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.