Countdown to Kickoff: 6 Days

Only six more days until the return of Notre Dame football. The wait is sort of making me go bonkers (see below).

My daddy suggested that I get involved in some sort of cause. You know, like helping the poor or volunteering at the Humane Society. "But Daddy," I said. "I already have my neighborhood outreach program. What else is there?" He told to look around and that I would be surprised to see what's out there. And, man, was he right. It wasn't long before I came across the most inspiring, wondrous cause. My jaw dropped in amazement and my bottle fell to the floor. I was so moved by what I was seeing that I immediately went through my daddy's wallet, took out his American Express card, and made a large donation. So what is this amazing cause, you ask?

Because you gotta nuke somethin'

After my daddy noticed the $4200 I donated in his name, he gave me permission to go back to obsessing about Notre Dame football.

So I've been amusing myself by watching highlights from last year. Maybe the most amazing highlights came from freshman receiving sensation Michael Floyd.

Mark my words. The lethal combination of Michael Floyd and Golden Tate will give fits to defensive coordinators, and I expect them to combine for over 3000 yards and at least 20 touchdowns. Anything less will make me angry. And you wouldn't like me angry.

Countdown to Kickoff: 7 Days

I was at the apple orchard today with my mommy and daddy (see the humiliating picture above), and I realized something: picking apples is a lot like catching a football. It takes lots of concentration and a tremendous amount of hand/eye coordination. My first few tries didn't go so well. I didn't keep my eye on the apple and I missed entirely. On my next few tries, I kept my eyes on the apple, but I got so excited that I twisted my body and my daddy almost dropped me. And guess what? No apple.

I was getting frustrated because I really, really, really wanted to get one of these buggers on my own and it just wasn't happening. But then I had an idea!

Because Notre Dame football has been on my mind lately, I said to myself "What would Golden Tate do in this situation?" He sure wouldn't let himself get distracted by shiny things or the sound of his own babbling. No, he would just reach up and grab the stinking apple is what he would do! The below video immediately came to mind:

And guess what? On my very next try, I grabbed that apple! By the end of the day, I was a pro at apple-picking. I could to the one-handed apple pick, the behind the back apple pick, and even the no-look apple pick (see below).

So thank you, Golden Tate. If not for you, there would be no apple pie, no apple butter, no dried apple chips, no apple soup, no apple sandwiches, no apple juice, no apple sauce, and no apple sticks at the Perry household this week.

Countdown to Kickoff: 8 Days

So I was just sitting in an empty diaper box the other day when I realized that the 2009 Notre Dame football season is nearly upon us! There are so many questions about this season that I was nearly overwhelmed at the prospect of trying to sort it all out. But instead of just sitting there and crying like a normal baby, I crawled over to the coffee table and grabbed a pencil and notepad and made a list. Will freshman linebacking savant Manti Te'o make an immediate impact? Can Jimmy Clausen make the necessary steps to become a Notre Dame legend? Will Shaq Evans see the field this year? What about Cierre Wood and Theo Riddick? How will new offensive line coach Frank Verducci correct the scheming incompetencies of his predecessor John Latina? Will Armando Allen develop into more than a serviceable running back? Will Harrison Smith's transition from linebacker to safety be a smooth one? Will Golden Tate and Michael Floyd prove to be the most dangerous receiving tandem in the country? Does ND have the country's best tight end in sophomore Kyle Rudolph?

And that's just a small sampling of my questions. After I completed my list, I started to jot down some ideas for my Countdown to Kickoff series of posts here at LEBSAB, but I got too excited and broke the tip of the pencil.

So the coming week here is not going to be as organized as I had hoped. There won't be player profiles or game by game breakdowns. Instead, I'm just going to spend the week celebrating all things Notre Dame. And I'm going to start with what I think is a pretty appropriate video. So put on your leprechaun outfit, paint yourself blue and gold, and strap in. Let's get this show on the road!

The Return of the Mail Bag!

