The Wonders of Google Video

If you haven't discovered Google Video (video.google.com), it's worth a look. It's the repository of thousands of videos of all shapes and sizes. There's everything from two-hour documentaries on conspiracy theories to 12 second slices of life from a group of goofy college students. Some are funny, some are scary, and some are of really no interest to anyone but those directly involved. Here's a look at few random videos, in no particular order:

1 - http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=1251801923890668073 : Fort Lauderdale - Seth Snorkeling -- This is 11 seconds of people snorkeling in a downpour. Nothing speicial happens, except the rain. I suppose that home movies are going to be available for public consumption.

2- http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=858684627234078196 : Tj and his Traumas -- Here is a two minutes compilation looking at a British boy about 12 years old, in the crazed way that only his friends see him. This is what's fun about Google Video - it's totally democratic. If you search for these kids by their production company name, you'll discover this kid and his friends have produced a collection of crazy, whacked out videos just like this one. This is a Britain you'll never see....

3 - http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=32125591003090770 : PiToMa 2004 -- This is from the Netherlands. I have no idea what's going on. It's pointless.

4 - http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=868481474503299613 : Scientific opposition to fluoridation -- this is a 2 minute mini-documentary about an early critic of flouridation in the public water system. Is it legit? I have no idea. But it's out there, and it's an opinion I'm not familiar with.

5 - http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=1055863339996249193 : Watermelon Seeds Episode 1: Getting Started -- This is no more and no less than a tour of a teenager's computer desk. Think about the details, and consider what it says about this "typical" teenager.

6 - http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=1853457828950208879&q=academy : Archive of American Television Interview with Carroll O'Connor Roll 8 of 8. This is a sample of one of the more interesting contributions to Google Video. The Academy of Television Arts and Sciences has made available many hours of oral histories of important figures in the history of telelvision. This particular half-hour video is the eigth in a series of half-hour interviews with Carroll O'connor of "All In The Family" fame.

Google Video is a great playground. I've only touched on the diversity of the programming available. Well take a look at more selections later...

Walking Tours Special Edition: Routes

(I get all these images from:)

Here are two important routes in my neighborhood:

1 - This route, in yellow, traces the path of what I will now call the Country Village Lane Classic, a kid-organized bike race of almost all the neighborhood kids. It seemed chaotic to me, so I chose not to participate as a racer, and served instead as lookout going into the final turn. There must have been 15-20 kids racing, and everyone seemed to come back in one piece. I don't recall who won, but I always remember it as one of those great neighborhood events.

2 - This route traces yet another one of our money-making schemes. We started out with a whole crowd of local kids, including Larry, Chris and myself, to make some money washing cars. The idea was that we would split among us all the money we made (imagine splitting $2 among about 8 kids). The further we went on our clockwise route, the fewer boys continued. Washing cars, we discovered, wasn't the easiest way to make money. It was hard, tiring work, and by the time we approached the final turn onto Country Village Lane, a revolt was afoot. As we washed our final car, we were only 3 wet and annoyed kids, ready to go home, and really not that much richer, either. Like the lemonade stand effort I've mentioned in a previous blog, our dreams of big money hadn't yet materialized.

Here's an important neighborhood route: to the toy store! We'd start out on our bike from my house (1) on the long adventure to our little neighborhood toy store (2, somewhere in this strip mall), where I bought most of my rubber-band powered gliders, candy, and assorted small toys. At 9 or 10, this was an expedition, and a pretty cool trip for my friends and I. The store was crammed to the ceiling with games and models, and we would spend every visit scouring the 2 or 3 aisles and building up wish lists in our heads to keep at the ready the next time we were in the vicinity with our parents. There's a lot of plotting that goes on in making sure you know what toys you want and how to let the world (your parents) know it. Kids aren't as impulsive as parents think. They scheme.

The Old Days

This is one of my favorite family pictures. This is my great-grandfather, nearly one hundred years ago, in his tea and coffee shop. Not quite Starbucks, is it (though I suppose Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf has elements of this era in its decor). When I look at pictures like this, my attention is always drawn away from the subject of the photo to incidental details. In this case, I'm interested in the action outside the window.

Look closely, and you'll see someone - I think it's a girl - peering through the window on the right. To her right, there's a boy in a cap standing further back and also looking into the store. There's still another boy behind him, looking in the direction of the girl. Look behind all of them, and you will see what appears to be some sort of horse-drawn wagon. On the far right, through what appears to be the door, you can just make out the horse's read end. For some reason, as much as I'm interested in my great-grandfather, I'm just as fascinated with those mystery kids outside. We'll never know who they are, where they came from, and where they were going. We'll never know the drama of their lives. In other family histories, they could be legendary (or notorious). They could have gone on to become nationally famous. Yet here, they remain unknown - extra players in my family history.

Kreepy Kid

After thorough research, I have decided to re-dub Creepy Kid the "Kreepy Kid," mainly because www.kreepykid.com wasn't taken, and I just might want to use it to spread joy across the world.

