As a kid, I designed a vehicle, driver and power for the M.A.S.K. line of toys (concept on paper, in pencil AND crayon, because I was a creative kiddo), and sent it in to the Kenner Corporation. I received a letter back from them, stating that they would keep it on file, and they appreciated my interest - a stock 'thanks' letter, in other words. Several months later, they released a new toy in the line that was, essentially, my design - right down to the mask's power. The vehicle was named the Iguana (not my name for it, but time has taken the original name from me), and the Mask was Mudslinger. I didn't want any money or anything... but it would have been nice to make at least a passing mention, right? *shrug* Eh, it was a thing, and it's kinda cool to know I made something that a company actually liked enough to build & put out there. I don't want compensation at all - the fact I know I did it is enough for me.
I am actually on the cover of a famous magazine. Check out the December 2006 issue of Thrasher Magazine, the one with the collage of pictures towards the bottom. Among them, there is a dillhole grinning like a lunatic wearing a Security shirt... that dillhole is yours truly, at my security job when the Toy Machine company came through during one of their King Of The Road challenges. The parking lot of the offices I guarded had what they called the 'perfect sweet rail', and they were getting pics for the magazine. Being a long time fan of Tony Hawk's Pro Skater, I let 'em do their thing; they were harming no one (except themselves on occasion, when a trick bailed), and they gave me some cool stuff... including a pair of skater socks. Those socks were the most exquisite pieces of footwear I have ever had the pleasure of putting on my feet. I wore them 'til they simply fell apart on me, eighteen years later.
My father was a Folk Musician - more 'Kingston Trio', less 'Bob Dylan'. My mother was... heh... *sigh* she was a topless waitress at a burlesque club in Atlanta, back in the late 60's. She insisted they have a topless wedding - NO SHIT. How did I discover this fact? They told me, right? HELL no; my parents were so straight-laced, I didn't get to spend a night at a friend's house until I was 13 years old. A relative, mayhaps? Uh-uh; all of 'em, so tight-assed, they'd swallow a dollar and shit pennies. Nope - I found an old newspaper article from the Atlanta Journal about it, hidden among my mother's clippings and scrapbook stuff, discovered while I was being nosy as a tweenager does. She had already had my half-brothers and sisters, and two of them had children as well (she had me, her last, at 45)... which is why the article about my mother's topless wedding was titled, and I quote: "GEE Grandma - What Big BOOBS You Have!" *chuckling facepalm*
During my fourth grade Arts class, our teacher had brought in a batch of paste buckets; Elmer's School Paste. There were about eight little pails in all (I think, this was a loooooooooong time back... like, the 80's), and he was so pleased he was finally able to let us glue things, like construction paper projects. As I grabbed one before everyone else did, I noticed a very light, minty smell coming from it when I opened it up. Natch, I decided that tasting was believing, so I tried it. It was... strangely delicious. So, as a conniving little bastard, I hid my bucket behind the supply cabinet at the back of the classroom. Over the course of that whole school year, I ate that entire bucket of paste... sneaking back for a quick dip from it, hiding it under my chair during art lectures to snack on, such and so forth. Consider that for a moment: an ENTIRE. QUART. PAIL. Of PASTE. *chuckleblush* Eeyup... I was the weird kid. Hands down.
I had a bicycle accident at the age of fifteen that ruined my teeth permanently, ground flesh off of both knees and opened a hole in my own chin that was deep enough to see my own jawbone. The first thing I heard when I came to was the guffawing laughter of the neighborhood bully, who was riding passenger with his mom and just happened to be stopped at the red light. I dragged the bike (bent front wheel) and my own sorry carcass to the pool supply store owned by a friend of the family (Dad's church friends); the guy took one look at me and blanched. I told him I wanted to see how bad it was, and he said that was a bad, BAD idea. I insisted (being a teenager), and so he led me to the bathroom. He stood behind me to make sure I didn't just faint out from the sight. I looked... turned my head to both sides... stared at the hole in my chin and carefully, oh so carefully, I opened and closed my mouth, making it move around the bone itself. It actually didn't hurt at all, honestly. While the family friend was waiting for me to faint, I simply moved my jaw around a bit and said, "cool". He looked at me like he thought I was now concussed. (I wasn't; the doctor confirmed it later.) Eight stitches - to date of this writing, the only time I have ever required poly-thread inside my flesh.
... there's more, sure... but I wanna save something to talk about later, y'know? Still, thanks for your time - I very much appreciate it.