FORT WAYNE, Ind. (June 29, 2010) — Zane Sade, a 2010 graduate of Churubusco High School, will perform in the Fort Wayne Summer Music Theatre’s production of Stephan Sondheim’s “Sweeney Todd” next weekend.

Sade will portray Judge Turpin in the musical, to be held at North Side High School Friday, July 9, and Saturday, July 10, at 7:30 p.m. and Sunday, July 11, at 2 p.m.

Tickets are $10 for adults and $7 for students. A $2 discount will be allowed for those with a Three Rivers Festival button.

Summer Music Theatre also has a patronage program called “Adopt-A-Thespian.” With a donation of $25 or more, patrons will receive two tickets to a performance of their choice and their names will be featured on the program. Adopt Sade by calling him at 260-693-9290.

This is Sade’s second experience acting with the Summer Music Theatre. He participated in last summer’s production of “Rent.” For more on the “Sweeney Todd” production, go to the Summer Music Theatre’s Web site.

Sade will attend Ohio Northern University in Ada, Ohio this fall, majoring in Music Theater.

Monroe Sade Bartl

Jason and Madalyn (Sade) Bartl are proud to announce the birth of their daughter, Monroe Sade Bartl.

Monroe arrived May 25, 2010 at 10:47 p.m. at Dupont Hospital, Fort Wayne, Ind. She weighed 7 pounds, 9 ounces and was 20 3/4 inches long.

She is joined at home by a brother, Truman, 2.

Maternal grandparents are Bob and Brenda Sade, Churubusco, and great-grandmothers, Joan Keller and Grace Sade, both of Churubusco.

Paternal grandparents are Bob Bartl, Fort Wayne, and the late Karen Bartl.

by Viv Sade for Buscovoice.com

Billy J. is an enigma.

As far as I can tell, Billy J is somewhere between the ages of 30 and 56 – although no one is really sure of the exact age.

I’m pretty sure Billy was in my graduating high school class in the 70’s because I remember partying with Billy and giving the peace sign and getting down and “groovy” and wearing mod, psychedelic plaid and saying things like “”Cool Cat,” way back when.

But my baby sister and brother – the twins – think he graduated with them in 1990. They can recall with great detail Billy’s affinity with boy bands, his collection of Beanie Babies and how he loved to do the Macarena.

When I dance they call me Macarena

And the boys they say que soi buena (?)
They all want me, they can’t have me
So they all come and dance beside me
Move with me, jam with me
And if you’re good I’ll take you home with me …

Da le a tu cuerpo alegria macarena
Que tu cuerpo es pa darle alegria y cosa buena
Da le a tu cuerpo alegria macarena
Eeeeeh, Macarena – ay

My brother Paul, who graduated from high school in 1983, has a senior photo of Billy J, sporting a prolific mullet, and I gotta tell you – that’s pretty convincing. Of course, Billy’s brother, Bing, is also in the class photo, so it becomes a question of who came first – the Billy or the Bing?

Then there’s my oldest daughter and son  – who graduated from school in 1989 and 1993 – and, who both swear that Billy was in their respective classes, and I seem to remember that maybe he was …? I know he was at my son’s graduation party … and my daughter’s …

But my sister Margaret, who is good friends with Billy’s sister, remembers that Billy was president of her senior class in 1982.

All of this has got me to wondering, “Who is Billy, really?”

Billy has been at all three of my wedding receptions – transcending decades – declaring the last one as “the best ever!”

He has been a presence at all of my seven siblings’ graduations, ranging from 1970 to 1990, as well as several of my children’s graduation parties. He was in every graduating class, from 1970 through 1985.

So, “Who is Billy, really?”

Is he an ageless intelligent alien being, sent to gather information about an inferior species of mankind that has no recollection of a fun-loving partying dude who has invaded decades and generations of mindless partying teenage revellers?

Or is he just a guy who has duped the entire population of a small Midwestern town in Mid-America, thereby gaining access to countless parties with unlimited alcohol and catered crab cakes?

You be the judge.

Who is Billy, really?

Have you partied with Billy J? Post your comments below.

Scribbles and Giggles

By Viv Sade for Buscovoice.com

Mark Twain had the right idea on raising teenagers: Seal them in a barrel when they turn 13 and feed them through a tube until they turn 20.

That day started out normally enough … well, if normal can be defined as two teens sleeping until noon and then waking up and peering into the cupboards crammed full of $200 worth of groceries and declaring loudly, “There’s NOTHING to eat!”

Son Age 19, needed directions to get to the Indianapolis airport to pick up a friend who was visiting from Florida. He also needed to borrow $25 for gas. And maybe just $10 – no, make that $15 – for food and”stuff.” Just until payday. No, really.

Traveling with him were Levi, Josh and Alex, who we will refer to as Larry, Curly and Moe, with my son being the Ringleader Stooge.

I drew detailed maps and laboriously wrote out precise, articulate directions. Son Age 19 grabbed the money, ran out of the house, jumped into the car with his three friends and took off.

The directions remained on the kitchen table.

Two hours later, I received a series of cell phone calls from the four hopelessly lost Stooges. They took turns reading road signs, describing the surrounding terrain and asking me if I had a clue where they were, exactly.

At one time, they were in Zionsville, north of Indianapolis, and the next time they called, they were in Shelbyville, south of Indianapolis. They insisted they had never seen I-465 – which completely encircles Indianapolis.

After the sixth call – this one from “some highway” with a sign noting that Richmond, Ind. was only 40 miles to the East, I begged them to just pull over and ask someone – anyone – for directions to the Indy airport.

Then – silence – the calls stopped.

