Yola's Three Things

Good afternoon…already? It is I, Yola, removing my snake skin sleeping mask. I'm shocked to realize it's sixty minutes to the cocktail hour. Toaster must have turned off my milk drip early today, probably because of this campaign—more of a death march, really—to make me more approachable to the public. Day Two. Thought the shiny little bastard would have forgotten about it by now.

I was supposed to write down three things people might not know about me. Blah blah and blah. Is that enough? Toaster is holding my Wang Chung tape out the window. Evidently, it's not enough.

1. What's my favorite weapon?
The pen, people. Sharpen the nib and whammo, you've got a whiny, overpaid editor pinned to their desk until the EMTs arrive. If I hold the elevator long enough, like when Steve Coogan is in town (does he have a book or doesn't he? Let's look, darling) the editor will have enough time to do all those irritating little things they're supposed to do, like make my books.

2. How have I developed my fabulous adductor muscles?
Twisting corks out of champagne bottles. As dear old dad used to say, "Champagne to my real friends, real pain to my sham friends."

3. What is that intern's name, anyway?

• Bob: Cored and returned to the manufacturer
• Sylvia: When I chucked my phone, she was unfortunately still attached
• Ricardo: Footbinding. Looks lovely when he sways.
• Max: Publicity. When I tell them to go to hell, it's where they all seem to end up.
• Angela: Twenty city book tour of Nebraska. Surely the definition if not the location actual of the hot place mentioned above.
• Kevin: Rehab. They're so shiny and pink when they come home, like new pennies. It gives me chilblains just thinking about it.

So there you have it. And I feel good about this post. Toaster is bringing up a little triumphant Mozart, it's almost the cocktail hour in central/mountain time, and I'm just waving goodbye to last night's hangover.

Yola's Mail

Good morning, creatures. It is I, Yola. The toaster has asked me to do something different today (while playing a U2 song, so you know it's not all roses around here. There is suffering and it is occasionally mine. Shut up, Bono). I get a number of time consuming, stupid, blather-headed, vacant, boring, brainless and forgettable questions from the public. I usually have my intern micturate on them while La Davina administers my pedicure. There are only so many hours in the day, people. Multitasking is my meat. But the toaster suggested you might be interested in what I do around here, so let's just get through this, all right?

Here's one:

"Dear Queen of the Universe: Why did you cancel my two-book contract?"

Simple. You suck. Another:

"Dear She Who Must Be Obeyed: My numbers are down. Why doesn't your publicity department do more to promote my book? Don't you love me anymore?"

Honey, that was all over months ago. Didn't you get the memo? Note to self: remodel office. Black is nice.

"Dear Yelo—"

Google Earth is so good for things like this. Zoom in, aim, and fire. It's clean and completely anonymous. Any idiot intern can download the program and my accountant loves me for it. Really, he does.

"My Beauty, Your eyes are the twelve doors to my soul …"

Now this is very promising. Starts with a hook, gets right to the point, genius use of language. And his contact information is right here.

Okay, I'm bored now. The toaster has already started playing a little Frank and I'm thinking about getting my Thursday on. Boy, hand me that phone.

Friday, The Toaster

Good morning, my little tax shelters. It is I, Yola, pondering the injustices of the world. Today is Friday. Ah, Friday. Have a little soiree planned for after hours, so I'd better hustle up this post and head over to Jamie's House of Kolor for a rotation. My little cotton socks are freshly laundered, there's an intern with my name written all over him, and another, cold and frosty, is waiting in reserve.

Suppose you want to know what's playing on the toaster. Did I ever mention that the toaster is a custom made solid body appliance that plays nothing but the music of Les Paul? Right now, it's "Whispering."

So anyways, we should all cast our eyes downward for three minutes of prayerful appreciation for the man who brought us everything after Bing Crosby took up golf. The few times Les played with the Femmes over at the Yukon were among the most dreamlike of my life. Really, it's almost like he wasn't even there, just the music of the angels casting a nimbus around the old beer and forty year old tuna sandwiches that you can still sometimes find under the tables next to the shuffleboard. The Femmes tell me he was very polite too. A gentleman. They aren't used to that kind of treatment, so it took a while to calm them down afterwards. But hey, a good time was had by all.

Uncle Dick With Book

Good morning, humans. It is I, Yola. Today is Thursday, the day most likely to be mistaken for Friday. The good news this week (other than the thermos of Echinacea-tinis waiting in my desk. Got to my keep my strength up, yow!) is Uncle Dick has a book.

After two months of tireless searching for a publisher, Simon & Schuster stepped up with $2 mil for the slim volume that will one day embrace the memoirs of Dick Cheney. How to put a price on 40 years of memories?