Invasion of the Creepy Kid

If you are new to this blog, meet my official mascot, a 1938 picture of a boy I call the "creepy kid." If you search for a post entitled,
'The Creepy Kid," you'll find out about the origins of this pic (I found it on the internet).

To be fair, I think any kid can look creepy just by staring seriously into the camera like this boy, adding some creative lighting, and perhaps adjusting the depth of field... In fact, I might prove that one day soon...

People Who Thought I Did Something To Them When I Really Didn't, Part One

Junior High.
I called a friend.
Somehow, on the phone line wasn't just my friend and I, but another couple of kids whose line merged with ours. They took adavantage of the situation and made fun of us. My friend thought I'd set it up, and he never talked to me again.

Actually, that reaction wasn't childish - it's typical of a number of adults I know...

Boy In Box

Perahps this explains my World View.

It's All a Conspiracy

As motion picture technology advances to amazing levels, making even the wildest fantasy seem real, so too are the claims of conspiracy theorists and history revisionists. The president of Iran claims the holocaust is a myth. Others claim the moon landing never happened. Of course, 9/11 launched a whole new set of theories and false history related to that event (for example, the towers were mined with explosives, the planes were piloted by CIA operatives, it was a Jewish conspiracy, etc.).

Actually, if you start believing in some of these theories, how can you believe anything that you didn't personally witness yourself? If any "reality" can be fabricated for consumption by the media, then I must conclude that the federal government itself does not exist. It's not beyond the realm of current technology that our President is actually a computer graphics animation, as are members of Congress. Think of their bizarre behavior the last few years, and it's quite possible our government is being run by a team of crazed computer geeks working out of a garage in Lawrence, Kansas.

That would explain a lot.

Some Things Never Change

I just came across this web page, which purports to show graffiti preserved on the walls of the doomed Roman city of Pompeii.

Here's one that reminds me of the restaurant ratings we have here in LA:
(in the vestibule of the House of Cuspius Pansa): The finances officer of the emperor Nero says this food is poison.

Timeless advice:

(in the basilica): A small problem gets larger if you ignore it.

Insults:

(in the basilica): Phileros is a eunuch!

They get much more...colorful.

Check it out if you're interested

I've always been fascinated with the private lives of everyday people throughout history. What did the typical Roman family discuss around the equivalent of the kitchen table? What was the daily routine? Years ago, I picked up a book, "Growing Up in Medieval London: The Experience of Childhood in History," which explored just that question during one period in history.

Another book I picked up, "The Penguin Book of Childhood" uses letters and quotations from children and adults throughout history to illustrate how some attitudes and perceptions have changed, and how some have stayed the same: The great Greek philosopher Socrates wrote something over 2400 years ago that's been repeated generation after generation through the ages:

Children today love luxury too much. They have execrable manners, flaunt authority, have no respect for their elders. They no longer rise when their parents or teachers enter the room. What kind of awful creatures will they be when they grow up?

My Band

I had this band in college...

I can't sing, or play music instruments (at least, not since 5th grade), but I had this band. My musical partner, who shared my vast talents, joined with me in our questionable pursuit, limited thankfully to a few parties and and a rarely distributed cassette tape. We also had backup. Together, we were the Sem and Craven! Band. I was Craven, he was Sem, his brother was "and" and another friend (who actually had some talent) was "!" . We weren't even good enough to be a garage band. We were more a corner of the bedroom band. Our concerts consisted of three events - a new years eve concert, a summer "super sixties celebration," and a birthday party (where the birthday boy got sick and missed our performance). We had a handful of fans that cheered us on (and I do mean a handful), and one additional fan more than a decade later.

We had songs of questionable taste, of course, with names like, "Feed Us, Fetus," "Pimp (L)" and "Baby: BOOM." We even created a music video (actually music film would be more accurate) entitled, "Tie It Tight!", about a kid from North Dakota who travels to a California beach and loses his bathing suit to the sea because he didn't tie it tight....

We spent endless hours recording our music, didn't rehearse for our concerts, destroyed one guitar and one maraca, and employed a single 1-amp amplifier. I suppose you could say we were the original legends in our own mind...

Something to ponder.

What my childhood friends became:
Teacher, Lawyer, Accountant, Doctor.

Me? Well, I teach sometimes, and I occasionally use lawyers, accountants and doctors. Do they use filmmakers? I think not.

Yet More Stops on the Tour

Here's a few more stops on the never-ending walking tour of my childhood:

1 - When I went back to New York as an adult, eighteen years since my last visit, I got together with Larry and Chris. We had curiously different memories of an incident at this location. The three of us decided to have a contest that involved throwing objects under passing cars - these objects - it might have been one or all of them over time - including snowballs, Frisbees or rocks. It was exciting - more so when one of the three hit the side of a passing car. The guy pulled over immediately into one of the parking spaces - and we took off like a shot!