I relaxed, but not completely, because shortly after giving birth, a woman loses 22.3 pounds and all capacity to completely relax for the next 25 years.

About three hours later, the phone rang. Moe told me they were headed home and were nearing Fort Wayne. They wanted directions to a Fort Wayne Hospital to visit a sick friend.

I gave the directions to the downtown hospital. Everything was fine. Heck, they were 30 minutes away. What could go wrong?

Five minutes later, two very polite officers from the local police department knocked on my back door.

The police explained that they had received a call from the Fort Wayne Police Department about a suspected kidnapping at the corner of Taylor and Broadway streets. A passing motorist and concerned senior citizen had reported a group of hoodlums stuffing a body into the trunk of a 1996 Blue Buick Regal.

My Blue 1996 Blue Buick Regal.

It was one of those life-defining moments when – in a split second – everything balanced on the precipice, with the potential to change dramatically as I straddled that very thin line between loving, understanding maternal figure and murderous, loony madwoman.

I grabbed my cell phone and motioned for the cops to hold on.

Moe answered.

“How’s it going?” I asked. “Where are you, exactly?”

“Great!” Moe said, obviously unaware that he was on America’s Most Wanted List. “We just left the hospital and we’re on our way home.”

“You haven’t … ummm … done anything well, stupid, have you?” I asked. “Like, maybe, kidnap somebody?”

Moe – who, like Son Age 19 and Son Age 17 – has had a propensity to “go along” with doing something stupid many, many times over the past ten years, gasped in disbelief. “How did you know that?” he asked incredulously.

“Wild guess,” I said into the phone while smiling weakly at the two officers.

I then did something of which I wish I could say I am ashamed, but I am not. I streeeeetched the truth and scared the beejimmies out of them.

Using my shrill “mom” voice, I told them the Fort Wayne Police had called the local police and issued a suspicious vehicle alert and were looking for them.

“If they pull you over, be prepared to be apprehended at gunpoint and thrown to the ground and handcuffed,” I told Moe. ” … and possibly Tazed. Ooohhh, ever been Tazed? I understand it hurts like hell. Sometimes people die.”

Actually, the Fort Wayne police were waiting to hear from the local police who were now standing in my back room, who had earlier assured them that it was probably some kind of teenage prank.

The ploy worked. The boys were home in record time.

They explained that they had been “goofing around” and thought it would be funny to put a paper bag with cutout eyes over Curly’s head and act like they were kidnapping him. They did this and then “threw” him into the trunk and took photos on their cell phone and sent them to all of their friends, asking for ransom money for Curly’s release. All the kids thought this was hilarious. The senior citizen driving by in the 1986 Ford sedan did not. Neither did I.

Later, the photos of Curly, smiling and showing off his cute dimples and freckles with the paper bag perched on top of his head at a jaunty angle while Larry, Moe, Son Age 19 and Florida Friend Fresh From the Airport grinned like maniacal jack-o-lanterns in the background, all went into our Great Dysfunctional Family Scrapbook.

I tried to explain that while that kind of horseplay might have taken place in the small town where we live without so much as a second glance, in bigger cities – where sociopaths are known to stuff bodies into trunks on a semi-regular basis – it can’t be done. Not without SWAT team interference.

Then they uttered the statement that all teenage boys make after doing something incredibly stupid: “We were just having fun.”

On the other hand, the faux kidnap message did raise several hundred dollars in ransom for Curly from some cute girls who wanted to “rescue” him.

(Viv Sade is a writer and the mother of four, and thinks that children, politicians and overly-perky co-workers on Prozac should be neither seen nor heard.)

Scribbles & Giggles

By Viv Sade for Buscovoice.com

Fishnet hose is making a comeback.

My father is turning over in his grave.

The two thoughts are synchronistic.

As a child, I learned a hard lesson – that silky, black, fishnet hosiery is Latin for “SLEAZY.”

That message was not so subliminally ingrained in me as a young, impressionable adolescent girl during a time when studies showed that the average teenage girl’s brain was composed of Silly Putty and NeHi grape soda.

When I was 14, a Greyhound bus service ran 15 miles from my hometown to Fort Wayne. My best friend, Roberta “Bert” and I would catch the bus in front of Barnhart’s Drug Store and Soda Fountain every Saturday for 50 cents round trip.

We would save our weekly (50 cent) allowance for a few weeks and then ride the bus and spend the afternoon wolfing down donuts and cherry cokes at Murphy’s 5 & 10 Store in downtown Fort Wayne. We also visited Stillman’s Department Store, a high rise – Lord, what was it, five, six floors?

It was a world far outside of our small neighborhood – women in pillbox hats and meticulous white gloves who drank martinis with olives, snooty saleswomen wearing strands of pearls, gray-haired ladies who smelled of musty roses who worked all day selling ladies’ dress gloves – for God’s sake, there was one entire floor of GLOVES!

All of these women and the salesmen who worked in the men’s departments seemed oblivious to the fact that the world was changing around them – young boys were dying in some war in a jungle far away; in the South, people who were trying only to be treated as human beings and as equals were dying, as well.

But on the fourth floor of Stillman’s – Hosiery & Gloves – life stood still.  The Earth rotated around a delicate pair of white cotton evening gloves with tiny covered buttons or the perfect pair of Sandtone, silky nylon stockings.

For weeks, I saved money so that I could make the ultimate of all acquisitions for a 14-year-old in 1966 – some groovy, black fishnet hose.

I told no one except of course, Bert. Somehow, although we’d never discussed the complex, immoral implications of fishnet stockings, I just instinctively knew my parents would not approve. Nor would Bert’s.