Let's try.

• Condoleeza of the Shoes scored $2.5 mil from Crown
• Tina Fey $6 mil from Little, Brown
• GWB $7 mil from Crown (this must hurt so good)
• Sarah Palin (somewhat difficult to confirm as I don't have a Facebook account) $7-11 mil
• Hillary Clinton earned $8 mil for her latest from Scribner
• Tony Blair (remembered fondly as Poodle) $9 mil from Random House or 5 mil pounds, Yola's conversion tables have been powered into the toaster today for a rousing tribute to Rashid Ali.
• And finally…Bill Clinton for $11 mil from Random House. And I'll bet that one's paid out, oh baby, especially the audio.

So, Uncle Dick, putting this all in perspective, it looks like S&S is not putting any mojo into this publishing sensation. It's the celebrity book version of a $1000 token advance and the guest blog circuit.

From the Washington Post by way of the New York Post (sent by a devoted love slave. What's for dinner, honey?): "In the second term, he [Cheney] felt Bush was moving away from him." It must feel like everyone else is too. Yola feels your pain, sweetheart. Come by the Yukon some night for more. Actually, I don't mean that. Tony can come by.

Yola's Blacke Magicke

Good afternoon, small ones. It is I, Yola, mother of invention. Wednesday is eat what you kill day, the day I anticipate each week with a quickening heart. I plan to indulge myself with the intern now bent at the knee polishing my size 6 Mary Janes. Exquisite. He still has all his hair. For now.

Ah. What's playing on the toaster? Paint it Black by those richy rich lower chakra stimulating ponces. One might be tempted to snack on the idiot who programs the muzak here at Casa Insecta, then recite selections from the Carmina Burana at top volume to reduce the endorphin load in the central air. But after the intern.

It got me to thinking. What spells or potions have you found most efficacious in bending agents and editors to your will? I myself use voodoo dolls and secret words of power. It works on the interns and assistants but the big ones slip the noose. Suggestions?

Yola's Health Care

Good morning, proles. It is I, Yola. Tuesday…god, I was supposed to do something on Tuesday. Pick up the dry cleaning. Fire the gardener. Toss some everclear, beef liver and bone meal in a blender for the Yolettes. Swing by Jamie's House of Kolor for an oil change. Oh, that's right—seat a death panel to rule on Trig's viability as a future citizen of the US.

Honestly, people. Is universal health care such a hard concept? I'd like to know that after an evening at the Yukon, Barbie's playmates will have a place to go. That horn is not getting any softer (ahem, that's what she says, anyway).

What's playing on the toaster? The new one by Ron Carlson. Oh, baby, that man can dance.

So anyways, thought I'd throw that one back atcha'll. Be a death panel. What the heck should we do with Trig?

Advice from Yola

Greetings, humans. It is I, Yola, attempting to bump Zipper into the archives where he/she/it can hunt safely in the dark. Today is Monday and I'm a tweensy bit to the good, thanks to the Benadryl snacks from the boys at the Yukon (mwa, mwa, love you guys. Seriously, that's love with a big ol set of batteries and a bag of chips. Ah, the memories. Was that last night?). I have a plethora of meetings to click my way through this afternoon, so I'm just going to hitch up my stockings and get real with y'all.

What's playing on the toaster? Something by Tangerine Dream. They should all be called something because I can never remember their titles. TD is the soundtrack to the Quaalude and Allerest portion of my life which…today…seems to have returned in its fullest, most pillowsome glory.

What was I talking about? Oh, right. Sex. Don't ever ever ever ever do the deed with someone has a fungus. Rule one. People will laugh at you and call you names. Rule two. What are you doing have sex when you should be writing? Nicola Tesla never had sex, did he? Look how productive the man was.

Zipper found again?

This photo came in today from an anonymous source who claims to have seen Zipper swimming off the coast of Cancun. I withhold judgment, but find it every bit as credible as the "disguised as Siamese" theory.

Zipper Found

This picture was taken of Zipper on special assignment in her new disguise as a old male Siamese. She is spying on Brangelina. She can go places the paparazzi would never dream to enter. Keep this under wraps. If you out her, she could lose one of her 9 lives.
Meow, Yola

Have you seen this cat?

Color: gray and white
Eyes: evil
Sex: noisy

Help! Our little friend Zipper has not been heard from in over three weeks, and we here at Yolawriters are worried sick! She could be drunk in the alley behind some sleazy tavern, roadkill on Cesar Chavez Blvd or tonight’s entrée in a Vietnamese restaurant.