What can I say? I've received literally THOUSANDS of questions over the last few months and I've not responded to a single one. My only excuse is that I've had better things to do, like going swimming and learning to walk and learning to say "mama" and "dada" and "Get off my lawn, hippy!". But I'm committed to my fans, so I'm going to take some time on a busy Saturday night and answer some of your questions.

Lucy - What happened to the music and movie editions of the mail bag? How will I know what to listen to and watch this summer? Carolyn D., Sharon, PA.

Carolyn asks a fair question. The truth is that I got caught up in my book reviews and I let this fall by the wayside. Since the summer movie season is over, I'll direct my comments to the upcoming fall slate. I'll be first in line for Where the Wild Things Are and The Road come October. I'm also semi-pumped by James Cameron's Avatar, though I think the CGI in it looks a bit pedestrian. Other movies I am sort of optimistic about include Rob Zombie's The Haunted World of El Superbeasto (which doesn't appear to have a trailer), Black Dynamite, Martin Scorsese's Shutter Island, and Tony Jaa's Ong Bak 2: The Beginning (assuming it gets a domestic release date). Wes Anderson's The Fantastic Mr. Fox doesn't look too bad either.

As for music, I'm pretty excited about the Drive By Truckers' latest, The Fine Print: A Collection of Oddities and Rarities 2003-2008, as well as the already released Murdering Oscar (and Other Love Songs) by Patterson Hood. Wolfmother has new album due in late 2008 called Cosmic Egg. But the album that hasn't left my CD player since it was released in February is Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit's self-titled album.

Lucy, NOter Dame sux and I h8 it becuz it sux. HahAHAHha you're teem is garbich!!!!1 Pete C., Los Angeles, CA.

I don't really have a response to this email, but "Pete C." has been sending me messages like this since my Manti Te'o post back in February. It would seem that he's a bit nervous about October 17.

Lucy, now that you're nine months old, what is most surprising thing you've learned about the world so far? Gretchen T., Cheyenne, WY

Gretchen, that's a great question and the answer is simple. Perhaps you haven't discovered this yet, so I suggest that you sit down. You know those wood panels below your sink? Turns out that they OPEN UP! Oh, I know. It's crazy isn't it? What's even more crazy is all the great stuff inside. Dish detergent, Windex, sponges, towels, the garbage can. I could go on. It is a veritable warehouse of playthings. Of course, my mommy and daddy won't let me in there and they keep telling me that some rogue named "Mr. Yuck" lives in there. I commissioned a police sketch of this "Mr. Yuck" and, apparently, Mr. Yuck is mean and Mr. Yuck is green:

Instead of deterring me, this piqued my interest. I was really interested in hearing Mr. Yuck's side of the story. Turns out his real name is Carl Błaszczykowski and he's a pretty good guy, though he may be a bit misunderstood due to his appearance. He grew up in Hell's Kitchen and worked his way through college by doing odd jobs on the side. One of those odd jobs was a photo shoot that resulted in the above picture. Unfortunately, prior to the photo shoot, Carl signed a publicity release and essentially waived all his rights as they related to the above picture, and Mr. Yuck was born. Carl is now an actuary living in Pomona, California. He's got four kids and a cat named Roger. He's a diehard Mets fan and, in his spare time, enjoys refinishing antique furniture. He's never even been to Indianapolis, let alone beneath my sink.

So it turns out that mommy and daddy have been feeding me a load of codswallop. It makes one wonder what else they are lying about. The goodwill they've built up thus far has officially been exhausted, and I trust nothing they say.

That's it for tonight, folks. I'll be back soon with some more book reviews and my weeklong Notre Dame Football Extravaganza that will culminate with the season opener against Nevada.

Lucy Reviews . . . . The Dart League King by Keith Lee Morris

I'm just going to go ahead and get this out of the way and say that I absolutely loved The Dart League King by Keith Lee Morris, and I am awarding it an unprecedented 10 rattles out of 10. Congratulations Mr. Morris-- your book truly made me a happy baby (see below).