Besides, I wasn’t allowed to wear hosiery at all – fishnet or otherwise. That was in 1966BP (Before Pantyhose), and one year away from the fabulous fashion arrival of tights, so back then nylons required as many mechanisms as an auto body shop. There were the snap garters, the girdles, the roll-up garters (which never failed to roll down at the most inopportune times).

But the garter belt – well, it just sounded dirty.

Still does.

Bert and I both were forced to wear white anklets or knee high socks. She was a good, Catholic girl. I was not.

All I really knew was that once I possessed those black fishnet nylons – worn by all the chic, Twiggy-thin models in the fashion magazines – I would rise to the highest junior high level of popularity attainable anywhere in the Universe.

My skin would clear up. Boys would want to hold my hand as we rode the Ferris wheel together at the Turtle Days Festival. The neighborhood bully would quit pulling my ponytail and spitting on my little brother. I would suddenly grow a bosom … or two. I would be invited to all the cool cats’ parties. The lunch lady would quit throwing potatoes au gratin at me while cursing, “$#% Hold yer tray up!” Micky Dolenz of the Monkees would show up on my doorstep and we’d run off into the sunset singing, “Hey, Hey, We’re the Monkees…” I would be able to flawlessly perform the Twist, the Shake, the Mashed Potato, too. Any old dance that I wanted to.

Life would be oh, so good. But first – I had to get a pair of those black fishnet nylons.

One Saturday I donned my new mod, psychedelic A-line dress and traveled with Bert to downtown Fort Wayne on the Greyhound bus. At Stillman’s, in the glove and hosiery department, I emptied my saved accumulation of allowance monies onto the counter. The silver-haired saleslady smiled as she told me the fishnet hosiery was on sale and I had enough money for TWO pairs.

On the way home, sitting in the bus with our finery, Bert and I oohed and ahhed over the silky black nylons with the criss-crossed threads. I told her I planned to wear them to a ballgame that very night.

We both looked at each other meaningfully. This would be no easy task. Fortunately, I – and a number of my classmates – excelled in parental aversion techniques.

Every morning a group of girls who, like me, were forbidden to wear nylons or miniskirts or mascara, would enter the Girls restroom, where we would change from our juvenile cotton socks into glamorous silk stockings with lace garters. We would roll up our knee length skirts at the waist until they were thigh high. The more brazen would carefully apply contraband Dark Eyes mascara, blue eye shadow and Pretty in Pink lipstick.

Our parents sent us to school as fresh-faced Pollyannas and we emerged from that restroom looking like eighth grade Ladies of the Night.

Later, I put on my new hosiery and told my family goodbye while shuffling quickly to the black door. The school was only a block away, and the door was ooooh, so close …

But I forgot about being part of a large family. I could not even floss without elbowing a sibling.

As I entered the kitchen – on my way to the back door – one of my brothers yelled, “Ugh! … Why are your legs all crackly?” This caused numerous other young siblings to run into the kitchen and stare at my legs. “Ooohhh!” “What is that?” “Are your legs sick?” “Is your head turning crackly, too?” “Will you die?”

Mom and Dad entered the kitchen. My dad was scowling. Really scowling.

And then – he flipped his wig, went ape, had a cow.

He ordered me to remove the fishnets at once. He demanded I give him both pairs and then marched out to the backyard burn barrel and torched both pairs – all the while muttering something about “cheap, … bawdy … trash … not my daughter …”

Mom and I stared at each other – speechless. I had done some stupid – very stupid – things and would continue to do even more stupid things in the years to come, but we never again would witness my dad losing his temper like he did that day.

The hose had caused him to bust a frontal lobe.

Years later, I would wonder: Did he have a mean aunt who beat him with fishnets? Was it a painful memory of a sadistic saloon girl in Korea? Or, some morally corrupt trollop from the Bayous of Arkansas?

We would never know.

All I knew was that I would never, ever wear fishnet nylons again.

On a good note, I did finally learn to do the Twist, the Shake, the Mashed Potato, too – but it was in a pair of very uncool white cotton socks.

(Viv Sade has trouble remembering her four children’s names, but can remember the four hairs that grew out of the mole on her second grade teacher’s neck.)

By Viv Sade

I couldn’t think of a better time to run this column that has been circulating on the Internet for the past few years:

WHY GOD MADE MOMS

Following are the answers given by second grade school children to the following questions:

Why did God make mothers?

1. She’s the only one who knows where the scotch tape is.

2. Mostly to clean the house.

3. To help us out of there when we were getting born.

How did God make mothers?

1. He used dirt, just like for the rest of us.

2. Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring.

3. God made my mom just the same like he made me. He just used bigger parts.

What ingredients are mothers made of?

1. God makes mothers out of clouds and angel hair and everything nice in the world and one dab of mean.

2. They had to get their start from men’s bones. Then they mostly use string, I think.

Why did God give you your mother and not some other mom?

1. We’re related.

2. God knew she likes me a lot more than other people’s mom like me.

What kind of a little girl was your mom?

1. My mom has always been my mom and none of that other stuff.

2. I don’t know because I wasn’t there, but my guess would be pretty bossy.

3. They say she used to be nice.

What did mom need to know about dad before she married him?

1. His last name.

2. She had to know his background. Like is he a crook? Does he get drunk on beer?

3. Does he make at least $800 a year? Did he say NO to drugs and YES to chores?

Why did your mom marry your dad?

1. My dad makes the best spaghetti in the world. And my mom eats a lot.

2. She got too old to do anything else with him.

3. My grandma says that mom didn’t have her thinking cap on.

Who’s the boss at your house?