No collar, no chip, no neutering. This cat is nobody’s chattel.

Most likely place to find her: In your house at night, on your computer surfing kitty porn.

Beware: She still has all her claws. She chases dogs, eats possums, and has been known to bite small children and dwarfs off at the ankles. Responds well to a good wookie impression.

Who killed Michael Jackson?

This just in…
According to the 24-hour Death of Michael Jackson Channel (which is all I watch anymore) the list of suspects, originally numbering in the billions, has now narrowed to several million. Of those, investigators now consider these ten to be most likely:

10. Joe (anything to get on TV) Jackson
9. Al (anything to get on TV) Sharpton
8. Al (it improved the environment) Gore
7. Diana Ross (for impersonating a diva)
6. Simon Cowell (for impersonating a singer)
5. Elvis (for impersonating a king)
4. Prince (long live the new king)
3. Cock Robin (wait, isn’t he dead?)
2. O.J. (I’ll find the real killer) Simpson
1. Pontius Pilate

Got favorite suspects of your own? Trot ‘em on out. The world is dying to hear.

A fine day for skinny dipping.

This fine art brought to you as a public service by Yolawriters.

What Day Is It Again?

Good afternoon, little things. It is I, Yola. Friday is…obviously the day following Thursday. I must have celebrated the Chavez rather too much last night. I'm still not quite sure what happened. There was a place, there was a guy, there was some green stuff in a tiny bitty little glass..and then whammo. No memory until I woke up in Casa City of Portland this morning. The girl on the bench next to mine says I have a big ol' slut stamp on my wherever those things go, but honestly I just can't see it.

Toaster is playing my woman, Diamanda Galas, See That My Grave Is Kept Clean. And I really mean it. Please see the groundskeepers fill in the dead patches in the lawn after the leaves fall. That could be any minute, the way my head feels. Whoo.

Anyways, waiting for my lawyer like this puts me in mind of the old word game. What's your favorite book to read when you are A) sick; B) hung-over? And when are you (and by you I mean me) ever going to get back to writing? Answers cannot be accepted collect, people.

At the corner of Free Tibet Parkway and Rogaine Road.

The City Council here in Yolaville is merrily renaming streets. First it was Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd, then Rosa Parks Way, and just last week they announced a final (and unanimous) YES vote on Cesar Chavez Boulevard.

Never mind that 87% of the public were against it. Never mind that it will cost taxpayers a projected $86,000 and businesses and residents thousands more. They were merely dragging us kicking and screaming into what they knew was best for us.

What’s next? Harvey Milk Avenue, of course. That’s a given. The only question is, where do we go from there? Most likely, they'll continue their current path of kowtowing to whatever special interest group beats the loudest drum, so we could soon see Klamath Tribe Ave, Save The Whales Blvd and Share The Road Road.

Then again, they could follow their current bent of doing what their little hearts think is best, whether we like it or not. Eat Your Vegetables Avenue. Obesity Kills Blvd. Turn Off Your TV St.

I’m suggesting a new direction. Or several. First, why not pick names that will bring in money instead of wasting it? I’m talking corporate sponsorship, of course. Taco Bell Blvd. Cheetos St. (That's the street for me!) Exxon Mobile Ave.

If that’s too crass for you, how about some street names people would at least like? Name ‘em after movies. Wizard of Oz Ave. Or TV shows. Lost Blvd. Or songs. Louie, Louie St. Or even books. Madison, After Ave. Heck, we could set aside a whole string of streets to be renamed every year after the latest crop of American Idol finalists.

They could even be inspirational. We could rename several streets in a row, so people could take them in Burma-Shave style. I Think That I Shall Never See St., followed by A Poem Lovely As A Tree St., etc. Or maybe three streets in a row named Yadda. Or we could be more subtle, educating folks via literary allusion. Like Mean St..

Let’s get creative, people, and let’s put pressure on the politicians. Wouldn’t you, in your heart of hearts, love to live on Spock St.? Or Yola Ave.? I thought so.

Yola Wants 300. Of Anything

Morning, insects. It is I, Yola. Wednesday, being eat what you kill day, I am most likely to be found pacing the halls, waiting for my 11 o'clock. I hope they had garlic last night. And a glass or five of wine, preferably a decent Barbera.

What's on the toaster? Roxy Music's Flesh and Blood. It's what the Liebestod sounds like on champagne and Novocain, if you like that kind of Germanic hooey. Which I don't. Where's the change up switch? Ah, Screamin' Jay, here I come.

