There were only a few kids in my neighborhood when I was a boy. In fact, for a long time only two. One of them was a nasty, sarcastic little brat who teased me until I teased him back then he’d cry and go home and his mother would yell at my mother and my mother would yell at me. The other one was a sneaky little lowlife who’s parents were really scummy as far as my parents were concerned, but there wasn’t anyone else to hang around with.
So I hung around with him. His family bought the National Inquirer, which, when I was a boy in the 1950s and 1960s was far more bizarre and extreme than it is now. Back then, the front page stories were about two headed babies, people who had lost half their bodies in tragic accidents, people who had been murdered or permanently disfigured - that sort of thing. Not UFOs and Hollywood gossip. Anyway, I can still remember going down to this kid’s house and looking at a copy of the National Inquirer and reading a story about a little boy who was playing with gasoline and matches and set himself on fire. They had pictures of what his face looked like after he left the hospital and it was extremely disturbing. But I remember being totally hypnotized by the pictures, just staring at this little monstrosity and unable to look away. When I went home, I kept thinking of the pictures and went back the next day to get this kid to let me look at the paper again.