1. Mom doesn’t want to be boss, but she has to because dad’s such a goof ball.

2. Mom. You can tell by room inspection. She sees the stuff under the bed.

3. I guess mom is, but only because she has a lot more to do than dad.

What’s the difference between moms and dads ?

1. Moms work at work and work at home and dads just go to work at work.

2. Moms know how to talk to teachers without scaring them.

3. Dads are taller and stronger, but moms have all the real power ’cause that’s who you got to ask if you want to sleep over at your friends.

4. Moms have magic, they make you feel better without medicine.

What does your mom do in her spare time?

1. Mothers don’t do spare time.

2. She says she pays bills all day long.

What would it take to make your mom perfect?

1. On the inside she’s already perfect. Outside, I think some kind of plastic surgery.

2. Diet. You know, her hair. I’d diet, maybe blue.

If you could change one thing about your mom, what would it be?

1. She has this weird thing about me keeping my room clean. I’d get rid of that.

2. I’d make my mom smarter. Then she would know it was my sister who did it, not me.

3. I would like for her to get rid of those invisible eyes on the back of her head.

HAPPY MOTHERS DAY TO ALL MOTHERS EVERYWHERE!

(Viv Sade, mother of four, considers children a true miracle and blessing from God – even more so after taking her daily dose of anti-anxiety medications.)

Scribbles n’ Giggles

By Viv Sade

Raising children is like trying to free yourself from a giant python that has wrapped itself around your entire being and is squeezing the very life out of you, and at the same time, enjoying the warmth and closeness and being awed by the beauty and wonder of the creature itself.

As a four-time mom, I used to dream – actually fantasize – about spending time in a bathroom by myself.

I would often picture myself soaking and relaxing in total solitude in a hot, bubbly bathtub surrounded by flickering candles without small people (i.e.: children and/or pythons, depending your frame of mind …) who constantly charged into the room or banged on the door, yelling things like:

“Mom, what are you doing in there?!”

“Mom, can I take a bath with you?”

“Mom, I haffta go potty – NOW!”

“Why is it dark … did the lectrickity go out?”

“Mom, do you need a flashlight?”

“Why do you put that stuff on your face?”

… or the worst one I ever got:

“Mom! There’s a man at the front door with a tie on and he’s coming in to talk to you.”

This constant invasion of my privacy occurred not only in the bathroom, but seemingly anywhere and everywhere I went.

In the kitchen:

“Mom, what are doing in here?!”

“What are you eating?”

“Can I have some?”

“Why can’t I have ice cream for breakfast?”

“I’m hungry, can I have a snack?”

“We never get anything good to eat.”

“Can I have a bite of yours?”

“Ben spilled my chocolate milk on the couch … can I have more?”

“The cat just threw up something gross on the rug and Stacy stepped in it … she’s gagging.”

“Mom, Chris is eating cheese puffies and making orange handprints on the wall.”

“Geoffrey hid all the potato chips in his room and won’t let me have any.”

In my bedroom:

“Mom, What are you doing in there?!”

“Why is the door locked?!”

“Mom, is Geoffrey supposed to be on the roof?”

“Why are you in here reading all by yourself?”

“Is Ben old enough to play with matches?”

“Mom! I’m bleeding!”

“Hey mom, the dog is having puppies on your new chair.”

“Will you read me that book or maybe Calvin and Hobbes?”

“Are you in time out?”

After all the kids were tucked in for the night:

“Mom, what are you doing out there?!”

“Chris is sticking his stinky feet in my face!”

“What are you watching?”

“Can I stay up for longer, maybe just 40 more hours?”

“Mom, is Geoffrey supposed to be on the stairs, playing with G.I. Joes?”

“I haffta go potty – NOW!”

“Is that popcorn I smell?”

“I’m STARVING.”

“Grandma always lets me stay up all night and watch movies and eat cheese puffies and ice cream.”

“Mom, did that movie just say &#%$ ?”

“Mom! Ben just said &#%$!”

“I did not say &#%$, you did!”

“Are you watching a bad movie, mom?”

“Can I watch it, too?”

“Stacy always gets to stay up late and I never do.”

“You like (fill in name of any sibling) better than me.”

“When I grow up I will always let my kids stay up forever and ever – as late as they want.”

Scribbles & Giggles

By Viv Sade

There’s a reason – actually, two – that I never became a smoker.

1. I never quite learned how, and;
2. I am ADD.

Throughout my teenage and adult life, I have tried, with serious intentions, to smoke.

I stopped smoking my four cigarettes a year cold-turkey ten years ago and never looked back.

I would like to say I do not smoke because I realize it is a harmful and life-threatening habit that is disgusting and extremely addictive.

But the truth is, I don’t smoke because I never figured out how to smoke.

I’ve always had a problem paying attention – something now termed ADD which is treated with strong narcotics. Back when I was in school, they simply smacked you on the top of the head with a yardstick and said, “Pay Attention!” and then when you got home from school, your parents smacked you on the head and said “Pay attention when the teacher tells you to pay attention!”  But, I digress … oh yes, every time I would try my best to light up and puff a cig, I quickly became bored and my mind would start to wander.

My oldest daughter and son still reminisce about growing up in a household of charred furniture during my trial years of trying to acquire new and more damaging habits than the ones I already had.

Even thought technically, there were no smokers in our household, every piece of furniture we owned had a burn mark on it.

Because quarterly, I would decide to forge a new addiction.

Shortly after I would light up, and then puff and hack what I thought was an admirable imitation of a smoker’s phlegm-filled-lung cough, the phone would ring or there would be a knock at the door or my toenails would appear to be in need of a sound clipping. Something always came up that made me forget I had lit a burning piece of paper wrapped around burning leaves and I would begin a new task, and just walk away and leave the damn thing burning wherever.

