Daniel Sherrier's Blog, page 64
January 4, 2013
Earths in Space update
To your NOOK! Quick!
Earths in Space vol. 1: Where Are the Little Green Men? is now available at Barnes & Noble!
And that's not all! It's on Kobo!
It's showing up in the system at Gardners Books, so if you're in the UK, ask your bookstore about its availability.
Here's a place where you can learn more about the book. That site also serves as a venue for posting reviews, if you feel so inclined after reading.
You can also read about the book here on this blog, including a teaser excerpt.
Reading is good for your brain.
Earths in Space vol. 1: Where Are the Little Green Men? is now available at Barnes & Noble!
And that's not all! It's on Kobo!
It's showing up in the system at Gardners Books, so if you're in the UK, ask your bookstore about its availability.
Here's a place where you can learn more about the book. That site also serves as a venue for posting reviews, if you feel so inclined after reading.
You can also read about the book here on this blog, including a teaser excerpt.
Reading is good for your brain.
January 1, 2013
The Night of the Pink Sweater
Rules sometimes lead to ridiculousness—like that time I visited a Williamsburg nightclub.
Yes, I was also surprised to learn that “Williamsburg nightclub” was not an oxymoron, but that wasn’t the most ridiculous thing that night.
This was back in 2005. My time at the College of William & Mary was nearing its end. Classes were over. I completed all my exams. I was free and directionless.
One night, a friend invited me to join her and couple of others at this nightclub. Clubs have never been my thing, but I figured a change of pace wouldn’t hurt.
So three young women and I journeyed to the non-colonial part of Williamsburg and arrived at the nightclub, only to encounter…a bouncer. (You can be gainfully employed in Williamsburg, Va. as a bouncer. Who knew?)
The bouncer politely informed me that my attire did not adhere to the club’s dress code. I was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Apparently, I was supposed to wear either a collared shirt or a sweater.
The girls were dressed in a Harajuku style, but they were all fine. I was the only offensive individual.
But the problem was I drove them all there, so I couldn’t just leave. I was probably going to have to run back to my apartment, find an appropriate shirt, and then run back, which seemed unnecessarily annoying. Plus, it didn’t strike me as gentlemanly to abandon a group of girls at a club, even temporarily.
Then the bouncer received an offer.
One of the girls, who was wearing a pink cardigan over a couple of other layers, asked, “Can he wear this?”
The bouncer looked at the pink sweater and laughed before responding, “Well, if he wants to.”
Naturally, I said, “Okay. I’ll wear it.”
I put the tight pink sweater on over my black T-shirt, and Shazam!—I was dressed appropriately, and no longer an embarrassment to the integrity of the nightclub.
Now fit for polite society, we ventured inside and found the dance floor, but it was missing something.
It was missing people.
The nightclub in Williamsburg had a completely empty dance floor. I seem to recall some tumbleweed blowing across, but it’s entirely possible my memory Photoshopped that in during the intervening years.
Faced with a barren dance floor, we figured there was only one thing to do. We got on it and danced.
I’m not much of dancer. However, I was already wearing a pink sweater. So...that’s one way to reduce inhibitions—an alcohol-free way, no less, at a club that sold alcoholic beverages...
Yeah, some rules are ridiculous. But we can see their ridiculousness and raise them one, or a few.
Yes, I was also surprised to learn that “Williamsburg nightclub” was not an oxymoron, but that wasn’t the most ridiculous thing that night.
This was back in 2005. My time at the College of William & Mary was nearing its end. Classes were over. I completed all my exams. I was free and directionless.
One night, a friend invited me to join her and couple of others at this nightclub. Clubs have never been my thing, but I figured a change of pace wouldn’t hurt.
So three young women and I journeyed to the non-colonial part of Williamsburg and arrived at the nightclub, only to encounter…a bouncer. (You can be gainfully employed in Williamsburg, Va. as a bouncer. Who knew?)
The bouncer politely informed me that my attire did not adhere to the club’s dress code. I was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Apparently, I was supposed to wear either a collared shirt or a sweater.
The girls were dressed in a Harajuku style, but they were all fine. I was the only offensive individual.