It's all because I tried to watch 300 last night. I'm as happy as the next gal to see my spear dripping with blood, and men in skimpy leather jerkins is always welcome after a long day of Hugo Boss. But what part of over the top didn't these animation boys understand? Dialogue is not a blunt weapon, people. SHUT UP, King Leonides. SHOVE that self-serving Sparta crap and let me watch the show. For a bunch of boo-yah chanting hooligans, they sure spend a lot of time pissing around.

So I ask you people, what movie drives you the most crazy? Let me rephrase (I hear BJ tuning up for more flash fiction, G-d knows we don't want that): what otherwise interesting flick has one little deal-breaker that makes you want to kill the producer? And by kill, I don't mean kill. Do that on your time, please.

Feeling very RWA today

Greetings, people. It is I, Yola. Tuesday is the day I am most likely to be seen getting a little boost from Helene the rejuvenator, she of the needle chock full of spider venom. Right here, Helene, on my mandibles! I feel so much younger after a treatment.

What's playing on the toaster? NPR, people, what the heck else should I be listening to? You think I have time for Gary Numan today?

Anyways, let's talk about the word trade. The little women are off at the RWA con, so we can get thousands of words of ahead of those hos. So speak, tell us what you are working on and why it is so much better than the crap that gets published today.

Monday morning sure looks good

Hello, children. It is I, Yola. Today is Monday, the day I am most likely to require an aspirin IV. The boy who was here just a minute ago—what was his name? Jeff? Jake?—hooked me up before he went out for croissies, so I'm good. He made coffee too. Note to self: 19 is a very good year.

What's playing on the toaster? Baby Doll by Devo. Come to mama.

Anyways, I was gone for a few days at a conference, delivering my paper Transmigrations: The Heuristics of Darla in the Buffyverse. The proles gathering at my feet asked when I thought the vampire craze was going to end. Never, of course. As long as middle-aged housewives can lift a credit card, there will always be vampires.

But I thought I should throw the question out to you people. Vampires: what about 'em? Read 'em? Watch 'em? See one in the mirror once in a while?

TV

Greetings Earthlings,
I'm a friend of Yola's from Alpha Centauri. Yola allowed me to post on her blog to ask her earth-dwelling followers to comment on a few issues of concern to an extra-terrestial such as myself.

I find I have an odd fascination for that strange box you all have in your habitats- the TV. My half human offspring recommended Tivo years ago so I don't usually watch the short little blips between the longer programs, the Commercials. But from the ones I have seen, I'm puzzled how consumers buy products based on sex appeal. Is the grain-based food in the colorful boxes you eat for breakfast sexy?

I have learned many things of practical use from the TV about Earthlings. I have learned to wear a neck brace at all times for fear of the creatures among you who suck your blood. How this can be pleasurable, I can't understand. Does it have something to do with grain being sexy? And why do you allow so many of them to exist, even have equal rights, when they are so easy to kill?

I am also horrified by your medical system. Not only are the methods probing and barbaric, but you diagnose bodies like you do machinery. Plus your practitioneers imbibe mind altering chemicals. If I ever get sick I will not visit an hospital, please just let me die.

You also have a bizarre obsession with your system of law. So many programs about police and lawyers. In my world we prefer to keep the ugliness hidden and mostly forgotten. I will never do anything to get arrested, the results are too painful to imagine. That's why I mostly sit in my home and watch the TV. The news portions of your programming handle all this better, with a few referrences to crime, but the main focus on the lives of your wonderful celebrities.

Last, but certainly not least, is your fixation on my kind. You have it all wrong! We do not have big dark eyes and pointed chins. That more aptly describes your own elves and pixes. We also do not run about naked. I cannot tell you how offended we are by seeing representations of ourselves with no sexual features. Most of us are very sexy creatures, that is how our civilizations have lasted so long. We are aroused by each other, not cereal. And the probing! We would never. Leave that to your own medical personnel. Oh, I cannot forget the angels. I watch many of the Sunday morning programs to learn about your mythology as well as the angel shows. I find myself extremely confused. Do you think those odd beings with giant wings are us? I assure you they are not. And I have traveled much of the universe or "heavens" and I have never seen anything remotely like them.

This is probably enough for your poor tiny brains to handle, so I will sign off. But, if Yola allows, I may be back. Yola is an Earthling of superior understanding.
Xelzyna

Davy's idea of great lit.

Disagree at your own risk.

Hey, look what Kassandra's reading.

Spooky cool.

Yola found this interesting.