2 - I took off so fast, I left my precious Stingray bike standing right here. As soon as I sprinted home (we split up and were hiding in our respective homes), I waited maybe ten minutes and crawled like a spy back around the corner to retrieve my bike. To my relief, the guy was gone...but I was terrified that we hadn't heard the last of this...

3 - We used to have a crabapple tree on the curb in front of our house. One day, Larry and I decided it would be funny to line up crabapples all the way across the street. Crabapples, if you don't know, are like tiny, apples, just a little bigger than a marble. We hid behind a bush and watched as cars drove by, running over the crabapples. We rushed out and quickly replaced the crushed crabapples with fresh ones, and returned to our hiding place. Then, some crazy guy stopped, not wanting to contaminate his tires. He saw us right away and ordered us to move the crabapples out of his way. I suppose we might have run, but we were right in front of my home, and we didn't want trouble. We obeyed, and another game was over.

4 - Here's a little tramatic event. I was sitting here at about 6 or 7 years old with a child's plastic fishing rod, happily playing the fisherman at Ridder's Pond. Then some kid, perhaps a little older, came by with his dad and commented about my "baby" fishing rod. I went home in defeat. Perhaps this is why I've never been much of a fisherman...

5 - That little white object is actually a shack, a small way-station for the Nassau county police. It was built within a few months after we hit the side of the car down the street. For years, I was convinced that it was built solely to nab us for our crime.

They haven't caught us yet.

Brief Friendships

I was thinking today about the collection of numerous brief friendships I accumulated when I was a teenager. Usually associated with a creative endeavor in a single class during one semester, these creative partners remained friends only in that class, and somehow never advanced to the regular friend stage. Or, if they became friends in school, we weren't friends outside of school.

Isaac was a good friend during one particular junior high English class, where we worked on a collection of creative assignments together (one or two of which I still have), but somehow didn't remain friends after that. I think I saw him a couple of years later when he was in Junior Achievement, a program that taught kids business skills. He and his fellow JA'ers were sitting in a both in Sears selling something or other. It was either him or another brief friend, Tom. That's the thing about a brief friend like that - there's only that one environment you have as a reference. I probably knew the back of his head better than his face!

Darrell was a friend only in school. We'd goof around so much in one English class, making each other laugh constantly, that one semester our teacher gave us both an unsatisfactory mid-term grade for cooperation for being so disruptive. I ran into him at college years later. I think he was studying computer science...

David was yet another brief Junior High friend. If we had gone to the same high school, we probably would have remained friends, but in those days when the phone was the only means of communication (horrors!) that was the end of it. We actually did get together outside of school at least once that I remember, when he invited me to a Dodger baseball game. I also remember kidding around with him in a shop class that I wanted to beat him up, and having all these other kids in the class try to make that non-fight happen. They actually surrounded us after class, waiting for blood. So I gave him a goofy little hit in the arm and we went on our way.

I'm not sure if any of these people would remember our friendship. It's interesting how the mind works. I remember quite a few of these sorts of friendships, but I've also run into childhood (or teenhood) friends of which I have no memory. Like I remember the kids I mentioned, these individuals will remember sharing a class with me. Ill have no solid memory of interacting with them. On one hand, I feel a little bit bad that I can't remember them, on the other, it's fascinating to rediscover a small, forgotten part of my life.

Stops on the Tour

Here are a few more stops on the walking tour of my childhood (book your trip now).

1 - Once again, this was my home, at 143 Country Village Lane.

2 - The New Hyde Park Pool was a major summer location - nobody had their own pool (unlike the neighborhood we moved to in California, where everyone had one). This was the social gathering place for kids and parents (especially moms) alike.

3 - This is the hill where I first tested my wooden go-kart, which my dad helped me build. I remember getting wheels off of a baby carriage in a thrift store somewhere. We painted the kart in very cool fluorescent colors, and it was absolutely one of my favorite playthings for a while. I even took it out to California. The only known image I have of my go-kart is a brief glimpse on a strip of super-8 movie film. One of these days I'll transfer it over so my vast audience can see what I mean.

4 - This is an intersection I raced through on my beautiful Stingray bike and just missed getting hit by a car. I instantly became a more careful bike rider.

5 - This is where I got my one and only black eye after an argument with one of my best friends, Chris. Many years later I returned to New Hyde Park and he had no memory of our little fight, but apologized anyway. I apologized too, because he remembered something I did to him as well - for which I had absolutely no memory. It seems that he got sick on the school bus on our way home and threw up. In all the standard commotion, nobody noticed - until Guess Who announced to the entire bus, "LOOOOK!!!! CHRIS THREW UP," after which everyone moved to the opposite side of the bus in a huge dramatic rush only little kids can carry off. That was another one of my special kid truths: if you can deflect attention from yourself, do it every time you have the chance. Do it even if nobody is paying attention to you. Today we would call it a pre-emptive strike.

Now that I think about, I don't recall if he punched me in the eye before or after I humiliated him on the bus. It all makes sense now...