I didn’t smoke, so naturally we owned no ashtrays, so I would just set the quarterly cig down wherever I happened to lose my attention span … television sets, chests of drawers, kitchen counters, a pile of newspapers …

Things would suddenly burst into flames, and I never really connected the odd habit of my quarterly smoking and the random spontaneous combustion of various furniture in our household.

Now, as a former smoker of sorts, I have no patience for messy smokers who throw their butts wherever.

I do have respect for smokers who use real ashtrays and dump them in appropriate places and don’t burn down their homes.

Imagining being able to adopt such a benevolent attitude at the same time you are busy trying to kill all of your healthy blood cells – wow – that’s perseverance.

(Viv no longer tries to smoke, although last year she did drink three vodka gimlets in 15 minutes and then try and light the pilot light in her electric stove.)

Scribbles & Giggles

By Viv Sade

It’s my favorite time of year – time for the unbelievable, incomprehensible Darwin Awards. Named in honor of Charles Darwin, the father of evolution, the Darwin Awards commemorate those who improve our gene pool by removing themselves from it.
Here we go … hang on to your hats, folks …

• DoubleMint Delicious (Dec. 5, 2009, Russia) - A 25-year-old chemistry student a student of the Kiev Polytechnic Institute had acquired the peculiar habit of dipping his chewing gum in citric acid crystals while he worked, presumably to add a zesty flavor. He was hunched over at a computer in his parents’ house in the northern Ukraine city of Konotop when, whether by intention or inattention, the student dunked his gum into an unidentified chemical and popped it back into his mouth. A loud pop was heard coming from his room. (News reports really said that.) Putting aside the question of what he was doing with chemicals at home, the student was well aware of the need to keep chemicals away from food. But there he was, deceased, the lower part of his face blown off. Police found packets of citric acid and a similar-looking unidentified explosive material, and think the student simply confused the packets.

• DUO Wins Double Darwin (Sept. 26, 2009, Belgium) – Two bankrobbers attempting to make a sizeable withdrawal from an ATM in the city of Dinant died when they overestimated the quantity of dynamite needed for the explosion. The blast demolished the building the bank was housed in. Nobody else was in the building at the time of the attack. Robber One was rushed to the hospital with severe head trauma; he died shortly after arrival. Investigators initially assumed that his accomplice had managed a getway, but the second bungler’s body was excavated from the debris twelve hours later. Would-be Robbers One and Two weren’t exactly impoverished–their getaway car was a BMW.

• High Flying GPS-less Celibate Visits Boss (April 20, 2008, Atlantic Ocean) – A Catholic priest recently ascended to heaven on a helium host of party balloons, paying homage to Lawn Chair Larry’s aerial adventure. (In 1982, Lawnchair Larry attached 45 weather balloons to his lawnchair, packed a picnic lunch, and cut the tether–but instead of drifting above Los Angeles babescape as planned, he was rocketed into LAX air traffic lanes by the lift of the balloons! Astoundingly, Larry survived the flight, inspiring the movies Up! and Deckchair Danny and Adelir Antonio, 51.) The priest’s audacious attempt to set a world record for clustered balloon flight was intended to publicize his plan to build spiritual rest stops for truckers. But as truckers know, sitting for 19 hours is not a trivial matter even in the comfort of your own lawn chair.  The priest did take numerous precautions, including wearing a survival suit, flying a buoyant chair, and packing a satellite phone and GPS. However, the late A.A. made a fatal mistake. He did not know how to use the GPS. The winds changed, as winds do, and he was blown inexorably toward open sea. He could have parachuted to safety while over land but chose not to. When the voyager was perilously lost at sea, he finally phoned for help — but rescuers were unable to determine his location since he could not use his GPS. He struggled with the unit as the charge on the cellphone dwindled and died. Instead of a GPS, the Priest let God be his guide. Over the next few weeks, bits of balloons began appearing on mountains and beaches, indicating that God had guided him straight to heaven. Ultimately the priest’s body surfaced, confirming that he had indeed paid a visit to his boss.  This is a Double Darwin – Catholic priests take vows of celibacy. Since priests voluntarily remove themselves from the genepool, the entire group earns a mass Darwin Award.

• Train Sucking Really Sucks (Dec. 15, 2009, Germany) – A U2 subway driver found a body laying besides the underground tracks in Berlin. Because there was no video surveillance camera at that location, it took police two days to reconstruct what had happened. Apparently Yasin A., 22, was alone in the subway car when he decided it would be a brilliant idea to destroy one of the windows. By swinging feet forward from a handrail into the window, he not only managed to burst the glass but also succeeded in being sucked out of the moving train, and was left dead on the tracks. He was alone in the compartment at the time; if an observer had been present, perhaps the young underground rider would not have engaged in destructive nonsense that led to his senseless death.

Here’s the good news – none of the 2010 nominees was from Indiana or Arkansas – which seems to be the case in recent years.

And the best Happy New Year greeting I can offer is, “May you have a great year and not end up a Darwin Award nominee.”

For more untimely deaths by lack of brain cells, visit the Darwin Awards site.

Scribbles & Giggles

By Viv Sade

Our society and culture is obsessed with sex – note the recent article on our Arts & Entertainment page – but we sure don’t like talking about it. We are one uptight country full of repressed individuals who, ironically, are constantly assaulted with sexual imagery and messages 24-7.

Sexuality just sounds dirty – albeit not as dirty as the root derivative – SEX. Come to think of it – root derivative sounds even dirtier.

