Roberta Gale- NOISE
A stream-of-consciousness, introspective, yet narcissistic diatribe on life, pop culture, sex, human nature, animal nature, and everything else.
Roberta Gale www.robertagale.com roberta@robertagale.com
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Roberta Gale NOISE
a snack before end of the world
Gee, I wonder if my split pea soup will be done before the world ends. I hope so, because it's a pretty good one, made with the requisite carrots, onion, garlic and four giant cubos de Knorr Caldo Con Sabor de Pollo. Mexican bouillon cubes can make anything taste great because they contain genuine FAT. Knorr is so proud of that fact they even list it twice as an ingredient: chicken fat AND hydrogenated beef fat. For hydrogen-riffic flavor!
Of course that didn't make up for the big ol ham hock I was dying to toss in, but didn't have. A couple of shakes of Bac-Os will do in a pinch.
And plenty of pinches are coming our way.
Quakes, tsunamis, blizzards, floods, droughts, record highs, record lows- they came, they're coming again, and most of us are going to die, even women who use Strivectin.
Luckily for you, I'm going to share a secret that may one day SAVE YOUR LIFE-considering you want it saved while everyone else melts, freezes or expires in some way involving shrieking and a tectonic or man made catastrophe.
OK-here it is: Split pea soup doesn't have to simmer for hours! Twenty to thirty minutes, tops, toss it in a blender, it's ready to go as fuel to outrun the sun's unfiltered death rays or for a picnic in an underground bunker.
Yep, the very same people who will soon vanish during Deathfest 2010 lied to you. "Honesty is the best policy." "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." "Generic ketchup is just as good as Heinz." "Soup has to simmer for hours."
Sometimes just knowing that you'll be the only one to survive is enough to make you look really, really, cool.
Of course that didn't make up for the big ol ham hock I was dying to toss in, but didn't have. A couple of shakes of Bac-Os will do in a pinch.
And plenty of pinches are coming our way.
Quakes, tsunamis, blizzards, floods, droughts, record highs, record lows- they came, they're coming again, and most of us are going to die, even women who use Strivectin.
Luckily for you, I'm going to share a secret that may one day SAVE YOUR LIFE-considering you want it saved while everyone else melts, freezes or expires in some way involving shrieking and a tectonic or man made catastrophe.
OK-here it is: Split pea soup doesn't have to simmer for hours! Twenty to thirty minutes, tops, toss it in a blender, it's ready to go as fuel to outrun the sun's unfiltered death rays or for a picnic in an underground bunker.
Yep, the very same people who will soon vanish during Deathfest 2010 lied to you. "Honesty is the best policy." "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." "Generic ketchup is just as good as Heinz." "Soup has to simmer for hours."
Sometimes just knowing that you'll be the only one to survive is enough to make you look really, really, cool.
Desert Bloom
I've decided to stop letting fear run my life-burst open the cocoon, let the larva out and the butterfly fly-wait-if I let the larva out it'll die unless I put it in a box and feed it lettuce like I did years ago when I opened the Mexican jumping bean and the green worm thing came out. Even that guy died after a week despite my best efforts at mothering . I think I got him to pupa and was terminal. Or chrysalis. Wait-that's for butterflys. Damn it, I was trying to impress you with my knowledge of the Class Insecta. Forget it. We'll start again.
So as part of this "live like you're dying" thing I adopted a few weeks ago I'm trying things I never have before. Like mid-grade gasoline and cheap bologna. Although you can't do a lot of stuff if you're really dying and feel like crap and can't get out of bed, but I'll ignore that digression for the moment.
Which leads me to my recent trip with friends on their Ranger. The Ranger is this cool four-wheel drive thing that's like a miniature Jeep Wrangler, only without windshields. You strap yourself in as if you're going on one of those roller coasters that costs a fortune to insure, and toss the entire package into the desert. For hours. I was lucky enough to be in the front seat or I would have thrown up, but it would have been the kind of vomiting that's worth it.
The best part was when I thought we were going to tip over, slamming the entire weight of the Ranger and four other people into my guts. It was then I had my epiphany. Near death=fun! Actually dying=drag! This is the way reckless people live and I wanted to be a part of it. If only my DNA wasn't programmed to steer myself away from danger. That's the Jewish thing. Everyone wants to kill us so get the hell out.
Well from now on, I'm livin' my life like a Gentile!