Big Business on Country Village Lane

Once again, we'll retrace my childhood via Google Earth...

1 - I lived here.
2 - Larry lived here.
3 - When I was about 9, Larry and I went into business running a lemonade stand here.
4 - This is where I set up MY lemonade stand after Larry and I got into an argument. We were in direct competition - directly across the street! We didn't do too much business. No self-respecting adult wanted to stop and have to pick one of us over the other.
5 - This is where Larry and I went into business together again, right outside Ridder's Pond. With the gauranteed kid traffic, we figured we'd do a lot of business. We did! So much so that we ran out of lemonade. We were surrounded by a group of big kids (probably 12 or 13 years old), who still wanted lemonade. Larry told them he was going to go home and get another batch. We let them pay in advance.

I sat at the lemonade stand waiting for Larry to return. Twenty minutes later, I was still waiting. The Big Kids came back and asked for their lemonade. I promised them that Larry would be back, but I was already getting nervous. Another ten minutes, and they were beginning to get mad.

Another ten minutes, and Larry finally returned with a pitcher of Lemonade. My relief disappered almost immediately as we were once again surrounded by lots of Big Kids insisting that they had paid in advance. We began pouring cup after cup after cup of lemonade. Unfortunately, we ran out of lemonade before we ran out of Big Kids insisting that they had paid in advance. We had no way of knowing who had paid and who hadn't, and soon we were surrounded by Angry Big Kids demanding a refund. We had no choice but to comply. A short time later, we headed for home. We were sold out of lemonade, and we'd handed out all of our profit. Our lemonade stand days were over.

Prescription: Suicide?

"Prescription: Suicide?" is a feature documentary I edited and produced with Director Robert Manciero exploring the misuse of anti-depressant drugs on kids and teens. The project took us across the country as we visited with six families impacted by the experience. You can find out more about the film itself at www.prescriptionsuicide.com.

We began shooting the film in April, 2005, and premiered the film at the Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival in November.

The experience of creating the film was emotionally intense. Three of the kids we profiled committed suicide while using anti-depressants; the three others attempted suicide. Bob and I entered the lives of these children and their families with two objectives: to not only tell the story of how the kids died or nearly died, but who they were as unique human beings. The experience of looking through the photos, movies, belongings, artwork and writings of kids who were no longer alive underscored for us the tragedy of what was lost. We learned as much about them as we possibly could without having known them. The three survivors also allowed us into the darkest period of their lives with a degree of trust that was extraordinary. 18 year-old Jason Atwood allowed us to review his highly personal journals dating back to when he was ten years old. The Downing family trusted us to review all of their late daughter Candace's belongings, videos and photographs, and brought together her friends to tell us how she really was. Though it was sometimes painful, every family provided everything they could.

Creating a documentary like this is all about trust and responsibility. Going into the project, we understood the gravity and potential importance of what we were about to do. Once we met the families, the obligation of not letting them down became just as important. For me, that's a large part of what documentary filmmaking is all about.

Return of the Creepy Kid

Here he is again, my favorite Creepy Kid (see earlier blog). I looked up "creepy kid" on Google and found this list of "Xmas Gifts for Creepy Kids." I especially like the knitted digestive tract.

http://blogs.setonhill.edu/Arnzenews/cat_weird_sites_of_the_month.html

A Few Amazing Kid Truths

Amazing Truths

1 - Old Radios can pick up old broadcasts.

2 - Time capsules are cool, even if you dig them up after a couple of months, and marvel at the enclosed newspaper from two months ago.

3 - If I could just get enough wood, my parents would let me build a huge clubhouse complex in the backyard.

4 - If you get a cut on the skin between your fingers, you will die.

Movies You Probably Don't Know, Part One

Considered by the British Film Institute to be one of the 10 greatest British films of all time, Ken Loach's first film, 1969's "Kes," is virtually unknown in the USA. "Kes" is the story of a boy growing up in a working class community in northern England, as the coal mines were dying in the 1960's. As his family struggles through strikes and desperation, Billy finds a small bit of solace training a wild hawk. It is said to be a gritty commentary on the social upheavals that were beginning to sweep across England at the time. It's intense, emotional, and deeply effecting. It feels painfully authentic.

Unless you can find custom dubs on Ebay or in specialty video stores, "Kes" is not currently available here in the United States. PAL (European) format DVD's are available overseas. Like several other Ken Loach films, "Kes" also presents another challenge for the American audience: the thick northern English accents may be virtually impossible to understand at times. When I first saw this film on VHS, I had to view the film two or three times to really get a sense of what was going on. The DVD version offers English subtitles, which would be helpful (if you have a multi-region DVD player).