Salinger Wins as Judge Blocks Publication of 60 Years Later
By Andrew Albanese -- Publishers Weekly, 7/1/2009 3:16:00 PM

Finding that author J.D. Salinger is “likely to succeed on the merits of its copyright case," a federal judge granted a preliminary injunction late on Wednesday afternoon, barring the publication of what Salinger’s attorneys called an unauthorized sequel to The Catcher in the Rye. In her decision, Judge Deborah Batts ruled that Fredrik Colting’s 60 Years Later would harm the market for “sequels and other derivative works” from Salinger and barred publication of Colting's book in the United States. Colting told PW he was “pretty shocked” by the ruling and vowed to appeal. Despite the ruling in New York, the book will be on sale in Europe, Colting added, sometime next week.

The ruling came as little surprise to court-watchers, who noted Batts’s obvious skepticism during oral arguments presented by Colting's lawyers, who contended that the work should be protected as parody under fair use. “While the court does find some limited transformative character in 60 Years Later,” the order read, “it finds that the alleged parodic content is not reasonably perceivable, and the limited non-parodic transformative content is unlikely to overcome the obvious commercial nature of the work.” Salinger’s attorneys had no comment.

Aaron Silverman, president of distributor SCB, also named in the suit, told PW that he hoped the case would move quickly through the appeal process."The lawyers will file for an appeal at the 2nd U.S. Circuit Court early next week on an expedited appeal," Silverman noted. "We're hopeful that the hearing will be in late July or early August and have an answer by early September at the latest."

The case is now set up much like the last major infringement case of this kind, when the estate of Margaret Mitchell sued to stop publication of Houghton Miffllin's The Wind Done Gone. The Mitchell estate won a preliminary injuction. The order, however, was overturned on appeal. The case was settled in 2002 before it went to a full trial, and the book was published, an outcome that would seem impossible here, given Salinger's insistence his work be left alone.

If Batts' ruling is overturned and a trial is ordered, Salinger, attorneys say, could finally be compelled to break his silence and be deposed. "The broad discovery rules would normally allow the defense to question Salinger on a number of relevant issues,” Paul LiCalsi, a partner in Mitchell Silberberg & Knupp explained to PW, after the case's initial hearing, "including Salinger's past actions and preferences about the exploitation of The Catcher in the Rye.” If Salinger refuses to comply and answer the defense's questions, LiCalsi noted, the court can impose sanctions and even dismiss the case. Thus, filing suit against Colting may have put Salinger's desire for privacy on a collision course with his desire to protect Holden Caulfield.

Yola reads a book.

OK, it’s only a comic book, but still (and this is the straight skinny from me to you, baby)…
it kicks ass.

The book is The Punisher: Welcome Back Frank (Marvel Comics, 2008), a 12-part mini-series that originally appeared in 2000-01. The writer is Garth Ennis (that’s the important part) and the artists are a couple of other guys.

The Punisher is Marvel’s long-running rip-off of the even longer-running paperback hero The Executioner. You know, a one-man-war against the mob. The Punisher has accumulated a lot of comic book baggage over the years, but this mini-series pressed the reset button and put him back on track.

Make no mistake: This book is about killing. Bloody, brutal killing. The body count here is around 100, with our hero accounting for about 70, 30 by other hands, 1 suicide and 1 murdered dog (never fear, the dog killer is one of The Punisher's 70). But the tale is told with such finesse that it leaves you gasping for more. Sonehow, Garth Ennis weaves in a healthy dose of humor, a little heart, even a touch of pathos.

The overall effect is Jeez, I can’t believe this is happening in a comic! That lady above, for example, is Ma Gnucci, New York crime boss and the focus of The Punisher’s latest vendetta. After he kills her brother and two sons, she’s pissed enough to lead her street soldiers after him personally. They corner him in a zoo, but he turns the tables and lures them into the polar bear habitat, and Ma emerges with a few pieces missing. Later, when he tosses a firebomb into her house, she flops out the window onto the street and bites him on the ankle, so he boots her back into the burning building. I’d like to see Spider-Man or Superman do that!

Not your cup of blood? OK, what is? Let’s hear what you’ve been reading lately.

Celebrating Diversity

Whoopee! Okay, that’s enough of that.

Seriously, I think diversity sucks. If everyone were just like me, this would be a much more copasetic planet. But, as we know, there are close to 7 trillion non-Yolas infesting this world of mine, and eradication would be difficult at best. So...
If you can’t kill ‘em, celebrate ‘em – that’s what I always say.

Case in point: My ragtag group of Followers. Most of you have wisely hidden your identities behind pseudonyms and spurious images. If I felt the urge to get out my little hatchet and pay you a visit, I wouldn’t know where to start (except for Barbie, of course, and she was nice enough to send those private photos). So, since I have nothing else to do this Saturday morning, I might as well celebrate you.