And how could I not love it with descriptions of a dart match--a dart match!--like this:

And the hand was raising already, because he couldn't stop to think, and that hand was now releasing the dart, and Russell felt all the breath go out of him as if it were his breath and not his hand that set the silver ball onto that wheel, sent the dart into the air, where it twirled ever so briefly, like the bright burst of a single lifetime measured against the stars, the flights spinning gently in little flames of candlelight, blond twists of a small girl's hair ...

So what is this book about? Well, on its most basic level, it is about Dart League night in small Idaho town and five lives that intersect during the course of the match that could decide the league championship. There's twentysomething Russell Harmon whose only real talent is throwing darts, but even that talent is being challenged by newcomer Brice Habersham, a dart savant with an interesting day job. There's Tristan Mackey, Russell's teammate, who is keeping a secret buried at his parents' lakehouse. Then there's Vince Thompson, who is intent on killing Russell on account of an unpaid debt. Last but not least is Kelly Ashton, who doesn't suspect that dart league night will present her with the most difficult decision of her life.

The Dart League King takes place over the course of this single night and is told from five separate perspectives, each illuminating the events of the night in a different way. It really is amazing how much Keith Lee Morris manages to pack into this one night, and it's a testament to his skills that he manages to pull it off.

It turns out, by the way, that babies can't join dart leagues. Believe you me, I checked. I spent all afternoon on the horn with various proprietors of various establishments, and none would allow anyone under 21 years old in. "Look," I said. "I just wanna sling some arrows. There won't be no trouble from me. Help a kid out, why don't you?" Of course, it was to no avail. So I tried to build a dartboard in my room. I figured that I could use my smaller stuffed animals as darts, but I couldn't figure out what to use as for the actual board. And then my mommy walked in, nagging me about something or other, and I tossed a miniature Eeyore at her head. BULLSEYE! Man, I love this game.

So I urge each and every loyal LEBSAB devotee to buy The Dart League King right now. Click the link, add it to your shopping cart on Amazon, and BUY IT.

Finally, thanks to Deborah at Tin House Books for sending me a copy. You've made me a happy baby. You've also added to my mommy's headaches by introducing me to my newfound love of throwing things at her head, but, to be honest, I was considering doing that before I read The Dart League King. It just gave me a good excuse to start.

Lucy Reviews .... H.R.3200 - America's Affordable Health Choices Act of 2009

I've been taken to task for only reviewing fiction here at LEBSAB, so I decided to take a crack at something else--H.R. 3200 - America's Affordable Health Choices Act of 2009. All 1017 pages can be downloaded here. Before I settled into my crib to start reading, I had a fudgie pop (see below).

Then it was down to business. About halfway through H.R. 3200 - America's Affordable Health Choices Act of 2009, I started asking myself "Who wrote this thing?" My next question was "Who's going to pay for this thing?" Oh, right. Daddy. And, in all likelihood, me.

Around page 750, I started to think of H.R. 3200 as an actual person. This actually made it somewhat more readable, and allowed me to have a conversation with it.

Lucy: H.R. 3200, are you really going to dictate what kind of care I get?

H.R. 3200: Nothing in this section shall be construed to permit the Council to mandate coverage, reimbursement, or other policies for any public or private payer. … None of the reports submitted under this section or recommendations made by the Council shall be construed as mandates or clinical guidelines for payment, coverage, or treatment.

Lucy: Wait. What? What section are you talking about? What about other sections? Who is the Council? Where are we? Middle-Earth or something? Do members of the Council have long white beards and flowing capes? I'm horribly confused.

H.R. 3200: ....

Lucy: Fine. Be that way. Answer me this, though. Are you going to provide healthcare coverage to illegal immigrants?

H.R. 3200: Nothing in this subtitle shall allow Federal payments for affordability credits on behalf of individuals who are not lawfully present in the United States.

Lucy: Well, I guess I agree with that. But wait. What's an affordability credit? Will there be Federal payments for things other than affordability credits? And what about other subtitles? You know, you could be a bit clearer on these things.

H.R. 3200: ....