My Bazooka

The only war toy I ever bonded with as a kid (not counting GI Joe) was a plastic shoulder mounted air bazooka. It was this huge (well, to me anyway), contraption that looked like a rocket launcher. The handle would release and serve as a pump to (I suppose) build up the pressure in some inner chamber of the bazooka. Once I couldn't force it to pump anymore, I would lock the handle back in place, mount the bazooka and my shoulder, and pull the trigger. Instead of sending off a projectile to blow up the neighbor's car, a huge (to ME) BOOM would echo up and down Country Village Lane. By virtue of the fact that it made the most noise, it was my coolest toy. What boy wouldn't want their very own sonic boom?

Unfortunately, any cool toy just begs to be made cooler. Since it pushed out such a torrent of air, I theorized, then surely it could push out something ON that torrent of air. My first experiment was to pour a handful of dirt down the front of the bazooka. I pumped it up, excited about what could possibly happen. I imagined a cloud of smoke as the dirt flew into the air. How cool would it be to have a bazooka that smoked like the real thing (as seen on TV)? I already was thinking another step ahead, and speculating on the first actual projectile to send out through my bazooka.

Dirt and Air Bazookas do not mix, I discovered. I also discovered that a big air bazooka that could only wheeze just isn't a cool toy anymore, particularly when you might have to explain to your friends how you killed it.

Have you ever heard of how some kids seem to lose interest in a brand new toy after only a little while? I don't think it's always an issue of a short attention span. I think they busted it.

Things You Can Do With Google Earth

This is a small corner of the neighborhood in New Hyde Park, New York where I lived until I was eleven years old, with some initial notations (expect more as time goes on!)

1 - This was our house, at 143 Country Village Lane. Yes, it overlooked the pond, seperated only by a chain-link fence.

2 - Ridder's Pond, so named for the owner of the estate on which the entire development was built (the same family that operates the Knight-Ridder publishing empire today). If the winter got cold enough, the pond would freeze over and ice skating was allowed. The view out my bedroom window was something out of a Norman Rockwell Painting (though I had no appreciation of that at the time).

3 - The location at which my beautiful blue Stingray bike was stolen from a bike rack, circa 1971. The first and only time I ever left my bike unlocked....

4 - This is where I likely was WHEN my Stingray was stolen. I was with my friend Larry, who insisted he saw the culprits (though he was with me). Alas, they were never caught.

As time goes on, I'll add more historical notations to this map and other photos, in the event you should be inspired to take a walking tour of my early life.

Creepy Kid

I found this pic on the internet a couple of years ago. It's a photo by Erna Lendvai-Dircksen, entitled "Young Boy 1938."

It's creepy, so I keep it around.

Day Two

This is day two of my blog. I am officially in the "how long should I keep this up" mode, which is closely related to the "is anybody really reading this" mode and the "how much information do I really want to give out to the world and potential employers" modes. I just did a search on Google's Blog Search feature, and my entries from yesterday are already listed (Google owns Blogspot). Perhaps I should include some "stimulating" words and phrases to up the number of views and comments here, build up my fame in the blogging community, become an internationally famous blogger, change the course of history, and attend the grand opening of a museum preserving my contributions to world culture. Or maybe I should just earn a living.

The President Hotel

This was the President Hotel in the Catskill Mountains in New York. During the 1930's my great uncle, who was known by one and all as "Uncle Pete," ran the place with a partner. My father and uncle spent their summers working there. Though not as well remembered today as other landmark hotels in the region, it was a major destination in those days, and featured performers including Danny Kaye (before he hit Hollywood) and the dancing duo, the Nicholas Brothers. The Nicholas brothers were a pair of young, African-American kids who were already beginning to make it big in the mid-late 30's. Racist attitudes, of course, still impacted their lives, despite their success. My father told me a story of witnessing a clerk at the hotel attempting to refuse the Nicholas Brothers a room at the hotel - which they were promised and which was expected. My father and his friend, offer their own workers' quarters to the Nicholas Brothers. One of the brothers explained to my father the importance of standing up to the clerk and obtaining the accomadations they were promised. Ultimately, Uncle Pete's partner came onto the scene and straightened things out. About ten years ago, I had the opportunity to speak with Fayard Nicholas, who remembered the incident, an experience which was highly unusual at the usually more open-minded Catkill Mountains resorts. I had the chance to meet Uncle Pete once in 1971, in Florida, where he's relocated to run the Atlantis hotel:

Cartoons!

I created cartoons like these to keep my nephew entertained on our various camping trips over the years....many have evolved into short stories and screenplays...with some fun results. Note that "The Rejected Guy" evolved into "Rejected Boy," the short story that precedes this post.

Rejected Boy - A Short Story

Here's an indication of my slightly warped sense of humor....

THE REJECTED BOY
by
RICH SAMUELS

On an April afternoon in 1890, an infant was born somewhere in New York City. At birth, the child’s mother and father took one look at the boy and shook their heads sadly.

“I’m very disappointed,” his mother said.

His father agreed, “He’s hardly worth the effort.”

Without pausing even to name the child, they brought the baby to the closest orphanage they could find. The Orphanage Director took one look at the infant, and slammed the door in their face. Undeterred, they left him in a basket on the steps of the dark stone building.