That this not-so-humble blog has managed to corral such a diverse group of misfits and malcontents in such a short time is, I suppose, a remarkable achievement. I mean, just look at this bunch:

We have a guy who wears old toaster parts on his head and wants to take over the world. We have a talking cat, for god’s sake, and a three-headed dog who rides the bus five days a week to Hell and back. There’s a little girl with temporary tattoos who dreams of dirty dancing. There’s a close-mouthed dude who looks like a cross between the Marlboro Man and an NRA poster. There’s a one-legged ass-kicker. There’s a hornball barfly who does amazing things (trust me) with that Viking hat of hers. There’s a lady whose head is twice the size of everyone elses' (where does she buy hats?). We have a great, great, multi-great grandniece of a headless corpse.We have two confirmed dead.

And we’ve had a couple of distinguished visitors. Angelina Jolie, you’ll recall, stopped by to threaten us with lawyers, and a famous real-life mystery author (and military man?) has favored us with a pithy remark or two. All this, and we’ve only been on the Cybernet, I mean Internet, three weeks. Who knows how low we can go?

Let’s find out. That’s your assignment for the weekend. Tell us, if you will, what other sorts of oddballs, celebs, dead folk and four-legged beasties we should attempt to lure into the fold.

Remember that motto – If you can’t kill ‘em, celebrate ‘em – but keep it under your hat. I’m registering the phrase and will soon have T-shirts available in the Yola Shop.

(Apologies to those of you expecting to hear from Davy Crockett today. He weaseled out on account of being dead, but I’ll keep after him.)

Friday, Cry Me a River

Good morning, insects. It is I, Yola. Friday is the day that stands on the bleeding edge of drunken revelry and ships passing in the night. I don't know about you lot, but I'm laundering my little cotton socks right now.

What's playing on the toaster? Farrah Fawcett's timeless version of Sinnerman. Mmm.

Since I'm not planning on straining my eyes to find wisdom in the comments of Cyberdrew this weekend, this will be my final post for the week. If you want more Yola, meet me at the watering hole. Bring your credit card. My month is emerald and my year is steel.

Next week, I have a facial so my favorite elected official will be nattering into your little shell-like ears, Congressman David Crockett from the insignificant state of Tennessee. Please bow and scrape as usual.

And for today, one last question for you to consider. Where do you writers get your ideas?
Ta for now, YOLA

Feeling the Love

Greetings, humans. It is I, Yola. Thursday always makes me think of Friday, how about you? Yes, a Thursday can be very like a Friday. Go to your local for lunch, eat a little raw meat with your beer. After work, roll over to the Yukon and kick YBarbie's plastic butt. I'm feeling it.

What's playing on the toaster right now? The stupid thing fritzed out on me and refuses to play anything but Journey and Rush. It's probably buried in the Ukrainian language directions somewhere, how to make those squealing rock legends shut up and die.

So in keeping with the end of week theme, tell me how you all write love scenes. Do you wear silk and burn fancy candles? Do you open a bottle of Moet and imagine someone other than your spouse? Do you go to the petting zoo?

So many possibilities.
Ta, YOLA

I'm So Right

Good morning, readers. It is I, Yola. Today is Wednesday, a very good day to eat what you kill. I woke up today with an unquenchable thirst, added a rib eye to my protein shake, skinned the neighbor's cat, and now I'm ready to deal with whatever little squeals of protest you may send my way. Yes, life is hard. Life is, actually, a b$itch like me.

What's playing on the toaster right now? I'm So Right Tonight by the lovely Miss Jo Stafford.

So today, let's talk query (oh, that's a bad word!)…query (it hurts!)…I want to know about your most icky, humiliating query (make it stop!) experiences. Was it by letter, by e-mail, by pitch? And what would you do differently next time? Please, keep the whips and chains, where they belong, people. No threats to any agents or editors living or (possibly?) dead. No matter how tempting.

Ta, YOLA

Tuesday's Child

Good morning, thralls. It is I, Yola. Tuesday is a day of renewed vigor, the sun is shining, and a thermos of wheatgrass martinis awaits my lunch. What's playing on the toaster right now? My Way by the little punk from Hoboken—er, Shepherd's Bush. One of those.

Anyways, couldn't help but notice that some of you took instruction yesterday while others of you did not. YukonBarbie, for shame. If your man pecs look good in my bra, which I highly doubt, give me a call. Otherwise, pedal your wares down the street at Kay's. Cyberdrew, was that English? I thought not. Everyone else passed with the coveted AA.

Today, I would like to pick up the theme offered by lovely Miss Vicky. Guess my favorite television show from 1984. Bonus round, what was YukonBarbie's favorite show?