But the problem was I drove them all there, so I couldn’t just leave. I was probably going to have to run back to my apartment, find an appropriate shirt, and then run back, which seemed unnecessarily annoying. Plus, it didn’t strike me as gentlemanly to abandon a group of girls at a club, even temporarily.
Then the bouncer received an offer.
One of the girls, who was wearing a pink cardigan over a couple of other layers, asked, “Can he wear this?”
The bouncer looked at the pink sweater and laughed before responding, “Well, if he wants to.”
Naturally, I said, “Okay. I’ll wear it.”
I put the tight pink sweater on over my black T-shirt, and Shazam!—I was dressed appropriately, and no longer an embarrassment to the integrity of the nightclub.
Now fit for polite society, we ventured inside and found the dance floor, but it was missing something.
It was missing people.
The nightclub in Williamsburg had a completely empty dance floor. I seem to recall some tumbleweed blowing across, but it’s entirely possible my memory Photoshopped that in during the intervening years.
Faced with a barren dance floor, we figured there was only one thing to do. We got on it and danced.
I’m not much of dancer. However, I was already wearing a pink sweater. So...that’s one way to reduce inhibitions—an alcohol-free way, no less, at a club that sold alcoholic beverages...
Yeah, some rules are ridiculous. But we can see their ridiculousness and raise them one, or a few.
Authors, promote your book for free!
For any other authors out there with books on Amazon...
I stumbled across this website that offers free book promotion. It's called Ask David.
There's a waiting list of at least six weeks, but it costs nothing. So, I figure it can't hurt to try it out. Extra visibility is generally a plus.
I stumbled across this website that offers free book promotion. It's called Ask David.
There's a waiting list of at least six weeks, but it costs nothing. So, I figure it can't hurt to try it out. Extra visibility is generally a plus.
December 30, 2012
Positive Review: The Muppet Movie (1979)
Muppets never get old.
The original movies -- The Muppet Movie, The Great Muppet Caper, and The Muppets Take Manhattan -- remain entertaining regardless of age.
If you’re looking for goofy, ridiculous, clean fun, you can’t do better. The Muppets are absurdity at its finest. People who take themselves too seriously need not apply.
You can split hairs over which old-school Muppet movie is the strongest, but the award for best Muppet bad guy definitely goes to the first -- The Muppet Movie’s Doc Hopper, played superbly by the late Charles Durning.
Consider Kermit’s goals in the movie. He wants to become a famous performer so he can make people happy.
Doc Hopper wants Kermit to become his mascot to sell french-fried frog legs.
So we have an intersection of motivations. Doc Hopper would indeed grant part of Kermit’s wish. He’ll make him a famous performer, but it would be a perversion of why Kermit wants to perform.
The bad guy, then, helps highlight the virtue of the good guy, as a proper antagonist should.
Plus, the notion of Kermit being asked to shill for french-fried frog legs is creative and just plain silly, and it’s the sort of silliness that comes at no one else’s expense. Good Muppet humor never relies on ridicule. Really, we should all avoid resorting to ridicule.
As a side note, The Muppet Movie DVD has a great extra feature -- screen tests. There's nothing like watching the great Jim Henson and Frank Oz mess around as Kermit, Fozzy, and Miss Piggy.
See for yourself:
The original movies -- The Muppet Movie, The Great Muppet Caper, and The Muppets Take Manhattan -- remain entertaining regardless of age.
If you’re looking for goofy, ridiculous, clean fun, you can’t do better. The Muppets are absurdity at its finest. People who take themselves too seriously need not apply.
You can split hairs over which old-school Muppet movie is the strongest, but the award for best Muppet bad guy definitely goes to the first -- The Muppet Movie’s Doc Hopper, played superbly by the late Charles Durning.
Consider Kermit’s goals in the movie. He wants to become a famous performer so he can make people happy.
Doc Hopper wants Kermit to become his mascot to sell french-fried frog legs.
So we have an intersection of motivations. Doc Hopper would indeed grant part of Kermit’s wish. He’ll make him a famous performer, but it would be a perversion of why Kermit wants to perform.