Martha, a portly old woman who swept the grounds in and around the orphanage, had no interest in disposing of a rotting carcass, and so fed the infant with random food scraps thrown about by the children inside. During the winters, she kept the trash fire burning by the growing boy, who remained quietly in his basket, awaiting an adoption that never came. Even though every potential mother and father saw Boy as they arrived at the Orphanage, they ignored the dirty little child.

As he turned ten years old, life changed for the boy. Martha, supplied with a new broom, felt inspired to redouble her already dedicated efforts to keep the grounds free of refuse. Boy was in the way.

“Move along,” she said, indicating the nearby park.

Boy quietly obeyed, taking his only possessions – his basket and his ragged little blanket.

At first, he walked across the street to the park, though the gravel roadway hurt his bare feet. From the safety of his basket, he had gazed at the park all of his life, and had dreamed of playing under the great trees and grand statues.
The groundskeeper at the park was quite offended by the odd naked child with the long matted hair, and chased Boy back to the street. Boy was soon walking along a great boulevard, crowded with thousands of horse-drawn carriages and pedestrians – darkly clad adults who didn’t see him at all, knocking him over and over again to the pavement as they hurried on their way.

Before long, he reached a gate behind which children played. He wondered if this, too, was an orphanage, and stared at the four story building beyond the playground.

Boy again was thrown to the ground again as a man, a woman and little girl arrived at the gate and walked through onto the grounds, ignoring him completely. He slipped through the gate behind them, and watched as the man and woman hugged the girl goodbye. He wondered if they were returning her to the orphanage. The girl seemed unconcerned, however, as her parents left her and walked past boy and back through the gate.

Boy turned around and around, watching all the boys and girls playing and laughing around him. As he was a boy that never had such experiences, he was quite curious.

Two boys, to his surprise, walked up and looked right at him.

“Who’re you?” the taller boy said.
Having never been asked a question, Boy was too startled to answer.

“Gimmee that,” the shorter boy said, pointing at his basket.

Boy did as he was told. The shorter boy inspected the basket, while the taller boy looked on enviously.

“Gimmee that,” the taller boy said, pointing at the blanket. Boy gave him the blanket, and the taller boy inspected his new acquisition.

A bell rang by the door to the big building, and all the children began to scurry inside. Without much else to do, Boy wandered inside with them, following them as they filed down the hallway, some disappearing into one room or another. Wanting to be close to his former possessions, he followed the two boys he’d met and entered a large room. Children sat at small desks facing a large blackboard, and a neatly dressed man sat behind a large desk facing the children. Boy had never been in a school, and hadn’t any idea what was happening.

The man behind the desk looked at the stinking, naked little boy and shook his head.

“This will not do.” The man pointed out the door, and Boy walked back out into the now-empty hallway. All the doors were closed, now, and Boy could only walk back outside and onto the street.

As he stood outside the gate to the school, contemplating which direction he should walk, something caught his eye on a nearby bench. He walked over and picked up a newspaper, neatly folded and apparently forgotten. Though nobody had bothered to teach him to read, he was curious about his discovery, having seen many newspapers drift down the street by the orphanage. He was about to unfold the paper when it was snatched from his hands, replaced by a shiny nickel. He started at the nickel for a moment, and looked up only as a man in a top hat walk away.

“Thank you!” the man said, waving his cane in the air in a backwards acknowledgement.

Boy sat on the bench staring at the nickel. He had never held money before, and wasn’t quite sure what to do.

After two hours, a boy with a bagful of newspapers walked by, holding one of the papers in his hand and shouting out, “CITY HALL SCANDAL!” A man walked up to the newsboy and gave him a nickel and opened the paper as he walked away. The newsboy noticed that Boy was staring.

Boy could only point at the bag of newspapers and say, “I sold one.”
The newsboy pulled his cap down further over his eyes, tilting his head back, “Who do you work for?” He looked over Boy with scorn, “They can’t pay very well.”

Boy had no idea what he was talking about.

“You should work for the Herald,” the Newsboy said with a hint of pride, “I bet they pay better then what you get now. You could get clothes, even.”

As he had never had clothes, Boy was very interested and followed the newsboy for two hours as he sold newspapers and then returned to the Herald headquarters for the evening edition. Watching the newsboy, he learned that he could buy several newspapers from the Herald for a nickel, and then sell them to passerby for a nickel a piece. Boy decided to become a “newsie.”

He was not an immediate success. Though he saw other boys sell newspapers pretending to be wide-eyed and hopeless, passers-by weren’t interested in him. His dream of turning his nickel into a dime almost seemed lost as the night grew long. He stopped to rest in an alleyway beside a small tavern, curling himself into a ball the size of his lost basket, and nearly falling asleep. He was startled awake to the sound of a man yelling, “RAT!” Boy jumped up, and realized that the drunken man was talking about him! When the giant rat asked for a nickel, the man could do nothing less then obey, throwing him all the change in his pocket and running off down the street without collecting his paper. Boy earned a profit of twenty-five cents on his first night.