Ta, YOLA

Writing because we're writers

Well, hello there, audience. It is I, Yola. Today being Monday, the day of hangover recovery, booting strange men out of bed, and wondering where I've been the last three days. For instance, I don't remember buying that toaster at all. Must have been the guy I met at the Yukon. He said he could cook but I was hoping he didn't mean food. But well, food's good too.

I thought I would pose a question to all of you. How did you become writers?

For me, it was a plan for world domination. Being Yola means domination, of course. I realized at birth that my unique viewpoint was not shared by the rest of the world. I decided to be the first-person narrator of my own life. How has it worked out for me? Awesomely, thanks.

So, lets hear from you little people. And please kneel when you write.
--YOLA

Yola gets a toaster.

Feast your eyes on this baby. Ain’t it a beaut? With its brushed stainless steel finish, cool blue LED display lights and “advanced Toast Technology,” it's just about the spaciest kitchen appliance this side of Star Trek.

The enclosed material, however, gave me pause. Right there on page 1 of the User Manual were those intimidating words READ ALL INSTRUCTIONS BEFORE USE. This presented difficulties, as not only are there 22 pages of instructions, but 16 of those aren’t even in English. Sure, you say, I could read the ones that say Francais and Espanol anyway, but since I wouldn't have a clue what they said, what tasty tidbits of toasterology might I be missing?

Luckily, my next door neighbor, wise beyond her years in such matters, pointed out that the French and Spanish pages are likely just translations of the English. Whew! But this presented new concerns. Why, I had to know, did the English version occupy a mere six pages, while the other languages each got eight? Was the manufacturer withholding certain details from us English types, perhaps, or, on a more disturbing level, did they think those non-English speakers so technologically challenged that they required two whole extra pages to operate a fricking toaster?

Then I chanced to recall my most recent airline experience, which included two long layovers in lovely George Bush Intercontinental Airport. Every sort of sign and instruction, I noticed, from KEEP SEATBELTS FASTENED to NO FIREARMS PERMITTED BEYOND THIS POINT, blatted at me in both English and Spanish. And in every case, the Spanish versions contained significantly more words and syllables. Could that be the secret of the extra two pages? That it just plain takes longer to say something in these so-called Romance Languages? Maybe so. On the other hand, on the off-chance they’re really more romantic, maybe those extra pages of instructions would make me fall even deeper in love with my toaster.

Anyway, this extraneous cogitation behind me, I finally proceeded to read the English version. And right away made a disturbing discovery. “Do not operate or place the toaster,” it said, “in a heated oven or microwave oven.” Sheesh! If they’re going to place limitations like that on their product, what good is it? Alarmed, I scrutinized every other word of the instructions. And was somewhat mollified. Nowhere did they say I couldn't operate my new toaster while riding my bicycle, or inside the refrigerator, or in the washing machine, or anywhere else.

I can’t wait to fire this baby up and enjoy hot frozen waffles with my bubble bath.

I liked this movie and so will you.

Or else.

A Cybermanifesto

Look, I know you have to be wacked-out to follow a blog like this. I get that. Still, I was unprepared to receive the following missive from the yola-ite known only as Cyberdrew. I reprint his message here in full, including the disturbing photographs, in hopes that someone out there knows where to find him, and can thus alert Homeland Security, the nearest loony-bin, or at the very least Dr. Who.

Puny humans, rejoice! Your deliverance is at hand. The age of the Cybermen fast approacheth! (I kid you not, he actually said approacheth! – Y.)

Long have we waited, long have we yearned for your primitive technology to reach a level suitable to receive the glorious gift of our assistance. That momentous moment (Oy vey! – Y.) has nearly arrived.

Maybe you think you know about Cybermen from what you’ve seen on the infantile teleplay known as Dr. Who. You know nothing! We allowed our likenesses to be employed in that trite entertainment merely to lull the suspicions of your leaders. As long as they believed we could be easily banished to another dimension by an idiot in an antique police call box, we knew they would take no serious preparations to resist us.

But know this: We lurk in secret no longer. Recruitment has begun, and you may be next to join us. Thanks to the worldwide proliferation of this thing you call the Internet (little knowing it is actually the Cybernet, invented by us), we can now send transmissions through your computing device to irrevocably alter your genetic structure. All we require is that you remain online a minimum of 17.5 minutes, and you will be placed in queue for transformation into a Cyberman (or, for the liberated potentially child-bearing types among you, Cyberchick).

