted through the garbage out back. Mmmmmmmm!

[Entry from Ben's journal, 1/1/06]

New Year’s Resolutions: 

1. Finally join the Y.
2. Get back under 430 pounds.
3. Fit into those stretch-waist pants again. 
4. Stop using those motorized carts to get around the mall. (Erin says it’s time to suck it up and just walk.)
5. Submit online application for The Biggest Loser.

Here’s to a healthier 2006!

[Entry from Erin's journal, 1/10/2006]

We adopted a cat! His name is Scooter Thomas and he makes us feel better because he’s a little rotund. Plus the vet said his percentage of body fat was 82%. No way we’ll ever get that obese!

[Entry from Ben's journal, 9/9/06]

Worst birthday ever. Erin (all sanctimonious because she hasn’t gained triple figures since January) suggested we just get the salad bar at Ruby Tuesday’s. “That’s a terrible appetizer, but okay,” I told her. That’s the whole meal, she said. “Ha ha,” I said. Fight ensued. Later we sat at separate tables at DQ and drowned our sorrows with ice cream cakes. I had seven.

[Entry from Erin's journal, 10/17/06]

Sometimes I look at Scooter Thomas and think he’s judging me. So what if I’m tipping the scales at 340? Still, maybe we shouldn’t have laughed so hard when his substantial girth prevented him from jumping on the bed. Confession: Some nights I can’t fall asleep because I’m afraid he’ll eat me.

[Entry from Scooter Thomas's journal, 10/18/06]

Boy do I have some fat owners. Their corpulence disgusts even me.

[Entry from Ben's journal, 11/16/06]

Woe is me. Mr. Scale says I’m 507 pounds. Stupid Know-It-All Scale. I thought I could hold off the 500 mark until at least December, but I guess going to White Castle every day for the past three months hasn’t helped. And darn Taco Bell and their “Fourth Meal”! I started setting my alarm at 2:40 a.m. so I can get a half dozen chimichangas before the drive-thru closes at 3. I wish they wouldn’t skimp on the salt though. 

[Entry from Erin's journal, 3/23/07]

I put my foot down and told Ben we had to join the Y. He said it’d be a birthday gift, so we went today but he couldn’t fit through the sliding doors. I inquired about local gyms with wider entrances. Little teenage punk working the desk gave me this holier-than-thou, I’m-not-410-pounds look before responding, “I think all entrances are the same size, m’am.” Outside, Ben had fallen down and couldn’t get up. I rolled him to the car and strapped him on top.

[Entry from Ben's journal, 7/6/07]

Terrible check-up. The doc said my body fat percentage is 103%! I told him I didn’t think that was possible. “Neither did I,” he said, shaking his head. He kept looking at the tests and furrowing his brow, then he looked at the CT scans and started dry-heaving. (I hate it when he does that.) I dread the thought of seeing Scooter Thomas tonight. He knows. He always knows.

[Entry from Erin's journal, 12/25/07]

Terrible Christmas. Family tensions are through the roof. Ben broke his chair when he sat down, which didn’t help. Worst moment: When Aunt Betty’s bowl of cranberry sauce disappeared and turned up twenty minutes later in the folds of Ben’s stomach. (Father was not pleased.) Later, while watching Family Man, somebody said, “Where’s Aunt Betty?” “Someone check Ben’s stomach flab,” Uncle Mort said. (I hate Uncle Mort.) A thorough search revealed Aunt Betty was not there, although we did find what looked like some half-eaten Cadbury eggs from Easter. Later Aunt Betty turned up in the couch cushions. (Ben accidentally sat on her.)

[Entry from Ben's journal, 5/1/08]

I can honestly say I didn’t expect marriage to be this hard. Or that 1000 pounds would make it so difficult to fit into the car. We bought a forklift to get me around town. I hate it that my cat judges me.

[Entry from Erin's journal, 9/2/08]

Oprah called. She wanted us to be guests on her show. “What’s it about?” I asked. “Couples who collectively weigh a ton,” she said. “Will there be hard questions and tears and forgiveness and reconciliation and more tears?” I asked. “You betcha,” she said. “Let me call you right back,” I said. I ran outside and couldn’t find Ben, but when I came back in he was rooting through the fridge. “You’ll never believe it!” I said. “We’re going to be on Oprah!” “Great!” he said. “I just have to call her back right away,” I said. “Oh,” Ben replied, suddenly looking downcast. “What is it?” I asked. “I ate the phone,” he said. 

[Entry from Ben's journal, 10/3/08]

Mr. High And Mighty Scale said I’m 1,593 pounds. I hate him. HATE him. I took him outside and ran over him with the tractor Erin uses to pull me around town. The last laugh is mine, jerkface!

[Entry from Erin's journal, 1/1/09]

New Year’s Resolutions:

1. Join the Y with or without fat ass husband.
2. Get back under 600 pounds.
3. Wipe that look of smug superiority off Scooter Thomas’s fat face.
4. Buy a bigger tractor and holding pen to transport Ben around town.
5. Apologize to Scooter Thomas. He looks too tasty to be mad at.

[Entry from Scooter Thomas's journal, 4/12/09]

My owners are going to eat me. Absolutely, positively no doubt in my mind. I fear for my life. 

[Entry from Ben's journal, 6/17/09]

Scooter Thomas ran away sometime last week. It’s a shame. I found a great grilled cat recipe. Guess I’ll have to eat the Cincinnati Zoo instead.

Yo La Tengo & The Perfect Wedding Song

Thanks to our friend Jenna for pointing us toward Melissa Maerz’s “Geek Love: Finding the Perfect Wedding Song” (from Double X, the all-female spin-off site from Slate’s XX Factor blog). Maerz makes the case that Yo La Tengo’s “The Last Days of Disco” is “the perfect song” for a first dance (and, Maerz adds, maybe “the most romantic song ever written”). 

Speaking as two geeks whose first dance was also to a Yo La Tengo song ( “Our Way To Fall”), we commend Ms. Maerz and her future husband for impeccable taste. That said, “The Last Days of Disco” is a terrible pick. Maerz focuses on the lyrics, which, yes, are sweet and romantic. There are also the associations and memories she brings to the song, and we know what she’s talking about. You should pick a wedding song that actually means something to you. But as a song, “The Last Days of Disco” is pretty close to undanceable. What’s more, it’d be torture on the wedding guests: It clocks in at almost six and a half minutes, and most of that is a gauzy, somewhat formless warble. Don’t get us wrong — we like the song. But it’s joys are less musical than cerebral. 

There’s still time, Ms. Maerz. Just skip back three tracks on And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside-Out and give “Our Way To Fall” another listen. We’ve posted this before, but here’s the song set to old family Super 8s that someone put together. Enjoy.

Bloomsday Is Here

…and Wandering Rocks has launched!

For those of you kids with your Twitter, Jerry Grit will begin Twittering page one of Joyce’s masterpiece in just under an hour.

There’s still time to go out and buy your WR-authorized edition of Ulysses and join us for this life-changing experience. (It changed Colum McCann’s life!)

Will you join us? There is only one right answer.*

Happy Bloomsday to each of you, good sirs and madams!

 

* = “yes I said yes I will Yes.”

He Just Wanted Some Cookies.

It’s probably time for Whole Foods to develop a deer prevention policy.