The bad guy, then, helps highlight the virtue of the good guy, as a proper antagonist should.
Plus, the notion of Kermit being asked to shill for french-fried frog legs is creative and just plain silly, and it’s the sort of silliness that comes at no one else’s expense. Good Muppet humor never relies on ridicule. Really, we should all avoid resorting to ridicule.
As a side note, The Muppet Movie DVD has a great extra feature -- screen tests. There's nothing like watching the great Jim Henson and Frank Oz mess around as Kermit, Fozzy, and Miss Piggy.
See for yourself:
December 27, 2012
EARTHS IN SPACE Episode One Teaser
EARTHS IN SPACE vol. 1 Where Are the Little Green Men? is now available on Amazon, eBookpie, and Copia.The e-book contains Episode One: "Liberty or Death" and Episode Two: "The End of an Earth."
You like free samples, right? Well, here's the beginning.
All text copyright Daniel R. Sherrier. Do not reproduce without permission.
The forest was just like any old forest, until an archer in a spacesuit appeared.
The individual transitioned from invisible to transparent to solid in half a second. No one was around to witness this marvel—which was a shame; she was the only archer in a spacesuit this world had ever seen.
She immediately detected the abundance of oxygen and popped her helmet open, revealing to absolutely no one a woman of effortless beauty. The redhead’s ponytail hung down her back, and her pretty smile exuded infectious whimsy, if only there was anyone around to be infected.
Amena Wharry simply had to view this strange new world through her own eyes. But much to her disappointment, it appeared not the slightest bit strange. It was a forest, no different than any she could find back home.
This wouldn’t do.
She hopped several times, hopeful, but no, the ground was just a ground. Utterly ordinary. Ho-hum.
The air tasted like air, no matter how far out she stuck her tongue. The plants, regrettably, emitted only the usual plant-like odors, no matter how closely she held her nose.
However unremarkable this world appeared, it could not steal from her two glorious facts: This was an alien world, and she was the first person from Earth to step foot on it.
It was so exciting! It merited a lifetime supply of exclamation marks!
This moment—this very moment—would go down in history. Granted, hardly anyone knew she was there right now, but historians had plenty of time to catch up.
She needed to say the right thing—precisely the right inspiring statement that future generations would remember, would want to remember and quote over and over again. This needed to be perfect. She needed to think…
“I hope everyone realizes it’s really difficult to come up with inspirational profundity when you all keep chattering away in my ear,” she said softly into her tiny, camouflaged throat mic. “And there you have it, kids. The first words spoken by mankind on an alien planet.”
Amena slipped off the superfluous spacesuit.
“Yes, Gilmore,” she said. “I know I should’ve planned out a little speech ahead of time. Forgive me for not being as perfect as you.” She sighed, but couldn’t resist a smirk. “And I appreciate your forgiveness. Okay, take the suit back, please. Sela, nice work—your sensors were accurate. We can breathe here.”
She set the suit and helmet on the ground, and it swiftly faded from solid, to transparent, to invisible. Good riddance. Her jeans and T-shirt were so much more comfortable. Amena reclaimed her bow and quiver, and she checked to make sure her shiny new weapon remained in its holster. It did, so she stepped forth, deeper into the woods.
Amena stared up through the towering treetops. Clear blue sky. Couldn’t it at least have been green, or red, or turquoise, or anything other than that familiar shade of blue?
The voices in her ear never stopped. “Profundity is too a word. A delightful word. Tell them, Mariana,” she whispered, scoping the area for signs of non-plant life. There were none. “Thank you. And even if it wasn’t, it would be now—part of a future famous quote and all. Or at the very least, a future trivia game answer.”
She studied a thick tree trunk, searching for any abnormalities. “It’s just plant life so far,” Amena told them. “Plant life that seems boringly familiar. I was hoping they might talk or walk or at the very least look psychedelic. But they’re just the usual trees and grass and same old, same old, same old.”
She knelt down to scoop up a handful of soft dirt. Also normal. Bah!