If you are not transformed on your first, second, or even thousandth attempt, do not despair. Your time will come. The longer you remain online, the greater your odds of metamorphosis. Selected test subjects have already joined us. You could be next! --Cyberdrew

Yeah, and any second now, monkeys are going fly out of my butt. Still, it took me just over seventeen minutes to type this, so toodles! – Y.

Don't crush that politician, hand me the pliers.

Happy DTV day. Or so you'd think, by the way the TV newsies are gushing over it. Yes, at one second to midnight tonight the FCC will sound the death knell of analog television. And while they continue to put a smiley face on it, the switch to going to cause grief for millions of Americans. What bothers me most, of course, is that one of those millions of Americans will be me.

Yeah, they’ve been warning people for some time they’d need digital adapters to get over-the-air broadcasts. What they didn’t mention was that digital signals are so weak and ornery that for many viewers, those adapters won’t be worth a damn.

What no one has wanted to address is the dilemma faced by me and my fellow VCR addicts. Cable users won’t be affected, says the FCC. You have nothing to worry about, says Comcast. We’ll take care of you. Like hell. With the cheap little adapters Comcast provided I’ve already lost the ability to record ABC, NBC and Sci-Fi Channel, along with a dozen lesser lights. And that's just the beginning of my nightmare.

Either the politicians didn’t bother to consider what a mess they were making – or just didn’t care. After all, these are the folks who brought us Fannie and Freddie, resulting in our “new” economy. And they’re not done. Now they’re itching to slip a wet willie to the automotive industry.

Everyone out there who thinks government-mandated technology is a good thing, please raise your hands. Great. Keep ‘em up. I only have one pair of pliers, but I’ll get to you as soon as I can.

Carmen Electra, cloning and cheap airline tickets.

Oh yeah, and Brook Burke, bestiality and bonnaroo. And let us not forget the Hun’s Yellow Pages or how to get pregnant. Or Willow Palin. Or, god forbid, Susan Boyle.

No, I don’t want to talk about any of those people or things or things masquerading as people. I’m not ever sure who (Jamie Czerniawski) or what (New Moon) some of them are. I’m just appalled at the number of blogs and websites that toss these names (Jon and Kate) and terms (ubersexual) about willy-nilly just because they’re some of the most searched words (fibromyalgia) on the Internet. It’s a shameless (Britney Spears) tactic to drive web traffic to their sites (sublimedirectory), clawing their way to the top (brangelina) by fooling the webcrawlers (eminem) into thinking they're popular (poop freeze).

Well, you won’t encounter that sort of despicable behavior (Howard Stern) here at Yolawriters (Thumbzilla!). I prefer to build my blogosmic empire the old fashioned way (gnutella!) – by pestering hell out of my friends and relatives (Colin Cowherd!). Yola out.

Green hair on my potato salad.

As of last year, according to Internetworldstats.com, there were 6,710,029,070 people with access to the Internet.

Well, hello. How come, nearly a whole day and half after my first post, only one, one!, of you has left me a comment? And only three others are even paying attention?

Blessed be to (insert name of favorite Deity) for my four loyal Followers. It’s heartening to know you’ll share my pain when I find ants in the Frosted Mini-Wheats, when my cat pisses all over the dog toys, when I arrive at work wearing mismatched shoes, when my VCR tapes Wipe Swap instead of Burn Notice, when I find a half a dead mouse in my slipper, and when the only birthday card I get is from my life insurance agent.

So thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you to Vicky and Davy and Kassandra and yes, even Cyberdrew, for sticking with me through these 33 difficult hours. I promise there will be more.

As for the other 6,710,029,066 of you… Just remember. I know who you are. I know you where you live. I know your neighbors would hate to learn there’s a sexual predator on their street. Sign up now and all will be forgiven.

Look! I'm not wearing any underpants!

Hm.
What does one say to inaugurate a new blog?
Hello world?
Hi Mom?
Greetings, people of Earth?
You can see what I decided on.

Life, it seems to me, is largely a struggle to find the right words – a rip-snorting battle to say something appropriate. And I damn near always lose. Look me up in my high school yearbook and you’ll see my future ordained: Most Likely To Say Something Inappropriate.

But as you see, I’m still here fighting.

I guess that’s what this blog is about – taking my struggle to new heights, battling the compulsion to say inappropriate things to every Internet-savvy being on this sad planet. And losing.

I hope to say great things here. Important things. But to encounter those little jujubes of wisdom, you’ll likely have to wade through miles and miles of flapdoodle.

So as we begin this journey together, I offer this advice: Carry a sharp knife. Once in a great while you may find something worth keeping. As for the rest, you'll likely want to scrape it off your shoe.

standing by

Yola's coming! Yola's coming!

She/we will be here soon.