Lucy: You could pretty much change your mind about everything you've told me at just about any time, couldn't you?

H.R. 3200: .... Yes.

Lucy (throws her hands in the air and throws the 1017 page document out of her crib): This is absurd. I give up. Come back to me when you're 800 pages shorter.

So, H.R. 3200, after listening to you for over 1000 pages, I've decided that your plan is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent prose were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. I am now dumber for having listened to you. I award you 0 rattles out of ten. May God have mercy on your soul.

Lucy Reviews . . . . South of Broad by Pat Conroy

I don't quite know what to say here. I really wanted to like South of Broad by Pat Conroy. For the most part, I've liked everything else he has written. Although The Prince of Tides, for example, is a crappy movie, the book is a masterwork. South of Broad, though, confirms what I began to suspect with Beach Music: Pat Conroy's best days are behind him. It's sad to see a master lose his flair, but it happens. Heck, look at Sandra Boynton. Her early work is much more enriching and satisfying than her recent stuff. 1982's Moo, Baa, La La La!, for example, is vastly superior to, say, 2003's Snuggle Puppy (which starts with promise, only to end on a disappointing note). I guess this is the long way of saying that while South of Broad may not be Pat Conroy's best, it is no less interesting to read and compare with his earlier works.

I'll tell you what I told my cousin Cole when he asked me if he should buy Pat Conroy's latest (see below).

If you're a fan of Conroy's work, you should check this book out. If you're not, this is not the place to start.

So what's it about? It is vintage Conroy: a group of individuals from all walks of life come together and form a lifelong friendship in Charleston, South Carolina circa 1969. Years later, when they are all middle-aged, they again meet to deal with a crisis that affects them all. There are secrets, there are deaths, and there is melodrama. Lots of it. And then, when you think all the melodrama is over, more gets dumped on you.

So why doesn't the formula work this time? Well, the secrets aren't terribly interesting. The characters never really progress beyond archetypes. And the dialogue, frankly, is lazy and designed only to move the plot forward.

You know, I deal with enough melodrama on a day to day basis. I don't need to read about more. For example, my mommy and daddy recently have taken steps to ensure that I can't get into the cabinet below the kitchen sink. And that's where all the cool stuff is! So to deal with a horrible loss like that and then have to read about similar stuff in South of Broad is just too much for this baby to take.

Lucy, you ask, does anything about this book work? Well, yes. Conroy hasn't lost his touch when it comes to descriptions. Charleston itself is rendered beautifully, from the architecture to the food to the landscape, and is given more life than any of its actual inhabitants. These descriptions alone are almost worth the price of admission.

I award South of Broad 5 rattles out of 10. It is currently available pretty much everywhere. Thanks to Sonya (again) and Todd at Random House.

Well, it's past my bedtime, so I'm going to sign off. I have a review of The Dart League King: A Novel by Keith Lee Morris in the works, along with Malcolm Gladwell's forthcoming What the Dog Saw: And Other Adventures. There's also the mailbag (which has fallen by the wayside - sorry) AND I have a very special week planned for the seven days leading up to the Notre Dame football season.

Where the Wild Things Are update

It's no secret that I'm exciting about the upcoming film version of Where the Wild Things Are. Something about the book just makes me want to cause all sorts of chaos in the kitchen.

Sometimes it makes me do crazy things, like try to climb into the bath tub with my diapers still on.

So you can imagine my delight when I came across this interview with Dave Eggers AND an excerpt from his forthcoming novelization of Where the Wild Things Are in the New Yorker. Well, maybe you can't imagine it. My mommy can, though. Let's just say that I'm never allowed to play with crayons again.

I'll be back tonight with my review of Pat Conroy's South of Broad!

My first trip to the Indiana State Fair

I thought Saturday was going to be like every other Saturday I've experienced so far. You know, kick back, drink a few juice boxes, watch a little TV, maybe do a little yardwork. How wrong I was.