Anyway, if there’s one area I was pretty squeamish about as a single parent, it was the S word. Strange indeed for the oldest of eight and mother of four.

I remember vividly the time I tentatively approached the subject with my oldest son and daughter, armed with “Sex and Your Changing Body,” and nude Barbie and Ken dolls.

“We need to have a talk,” I began, while my 13-year-old daughter groaned and buried her head in her hands. Her brother, four years younger, casually asked me what I needed to know while bending Barbie and Ken into compromising positions.

My daughter was so shy, it was torture to even mention the word sex around her. Especially with her brother in the same room, who had a tendency to ask the most sexually implicit questions and demand accurate and anatomically correct answers. None of that “down there” or “privates” innuendo.

And I … well, I was a coward.

I began sneaking into their rooms and leaving books with titles like, “Why Does Alexandria’s Body Need Supportive Underwear?” and “Why Johnny Went from Soprano to Alto Even Though He’s Not in Choir.”

Years later, with my two youngest it was no better.

When the boys were 10 and 12, I decided to have The Talk as I was preparing dinner.

As I was explaining that pasta should always be cooked al dente, I casually peppered the conversation with words like “condiments,” “stuffed breasts,” “succotash,” “hoagie buns,” “kumquat” and “rump roast.” I also threw in the Village of Intercourse, Pennsylvania for good measure.

The boys immediately got that deer-in-the-headlights look, jammed their fingers in their ears, jumped up from the table and ran screaming from the room – just as I was about to embark on the benefits of macerating versus marinating.

Several times after that, I tried in vain to have The Talk with the boys. It was hopeless, so I went with the same ploy as with the first two kids. I began leaving books with titles like “What Happens When Girls Aren’t Icky Anymore?” and “Is My Brother a Werewolf or Just Hairy in Weird Places?”

The day it became apparent I had greatly neglected my parental responsibilities was when they became teenagers. The Older One – 16 at the time – began seeing a girl he liked (insert tired sigh) and one day I walked into the living room while he and The Girl were watching television.

Pretty Coquettish Girl was reclining on the sofa – draped across my son’s lap like an after-church Sunday smorgasbord. Reckless Teen Son gave me a sheepish – but proud – grin.

I wedged in between them and grabbed the remote. “What’s on?” I asked, forcing The Shameless Girl to a sitting position with my elbow. They both got up and headed into the dining room, TOWARD THE STAIRCASE.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Upstairs to my room to watch a movie,” Hormones-Gone-Wild Son said.

Annoying Baby Son, sitting at the computer, snickered.

My head began to spin around counter-clockwise and I spewed vile, green liquid … no wait, that was a movie, but that’s exactly how I felt.

I controlled my vile spewing and said sweetly, “I prefer you watch the movie in the living room – DOWNSTAIRS.”

Which they did, but the next weekend, they were back AT IT.

I walked into the living room and there they were – entwined like the trunk of a trumpet vine and locked in a lip embrace.

“What are you doing?” I asked loudly.

This One and Only Daughter had never quite mastered the art of the well-executed lie, which Oldest Son and Youngest Son had mastered to perfection, and he replied, “Kissing. What did you think?”

Geesh. What did I think?

Well, for one thing, I thought That Girl’s cute little belly was hanging out of her too-short shirt and too-low pants and showing too much skin.

I thought I should have earlier invested in the book, “Why Young, Limber Semi-Nude Girls Who Know the Smorgasbord Yoga Position Can’t Be Trusted.”

I thought I’d go into another room and at least pretend to trust him. But first, I slid the Young, Sly One two, crisp $1 bills with whispered orders to to stay in the living room and keep an eye on his brother and That Girl, because obviously, she too had missed out on The Talk.

Later the Baby Sly Spy came to update me on the situation.

“What are they doing?” I asked.

“Nothing, really,” he said, shrugging, then brightened up. “Boy, is she hot! In two years, when I’m 16, if they break up, I’m going to ask her out!”

I took my $2 back.

I needed it to buy more anti-anxiety drugs.

CHURUBUSCO, Ind. — James Fehring and Harrison Sade are the two latest Scouts of local Troop 81 to be recognized in the Boys Scouts Court of Honor after attaining the highest – and most prestigious – rank of Scouting – the Eagle Scout award.

Fehring and Sade were honored at a ceremony held in their honor at the Boy Scout Building in the Churubusco Community Park Sunday, Nov. 15, 2009.

Former scoutmaster and Eagle Scout Jimmy Allman led the ceremonies, asking all of the Eagle Scouts in the room to stand and be recognized. One of the oldest Eagle Scouts in the room was the grandfather of James Fehring.

Current Scoutmaster and Eagle Scout, Rob Pope presented the Eagle badge to both boys.

Pope told humorous and poignant stories of watching Fehring and Sade grow from boys to young men through the ranks and activities of scouting.

The Eagle Scout is the highest award a Boy Scout may receive. There are many requirements, one of which is to have a project that benefits others. Another of the requirements is to raise all of the money necessary to pay for the project.

For his project, Sade chose to paint all of the playground equipment at Churubusco United Methodist Church.

Fehring’s project was to renovate the landscaping at Cornerstone Christian Church in Merriam.

Each boy was asked to select a mentor – a person they credited with being a positive and inspiring influence in their lives.

Harrison chose his father, Paul Sade, and James chose a teacher, James Folland. The Scouts pinned their respective mentors and thanks them for making a difference intheir lives.

Harrison is the son of Paul and Michele Sade of Churubusco. James is the son of John and Rhonda Fehring of Churubusco.

INDIANAPOLIS, Ind. – (Dec. 6, 2008) — The buscovoice.com editor took home three writing awards at the annual Hoosier State Press Association awards ceremony Saturday in Indianapolis.