“Ballard, the discussion is over. It ended. I’m already here, so it’s moot, so why are you still trying to discuss? This first time, we’ve got no idea what to expect, so I’m only risking me. We’ll be sure to risk you later. I promise,” she said. “It will be my pleasure.”
Amena crept forward, pulling an arrow into her bow—not one of the special ones, just a regular arrow to match the utterly regular setting. Despite this precaution, she was optimistic. This was a whole other planet, after all, entirely new to her. It couldn’t let her down, right?
“Place your bets, boys and girls,” she said, with an intrigued grin plastered across her face. “What do you think the aliens are going to look like?”
Her grin was replaced by a wince, followed by a mental shower.
“Ew, Jem! They’re a different species. Why would your mind even go there? Ew.”
Rustling leaves drew her attention. This was it. Something had to be doing the rustling. Definitely something living. Possibly something sentient.
“Quiet. I think one’s near. Sela, your translator better work,” she said even softer, tapping a spot behind her ear and one on her neck to activate the micro implants. “Yeah, I know it will.” She had to add, “Quiet, Gilmore.”
This was it! New life was right around the corner! New to her, anyway.
Amena pointed her arrow to the ground as she approached an especially rotund tree. She heard the crunching of footsteps on the other side. Those feet could have belonged to anything. Anything from a four-eyed little green man, to a creature composed mostly of eyes, to a creature composed entirely of feet, to…
…a teenage girl?
A completely human teenage girl clad in the blandest colors and a long, old-fashioned skirt?
“Who are you talking to?” the girl asked, looking around for anyone else.
Her voice echoed in Amena’s head due to the translator, which was unexpected, but not the biggest concern right now.
“You look like me?” Amena said. “Didn’t expect you’d look like me. What are the odds of that?”
“We look nothing alike,” the plump brunette said.
“I just meant, what species do you call yourself?”
“Uh…human?”
“You’re human, and you’re here, on this world? What do you call this world?”
The girl double-checked but still couldn’t find any hidden audience waiting to tease her. “Is this a trick question…?”
“Just a regular old question,” Amena said, quickly but calmly. “Uncommon, I understand that, yes, but please indulge me.”
“Earth.”
Must have been the translator interpreting the girl’s words into something Amena would recognize. “Say that again, please,” she said, tapping behind her ear to shut off the translator. She wanted to hear how this girl sounded for real.
The girl said slowly and clearly, with diminishing patience, “I’m a human on Earth, like there usually are a lot of humans on Earth.”
“You—You speak English?”
The girl blinked. “Are you feeling alright?”
************************************
Want to read the rest? Then please head over to Amazon, eBookPie, or Copia, and in the coming weeks, EARTHS IN SPACE will become available at several other online bookstores.
December 23, 2012
Be nice to retail employees
I was once a human bull’s-eye.
During breaks from high school and college, I worked at Target. I started as a cashier, and when that became boring and monotonous, I switched to the “Guest Services” desk, a.k.a. the refund counter.
That was not monotonous.
Some people had valid receipts. Some had expired receipts. Some were shocked and appalled to learn they even needed a receipt to get their money back.
Some requested simple exchanges. Some brought back entire baskets of duplicate wedding gifts, spread out among a good dozen or so gift receipts.
Some were excited to learn I could look up their receipts by swiping their credit card. Some failed to realize that if they discarded the tags, I’d have no barcode to scan.
Then there was the week after Christmas.
Probably about 90 percent of customers were in and out, no problem, pleasant as could be.
Another 9.9 percent ranged from mildly to moderately irritable, but they were still basically civil and reasonable.
The last 0.1 percent thought I was the devil. Perhaps the red shirt confused them.
I’ve blocked most of those episodes from memory, but a couple have stuck with me.
One day, a woman wanted to return a bicycle. It was a type that came in a box and required assembly. Still, it cost in the neighborhood of $100 or so.
She had no receipt. I explained the refund policy to her. (Please note: This was years ago. I have no idea what Target’s current policies are.)
I was only allowed to give her store credit in the first place because a manager gave the go-ahead before proceeding on his merry way.
When I told her how much the credit came to, her eyes bulged. That wasn’t what she paid.