The day started with my parents bursting into my room and snatching me from my crib. I can't really blame them for this. I would be excited to see me every morning too. But this was different--they started going on and on about the Indiana State Fair and horsies and piggies. Was it possible? Would this be the day that I finally got to go to the Indiana State Fair? The place where they deep fry everything, including Oreos, Twinkies, cheesecake, and pizza? As you can tell from the above picture (apparently, the theme this year was "tomatoes" -- I was a bit disappointed because I had been lobbying for the theme to be "parsnip"), Saturday was indeed the day I've been waiting for all year. What follows is an abbreviated photo essay of my day at the fair.

Our day started at the horse prison, where I met Gary (pictured above). "Why the long face, buddy?" I asked. Turns out that Gary is doing an eight year bit on some trumped up armed robbery charges. "Just do the time, man," I said. "It beats ending up in the glue factory."


Next, we saw some piggies. To be frank, I was unimpressed. I had spent a lot of time at the fair by the time we got to the pigs, and, at first blush, I couldn't really tell the difference between the livestock in the hog barn and the average fair-goer. This really bothered me -- it raised all sorts of logistical problems. What if a real pig got loose and just sort of subtly blended in with the crowd? The cops would never be able to find him! But then I started to look a little bit closer, and I figured out how to distinguish that average fair-goer from the inhabitants of the hog barn. It's pretty easy, when you get right down to it. If what you are looking at is wearing these: or eating this:then what you've got on your hands, my friend, is a genuine, bona fide fair-goer. If not, then you are most likely in the hog barn.


When we got to the delicious cows, I lost control of myself and tried to climb into the pen (see above). I was so close that I could almost taste the burgers! My mommy was doing her best to hold me back, but the thought of a big, juicy quarter pound burger gave me the strength of a dozen babies, and I managed to power my way into the pen. It turns out that the owner of the prize-winning cow was already in the pen, and she held me so I could get a good look at where my dinner comes from. She assured me that the beast was being sold that very evening and would, in all likelihood, be executed within 48 hours and on my plate in 72. Although I was sort of disappointed that I couldn't just have even a little nibble, I did take some comfort in reminding the cow of its place on the food chain.

When it was all said and done, I was pretty tuckered out. I dreamt of hamburgers, ribs, bacon, and pulled pork sandwiches all the way home. Isn't it great when you can associate a face with what you're eating?

Lucy Reviews .... Spooner by Pete Dexter

I have long been a firm believer that if a book doesn't grab your attention immediately, then it isn't worth the effort to continue. This is why I've never managed to sit still through a whole reading of Goodnight Moon. Well, that and the fact that it should actually be called Good Night Moon rather than Goodnight Moon. Spooner by Pete Dexter, however, grabs your attention right away. Read this opening paragraph and tell me that you're not hooked:

Spooner was born a few minutes previous to daybreak in the historic, honeysuckled little town of Milledgeville, Georgia, in a make-shift delivery room put together in the waiting area of the medical offices of Dr. Emil Woods, across the street from and approximately in the crosshairs of a cluster of Confederate artillery pieces guarding the dog-spotted front lawn of the Greene Street Sons of the Confederacy Retirement Home. It was the first Saturday of December, 1960, and the old folks' home was on fire.

Spooner is the story of two men: Warren Spooner and Calmer Ottosson, his step-father. Spooner reminds me a bit of myself--constantly getting in trouble and doing things he shouldn't be doing. I haven't quite got the arm strength to chuck eggs at my neighbors' cars like Spooner does, but give me a few years!

Calmer, on the other hand, is even-keeled and patient with Spooner to a fault. Over the course of 450+ pages, Spooner grows up and Calmer grows older until their roles begin to reverse.

It would be a crime to talk about this book and not mention the various doggies that populate its pages. Their names are Fuzzy, Harry, and Lester. There is at least one other doggy, but he's not really a major character. Fuzzy, Harry, and Lester each get their moments in the sun, but Lester is the one that stands out in my mind, mostly because he reminds me of my own doggy, Bailey. I really think Bailey and Lester would get along, and I'm not just saying that because I needed something to type. I've put a lot of thought into this. They both eat whatever is put in front of them. They both would sleep in human beds if given the chance. They both like to ride in cars (or, in Lester's case, trucks). I tried to tell all of this to Bailey, but she just stared at me, then stole my baggy of Cheerios and ate it.