Vivian Sade is the current editor/reporter of the buscovoice.com news Web site and part owner with partner, Chris Tomlinson, owner of Gonink Design & Print in Churubusco.

The Busco Web site launched in June and is part of the Whitley News Network, along with talkofthetownwc.com and southwhitleyonline.com. Sade won the awards for stories she wrote earlier this year when employed at the Auburn Evening Star as a reporter.

Sade won second place awards for best personal column and best in-depth feature and third place for best news coverage.

The Best In Depth Feature was presented to Sade for a story she wrote entitled, “Donated arm turns little girl into ballerina.” Judges said, “The article was a warm, human story that engaged the reader and stirred a range of emotions: happiness and smiles – the little girl now has an arm and she can dance; pride – someone stepped up and helped people who couldn’t afford what was needed; anger and dismay – two governmental agencies deny aid. Good reporting. The story is an emotional experience.”

For the second consecutive year, Sade took home an award for column writing. Judges based the award on two columns that Sade wrote for the Evening Star – a serious one after interviewing a young victim of child abuse and a humorous one she wrote entitled, “I’d join a cult if it weren’t for the hairdo.” Part of the judges’ comments included, “Funny and serious. Entries showed versatility. Great job with both! The hairdo. How many people thought that but never said it out loud?! The way you gave a humorous lsant to a serious subject was handled well … Child abuse trauma – always a heartbreaker and always something that is kept hush-hush unless we continue, as news people, to remind our readers how real it is and that it can happen ‘right next door.’ Many such columns end as a ‘downer,’ but yours gave hope for recovery. Hope it gave strength to one in need.”

And, along with fellow Evening Star reporter Lindsay Brown, Sade took third place in coverage with no deadline pressure for “No Child Left Behind?” a look at non-traditional high school completion in the team reporting news division. Judges said the story “brought home the point that these achievements are just as important as the regular – traditional – high school graduation.”

The Hoosier State Press Association named The Noblesville Ledger the state’s top daily newspaper and the Dearborn County Register of Lawrenceburg the top nondaily newspaper.

Area newspapers and their awards included:

Fort Wayne Journal Gazette:

The Journal Gazette won seven awards, including:

• Community service, second place – Tracy Warner and Karen Francisco.

• Best general columnist, third place – Steve Penhollow.

• Best business/economic news coverage, third place, Jenni Glenn.

• Best short feature story, third place, Emma Downs.

• Best editorial page, third place, staff.

• Community service, third place, Dan Stockman.

• Best newspaper design, third place, staff.

KPC Media Group (Auburn Evening Star, Kendallville News Sun, Angola Herald-Republican, Garrett Clipper, Butler Bulletin):

• Auburn Evening Star – First place for story of the year and best ongoing news coverage in Division 3 for small daily newspapers went to Sue Carpenter, Lindsay Brown and Dave Kurtz for coverage of the death of Avilla resident Duane Squire, in a field outside Garrett last winter.

• Best ongoing news coverage, first place, Kurtz, Carpenter and Evening Star reporter Jenny Kobiela-Mondor.

• Editorial writing, first place, Kurtz.

• Best sports news, second place, Mark Murdock.

• Best newspaper design in Division 1 for weekly newspapers, Jeff Jones of the Butler Bulletin.

• Best use of graphics, second place, Sue Carpenter, editor of the Garrett Clipper. Carpenter and Evening Star’s Kobiela-Mondor also won third place for best news coverage with no deadline pressure.

• Best community service, second place, Kendallville News Sun’s Cindy Bevington, Catherine Housholder and Grace Housholder. Bevington also won third place for best economic writing.

• Erin Doucette, presentation editor for the Kendallville News-Sun, won three awards. She took first place and second place in the best feature section category and first place for best use of graphics.

• General excellence, third place, and best business section and best newspaper design in Division 4, for medium-size daily newspapers – Kendallville News-Sun, staff.

• Best Web site, third place, Kendallville News-Sun, staff.

• Headline writing, third place awards to Herald-Republican editor Michael Marturello and News-Sun writer Bob Braley.

The News-Sentinel, Fort Wayne:

• Best sports columnist, second place, and best sports event coverage, third place, Blake Sebring.

• Best sports feature photo, third place, Ellie Bogue.

• Best sports action photo, third place, Chad Ryan.

• Community service, third place, Jennifer Boen,

For nearly 17 years, I’ve been writing columns for various newspapers and now, for this Web site. To the average person – who is several, maybe thousands, of light years ahead of the average freelance journalist – this may seem like an easy task. But I assure you, it is not so easy that a first grader could do it.

But since I’m not smarter than a fifth grader, it does appear that I could be easily replaced by a fourth grader.

Each day, the trouble starts as soon as I get up.

By Viv Sade

My typical freelance, work-at-home day goes something like this:

6 a.m. – Wake up as the hubby and youngest son are leaving for work. I should get up and write a column or a couple of chapters in my Long-Anticipated-Garbage-So-Far-No-Plot-Yet Book.

I roll over and go back to sleep.

7 a.m. – Still early in the day. Could get up and write that column.

7:30 a.m. – I finally get up, but must have coffee before I can breathe. Make a pot and read a magazine while it’s brewing. Can’t write – or even swat at a pesky mosquito that somehow got inside and buzzed around my head all night – without caffeine … it gets the creative juices flowing.

8 a.m. – Sit down at the computer and prepare to be brilliant.

Nothing.

Need more coffee.

