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.