Give me back my Cheerios!!!

Spooner is hard to describe because it is so episodic and it takes place over the course of a half-century or so. There is no one unifying storyline other than the relationship between Calmer and Spooner. This is also what makes it interesting. We get to see Spooner grow from an irresponsible child to an irresponsible teenager to a somewhat less irresponsible adult and we get to see Calmer evolve along with Spooner. My only real complaint about the book is the sudden jump from Spooner's teen years to his early adult life. I'm going to give Mr. Dexter the benefit of the doubt on this one though. At the beginning of the advance readers' copy, he notes that the novel is a ways from being a finished product, so I expect that this jump in time will be ironed out and maybe some of the 250 pages Mr. Dexter says he cut will make it back in.

Thanks to Miriam at Hachette Book Group for sending Spooner along. Spooner will be available on September 24, and I highly recommend that you pick it up. Even though I've already read it, I'm considering buying it myself, just to see what the final draft looks like. Until then, I give the unfinished, unproofread version of Spooner 9.0 rattles out of 10. This score is subject to change come September. I really feel like Mr. Dexter could squeeze a 9.5 out of me if he tinkers with the middle section a bit.

If you're saying to yourself "I've never heard of Pete Dexter. Is he a better writer than Dan Brown? Are there brooding teen vampires in this book?", I will respond to you in the only way I know how:

So buy Spooner. Even though it is not written by Dan Brown. Nor does it feature brooding teen vampires.

I'll be back later this week with a review of Pat Conroy's forthcoming South of Broad. That will be followed up by a review of The Dart League King: A Novel by Keith Lee Morris. And the mailbag has been backing up, so I'll be answering some of your questions later this week. Oh, and last but not least, I'll soon be making my first trip to the Indiana State Fair, so you can expect comprehensive coverage of all things Fair-related. I hear they have deep-fried pizza this year!

I am an asset to the community

You may not realize it, but there is a team of thousands behind this blog helping me make it the international phenomenon that it is. Where would I be without my stylist? My publicist? My personal chef? Not at the top of the blogosphere, that's for sure. I'd be probably be just another dopey baby hanging out at the local five and dime, hoping against hope for some honest work to make a day's pay.

So when when my team staged a "care-frontation" with me the other day, I actually listened rather than hurling empty juice boxes at them. It seems they think that I'm allowing my image to spin out of control and that I need to start giving back to the community to get some positive press. "The community?" I snorted. "What has the community done for me lately?"

I kicked them all out and docked them three weeks' pay.

But later that night, after a long evening of Baby Einstein videos and more apple juice than I care to remember, I decided that it couldn't hurt to "give back". At worst, I waste an afternoon. At best, I build my already vast fanbase.

So the LEBSAB Neighborhood Outreach Program (or LEBSABNOP for short) was born. As you can see from the picture above, I dove right in and found a group of children to mentor. We meet every other Tuesday and they do everything from sorting my stuffed animals by color and personality type to giving me piggyback rides until my naptime. Occasionally, if it's been a really good session, I'll let them wash my tricycle.

But it's not all fun and games for the LEBSABNOPers. Each session is concluded with a frank talk about the dangers of hippies and what to do if you are confronted by a real, live hippie. The answer to that question depends, of course, on whether or not you're armed.

I'm not ashamed to say that I'm doing my part to educate today's misguided youth. In fact, the next step is to go national with LEBSABNOP. By 2016, there will be a LEBSABNOP center in every major metropolitan area. By 2032, I plan on having one in every city with a population greater than 1,000.

Assuming I don't lose interest in this idea like I lose interest in just about everything else (except for things that belong to Bailey), I will occasionally post updates on the LEBSABNOPers' progress and my efforts to expand the program throughout the continental United States.