Boy had enough money to buy a set of used clothes, including a cap just like the other newsboys. Unfortunately, having never had clothes of his own, he hadn’t any idea how to buy them, and wore pants, shirt, hat and shoes many sizes too big. He found half of a pair of scissors and cut his hair as best he could. Having never done that either, the result was chaotic. Customers pitied him and bought papers. Newsboys just scorned him.

In less than two weeks, Boy became one of the most successful newsboys at the Herald, though nobody cared to tell him. The other newsies, ignored him, and the clerk who sold him his papers made a concerted effort never to acknowledge him.

The other boys wouldn’t let him stay at the Newsboys lodging house, and nobody else would rent him a room, so he spent his nights sleeping outside the building housing the Herald’s printing press. Scores of workers stepped over him as they came and went, barely aware of just what they were stepping over.

By the third week, Boy had sold so many newspapers that the publisher himself, General Alexander Tuntley, called for the boy. As Boy paid his money and collected his morning newspapers, the clerk pointed to a building across the street and told him to go into the Herald Building and present himself to General Tuntley’s office. Boy looked at the imposing building, with THE HERALD engraved in granite on the face. They were the first words he had learned.

“Go Now!” the clerk ordered, and Boy, ever obedient, followed his instructions.
As soon as he stepped into the marble-floored lobby, the man behind the reception desk stood up and looked upon the boy with the scorn Boy had always attracted.

“Newsboys are not permitted in this building.”

Boy was very frightened, “I’m to report to General Tuntley’s office.”

Quite annoyed, the man pointed at two large oak doors, and Boy saw long golden words over the entranceway He adjusted his oversized pants and walked through the doors, his newspapers still in hand.

The room, like the doors leading into it, was oaken as well. Four prim, nearly identical women sat stiffly at four nearly identical desks. They each stopped typing and looked up at Boy with equally sour expressions.

“May we help you?”

Boy repeated his explanation, “I’m to report to General Tuntley’s office.”
Another woman asked, “Purpose of your visit?”

Boy thought for a moment, “I don’t know.”

“You’re the newsboy,” the third woman said, “the boy whose sold all those papers.”

Boy nodded his head.

“Leave the newspapers here, and step through the door,” the fourth woman instructed.

Boy handed his stack of newspapers to the fourth woman and opened the heavy doors into General Tuntley’s office.

The general sat at the far end of his office, facing Boy amongst a collection of his hunting and Civil War memorabilia. The head of a great black bear hung directly above him, its mouth wide, ready to take a large bite out of anyone who offended its owner.

The general was a bearded, gray-haired man of advanced age who glared at his guest with piercing blue eyes. Boy stood quietly for several minutes, until finally General Tuntley spoke.

“You’re the boy?”

Boy nodded his head.

“I find that hard to believe.” The General opened a small box on his desk, removed a large cigar, and lit it with a large wooden match. Taking his first few puffs, he considered Boy.

“You’re hardly Herald material. I find your feat unlikely.”

Boy was puzzled, and remained quiet.

“You may leave. Your time with the Herald is over.”

Boy shrugged and left his office. Retrieving his newspapers from the outer office, he returned to the streets and sold his supply. Only when he returned later for the evening edition did he understand that he was no longer to be allowed to sell newspapers for the Herald.

Boy thought nothing of his dismissal and took his profits with him to the New York Sun, selling their morning edition with the same zeal and the same success he’d had at the Herald.

Boy could sell newspapers at a pace unmatched by any newsboy at any paper.

Before long his pockets would bulge with nickels. He drew the attention of the management at the Sun, just as he had at the Herald, and like the Herald, was immediately dismissed as a likely fraud. The cycle was repeated at three other newspapers, the Press, the Gazette and the New York Times. After his fifth week as a newsie, Boy had been hired and released from all of the important newspapers in New York City, and had gathered together a small fortune dwarfing that of any other newsboy. He remained unaware of his great success, for his fellow newsboys kept a good distance away. Nor was he aware of the outstanding reason: he had never learned to wash, and so produced such an odor that the citizens of New York quickly bought newspapers from him simply to keep him away.

Having exhausted opportunities as a newsboy, Boy tightened the rope holding up his pants, adjusted his cap, and joined the crowds along the wide boulevard before him. Now familiar with the hectic pace of the sidewalks, he could dart around and through the crowds. He let the crowd carry him far north, into a part of the city with which he was thoroughly unfamiliar.

With no warning, he was deposited from the crowd onto a narrow side street lined with small neighborhood stores and street vendors. Windows displayed products from dry goods to clothing. In one window, a man with a large cleaver sliced a side of beef. Boy watched with fascination, having never seen a cleaver, nor a side of beef. He pressed his face against the window for a better look, and saw that the man with the cleaver was accompanied by a boy not much older than himself, who watched the activity with much interest. Both the man and the boy wore white smocks smeared with blood.