I explained that without a receipt, she would have to get the lowest selling price for the item.
She demanded to see that policy in writing.
I pointed to the big sign behind me that said, “All returns and exchanges require a receipt dated within 90 days.”
Her response: “That doesn’t say anything about having to get the lowest selling price.”
I attempted to explain the concepts of “all” and “required” to her. I reminded her about the absence of her receipt—which was, again, required. I politely pointed out that we were breaking from the policy by giving her anything at all.
“Still doesn’t say anything about having to get the lowest selling price,” she said.
It went on like that for a while. I forget the exact resolution, but I somehow did not explode and she left thinking I was a scam artist.
Another time, a teenage girl wanted to return a steering wheel cover. She had none of the original packaging and no receipt.
She simply wanted to exchange it for another style, so I had a plan for her. I told her to grab an identical steering wheel cover in addition to the new one. That way, I’d have something to work with, and we’d be fine.
She returned with a steering wheel cover that not only bore a different design, but was made by a different company.
It turned out the store didn’t carry the brand she was trying to return. I explained that we couldn’t accept brands we didn’t sell.
“That’s stupid. They’re the same thing,” she said.
All steering wheel covers were created equal in her mind, and neither I nor my scanner recognized this fact.
Therefore, I was evil.
On the plus side, I’ve acquired a lifetime supply of humility that ensures I will always be nice to retail employees.
During breaks from high school and college, I worked at Target. I started as a cashier, and when that became boring and monotonous, I switched to the “Guest Services” desk, a.k.a. the refund counter.
That was not monotonous.
Some people had valid receipts. Some had expired receipts. Some were shocked and appalled to learn they even needed a receipt to get their money back.
Some requested simple exchanges. Some brought back entire baskets of duplicate wedding gifts, spread out among a good dozen or so gift receipts.
Some were excited to learn I could look up their receipts by swiping their credit card. Some failed to realize that if they discarded the tags, I’d have no barcode to scan.
Then there was the week after Christmas.
Probably about 90 percent of customers were in and out, no problem, pleasant as could be.
Another 9.9 percent ranged from mildly to moderately irritable, but they were still basically civil and reasonable.
The last 0.1 percent thought I was the devil. Perhaps the red shirt confused them.
I’ve blocked most of those episodes from memory, but a couple have stuck with me.
One day, a woman wanted to return a bicycle. It was a type that came in a box and required assembly. Still, it cost in the neighborhood of $100 or so.
She had no receipt. I explained the refund policy to her. (Please note: This was years ago. I have no idea what Target’s current policies are.)
I was only allowed to give her store credit in the first place because a manager gave the go-ahead before proceeding on his merry way.
When I told her how much the credit came to, her eyes bulged. That wasn’t what she paid.
I explained that without a receipt, she would have to get the lowest selling price for the item.
She demanded to see that policy in writing.
I pointed to the big sign behind me that said, “All returns and exchanges require a receipt dated within 90 days.”
Her response: “That doesn’t say anything about having to get the lowest selling price.”
I attempted to explain the concepts of “all” and “required” to her. I reminded her about the absence of her receipt—which was, again, required. I politely pointed out that we were breaking from the policy by giving her anything at all.
“Still doesn’t say anything about having to get the lowest selling price,” she said.
It went on like that for a while. I forget the exact resolution, but I somehow did not explode and she left thinking I was a scam artist.
Another time, a teenage girl wanted to return a steering wheel cover. She had none of the original packaging and no receipt.
She simply wanted to exchange it for another style, so I had a plan for her. I told her to grab an identical steering wheel cover in addition to the new one. That way, I’d have something to work with, and we’d be fine.
She returned with a steering wheel cover that not only bore a different design, but was made by a different company.
It turned out the store didn’t carry the brand she was trying to return. I explained that we couldn’t accept brands we didn’t sell.
“That’s stupid. They’re the same thing,” she said.
All steering wheel covers were created equal in her mind, and neither I nor my scanner recognized this fact.
Therefore, I was evil.
On the plus side, I’ve acquired a lifetime supply of humility that ensures I will always be nice to retail employees.