10 a.m. - Back at the computer. Got distracted by the pile of dirty laundry and dishes in the sink and ordering the newest luminescent lipstick in pale winter hue rose with real flecks of 24K gold from my Avon lady. Also had to sort the pile of mail into To Be Paid Later, To Be Paid Someday, To Be Paid Before Disconnect and Good Luck Buddy.

Need to write something.

Anything.

Nothing.

Crap.

I surf the Net, typing in a search for “Symptoms of Celiac Disease.” I read it and instantaneously acquire all of the symptoms.

I check out the Celebrity Mug Shot Web site to see who’s been arrested in Hollywood.

I see a link to Plastic Surgery Gone Wrong With Incredible Photos … I spend the next hour looking at people who can’t blink or frown. Some of the E.T.-looking creatures have been permanently disfigured after the silicone they were injected with “moved,” creating moon craters and little Rocky Mountain ranges across their faces.

That reminds me.

I search the Web for “Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, symptoms of …”

Good grief, I have every symptom.

12 noon – My sister calls and wants me to meet her for lunch. Well, I tell her, I should be working, but okay. We gotta eat, right?

3:30 p.m. – Back home. Ran into an old friend at the coffee shop and we sat and talked for hours after my sister left and returned to work. I’m a freelancer. I don’t have to go back to work. Which brings up one of the top cons of freelancing — intense, undiluted poverty.

I have lots of time to go out with friends and family for breakfast, lunch and dinner; I just can’t pay for my meals.

I need to WRITE!

What should I write about?

I search my head – a vast wasteland of bygone mommy memories and useless knowledge like where the condiments are located in the refrigerator.

The mustard is in the door, where it’s been for the past 19 years of your life, I tell my youngest every time he asks.

Nothing.

Nothing.

What is wrong with me?

Oh yeah, I have Celiac disease AND Rocky Mountain spotted fever. How can I possibly be expected to work?

Maybe if I turn on the TV, I’ll get inspired.

5:30 p.m. – Wow. That Real Housewives of Orange County is addictive.

But not a single one washed dishes or did laundry. Real housewives, my @$$.

I flip back and forth between RHOC and Sex Change Hospital and Mystery Diagnosis – where doctors are analyzing a patient who looks a lot like my first puppy, Scamper. Dark tufts of hair cover her face and neck and arms.

I run to the bathroom and examine my face, fiercely plucking any stray hairs.

All of the shows are peppered with lots of those annoying commercials where the Oxi-Clean man yells at me.

I cower in my living room, wondering how the Oxi-moron knows about my spotty carpet and dirty whites. He screams at me to GET RID OF IT! ONCE AND FOR ALL!

Sex Change Hospital shows the transformation of a male to female, a female to male, a straight male to a lesbian female, and a transvestite street walker to a bilingual chimpanzee.

Although I’m very confused, the filmed surgeries are mesmerizing.

At the end of the 30-minute show, the woman on mystery diagnosis is told she has Werewolf Disease. Duh. I had consulted with Web MD, and was way ahead of them.

I take a break and shave my legs.

Crap!

I still need to write something.

I swat at the mosquito, but miss.

Just as I sit down at the computer, I notice it’s time to start thinking of dinner.

I do a quick search for “African Bamboo Hut Lice Disease … symptoms of …”
but I am distracted when seven other diseases crop up with similar symptoms – all of which I have.

Lymphatic filariasis, also known as elephantiasis, is best known from dramatic photos of people with grossly enlarged or swollen arms and legs. The disease is caused by parasitic worms, including Wuchereria bancrofti, Brugia malayi, and B. timori, all transmitted by mosquitoes.

Mosquitoes?!

My legs look larger. I know my butt is. Could they be swollen?

Crap! I don’t have long to live and I still haven’t finished my first book.

Crap! I haven’t even started my first book.

10 p.m. - Was going to do some writing after dinner, but some friends stopped over to play euchre.

I told them I couldn’t drink beer because I may have Celiac disease and/or limp-emphatic-feel-all-our-arses disease. They said no problem because they had brought two bottles of wine.

Could stay up late and write, but the wine has lulled me into that soft, fuzzy and slightly scary place where dreams turn into hallucinations and my black, furry slippers morph into grizzly bear cubs who grin and dance on my toes and sing old Doobie Brother hits in unison.

I shouldn’t have drank the whole bottle.

Crap.

I sit down at the computer and type in a search for “alcohol poisoning, symptoms of …”

I knew it!

Every symptom except death.

I look over my shoulder and around the corner. Yep, there’s death. Lurking.

I shouldn’t be writing – I should be enjoying this time with my family.

I pop some corn and we all sit down to watch a late movie.

I fall asleep halfway through. As the husband rouses me to go to bed, I jump and scream.

Then I remember something else I had seen on the Internet that day when I was self-diagnosing my writer’s block and lack of initiative, and I scream again: “Crap! Crap! Crap! Crap!”

Jumping frenchman disorder: weird reflexes: The main characteristic is that patients are extremely startled by an unexpected noise or sight. It’s not just twitching when someone sneaks up behind you. Patients with this disorder flail their arms, cry out and repeat words. First identified in some of Maine’s lumberjacks of French-Canadian origin, the odd reflex has been identified in other parts of the world, too.

My hubby calms me down and tells me I’m a whack job.

As I fall asleep, I turn into Scarlet O’Hara and whisper, I’ll write tomorrow … at Tara … after all, tomorrow is another day.

(Viv Sade was the recipient of the first place Best General Columnist award from Hoosier State Press Association in December 2007. She hasn’t been out of her slippers since. Web MD diagnoses it as “anottoocute creativitisis crisis.” There is no cure. If she can keep that and the Jumping Frenchman Disorder at bay, her book may be published in 2009.)