Soon, a customer entered the store, and the man turned away from his cutting block to attend to business. His boy looked up from the meat and saw Boy watching. With a careful glance at the man, the boy slid over to the front door opened it up just enough to talk to Boy.

“You want a job?”

Boy nodded.

“Come here after my pop leaves, at 6:30.”

Boy nodded again, and the door was closed in his face.

With little else to do, Boy sat down at the curb and waited, until the man who had wielded the cleaver, now free of his blood-smeared smock, left the store.

Boy walked in.

The boy he had seen earlier was waiting. He, too, had removed his smock. He repeated his question, “Do you want a job?”

“Yes.”

The boy pointed at the counter by the window, covered in blood and entrails,

“I’ll give you fifteen cents to clean all of that, and what’s on the floor.”

Boy saw that the floor below the counter was in a similar condition.

“Make sure that it’s very clean, or you don’t get paid.”

Boy nodded.

“Come back tomorrow at the same time.” The boy turned and ran out the door, leaving Boy alone.

Boy hadn’t been shown any cleaning utensils, and hadn’t any experience with them anyway, so he began his work by gathering together all of the entrails and bone with his hands, and dumping them into a trash can below the counter. He got down on his knees and did the same with the remains on the floor. Of course, he couldn’t do the same with the blood, but noticed the leg prints he’d left when he’d knelt down, and realized that he could wipe up the blood with his clothes. He removed his shirt, wet it down at the sink, and used it to clean the counter. He wet it again, and used it to clean the floor. He repeated the process until everything was clean above and below the counter. Putting his shirt back on, he closed the door behind him and left the store.

The hour was very late, and the street outside was deserted. Though hungry, he decided he’d wait for morning and buy something with what remained of his newsie money. He ducked into an alley nearby the store and looked around for a place to sleep. Hearing the warning growl of a large dog, he quickly retreated back onto the street.

On the street, other dogs were approaching him slowly from every direction. He’d never had any trouble with dogs before. Like humans they typically avoided Boy. The dogs surrounding Boy were licking their chops and sniffing the air. He looked down at his shirt, and realized that it was soaked in blood.

Slowly, he pulled the shirt over his head, leaving his cap in place. He bunched the shirt it up in his hands and threw it over the head of the closest dog. As all the dogs dived for the shirt, Boy ran in the other direction, as fast as he could.

More dogs quickly caught Boy’s scent and soon he was dashing down a crowded boulevard with dozens of dogs in pursuit, leaving a path of chaos as people and street vendors were knocked to the ground. A patrolman soon followed the dogs, blowing his whistle and bringing others into the chase.

Outstretched arms and converging dogs turned Boy around time and again, up this boulevard, and down that avenue. The dogs stayed close at his heels, but the adults chasing him weren’t quick or clever enough to catch him. He darted in front of horse-drawn carriages and the occasional horseless ones, as well. He dashed down alleyways and scaled fences, losing dogs and people – but only as long as it took for other dogs to catch his scent and take after him in their own pursuit.

Boy was nearly trampled by a horse as he crossed over yet another street. Now, he was at the edge of a deeply wooded park, and ran headlong into the thicket of trees just ahead. Instantly, he was in a jungle – a place removed from the surrounding city by a mass of crawling ivy, overgrown bushes and massive trees. He moved ahead, but could only fight through the brush at a terrifyingly slow pace. He heard the dogs barking angrily as they entered the woods, and hoped that they too would be slowed by the overgrowth.

Abruptly, Boy stumbled out of the brush. Ahead of him lay only scattered trees, a fountain, and a great statue of a man in an overcoat. He knew where he was! There was a street a short distance ahead, and across the street, the great, dark, familiar steps leading to the stone structure that housed the orphanage.

Just outside the closed door, Martha swept, her attention fixed to the second step from the top.

Boy heard the barking dogs making their way closer to end of the brush. He ran toward the street.

“Martha!” he yelled, reaching the street and dodging carriages as he mad his was across. She didn’t seem to hear him.

The first dogs burst out onto the parkland and sprinted in Boy’s direction.

“MARTHA!” Boy screamed louder, and Martha slowly lifted her head as he started to climb up the eighteen steps toward her.

Boy tripped just two steps away and landed at Martha’s feet. Dozens of dogs were emerging from the brush – it was almost as it they’d multiplied during their run.

Boy looked up at Martha, trying to catch his breath.

“Martha!”

Martha looked down at the panting boy. She raised her eyebrows in recognition.

“Help me,” Boy pleaded in a small voice.

Martha considered him for a moment, then offered her broom.

“Help me.”

Boy got up on his feet and took the broom.Martha turned to face down the approaching dogs, and Boy began to sweep.

Why?

It's Thanksgiving morning, and I'm looking for something creative to do...since I don't have all the elements to create a podcast, Here's a blog to highlight my various creative endeavors, past and present. Enjoy!