Oh yeah, and the border shared by Arizona and Mexico (now trendily called "The Borderlands" which sounds like somewhere you'd go to check out books and sip latte) sucks. It's full of garbage and drug runners and people runners and you'd have to be nuts to go into the middle of nowhere without a large group of people and/or a gun. We found this designer duffel just off the trail. Cell phones, walkie-talkies, extra batteries, chargers, and a toothbrush. Nice to know that dental hygiene is a priority for smugglers.
Yep, the places I used to peacefully hike by myself many years ago are the front lines of a clusterf**k. But you haven't lived until you've seen an empty Mexican Gatorade Bottle up close.
I wonder what flavor this is.
Join me as I take my next death-defying trip. Next up:Trader Joes the day the Fearless Flyer comes out.
So as part of this "live like you're dying" thing I adopted a few weeks ago I'm trying things I never have before. Like mid-grade gasoline and cheap bologna. Although you can't do a lot of stuff if you're really dying and feel like crap and can't get out of bed, but I'll ignore that digression for the moment.
Which leads me to my recent trip with friends on their Ranger. The Ranger is this cool four-wheel drive thing that's like a miniature Jeep Wrangler, only without windshields. You strap yourself in as if you're going on one of those roller coasters that costs a fortune to insure, and toss the entire package into the desert. For hours. I was lucky enough to be in the front seat or I would have thrown up, but it would have been the kind of vomiting that's worth it.
The best part was when I thought we were going to tip over, slamming the entire weight of the Ranger and four other people into my guts. It was then I had my epiphany. Near death=fun! Actually dying=drag! This is the way reckless people live and I wanted to be a part of it. If only my DNA wasn't programmed to steer myself away from danger. That's the Jewish thing. Everyone wants to kill us so get the hell out.
Well from now on, I'm livin' my life like a Gentile!
Oh yeah, and the border shared by Arizona and Mexico (now trendily called "The Borderlands" which sounds like somewhere you'd go to check out books and sip latte) sucks. It's full of garbage and drug runners and people runners and you'd have to be nuts to go into the middle of nowhere without a large group of people and/or a gun. We found this designer duffel just off the trail. Cell phones, walkie-talkies, extra batteries, chargers, and a toothbrush. Nice to know that dental hygiene is a priority for smugglers.
Yep, the places I used to peacefully hike by myself many years ago are the front lines of a clusterf**k. But you haven't lived until you've seen an empty Mexican Gatorade Bottle up close.
I wonder what flavor this is.
My body, someone else's self
Who the hell is this old broken old fart that's taken over my body? The one that slips on those hand crutch things before I type or smooths Tiger Balm patches on the base of her spine after she runs or can't drink coffee after
3 p.m because it keeps her up at night? The one who has to put on her glasses before she checks the fiber content of bread or grams of fat in deli meat?
I mutter to myself white I'm doing things, I need to "go" before I go out for the day, and I have to eat with my supplements so they don't upset my increasingly sensitive stomach.
I thought this crap wasn't supposed to happen until I was in my 80s and actually looked old: white hair, round glasses, bun, and knitting old.
I find myself saying " when I was a kid" or "back in the day" and mentioning my age often to let everyone, most of all myself, know that I've survived a bunch of things and survived. I'm old enough to remember when people used "back in the old days" for back in the day." I adopted the latter term years ago because the former sounds like it should go with "horseless carriage."
I look like me, talk like me, swear like me, act hyper like me, embrace sarcasm like me, laugh my ass off at South Park like me (although I'm aware that I'm probably over the top of their demo) and maintain the same low thrill threshold and ADD I've had since I was born.
This has to be karma. All my years as a waitress ( I stand my ground when it comes to this beloved term-'server' lacks warmth and sounds slave-y) I laughed at old people who wanted to know why the light was so dim because they couldn't read the menu, or borrowed glasses from their friends. Now I do that crap!
During first radio gig at 22, I played Porcelana ads and cracked up at the term "age spots." Now I know what they are.
I teach a college class and I warn the agile punks that this, too, will happen to them. Of course they don't believe me. I wouldn't either at their age.
3 p.m because it keeps her up at night? The one who has to put on her glasses before she checks the fiber content of bread or grams of fat in deli meat?
I mutter to myself white I'm doing things, I need to "go" before I go out for the day, and I have to eat with my supplements so they don't upset my increasingly sensitive stomach.
I thought this crap wasn't supposed to happen until I was in my 80s and actually looked old: white hair, round glasses, bun, and knitting old.
I find myself saying " when I was a kid" or "back in the day" and mentioning my age often to let everyone, most of all myself, know that I've survived a bunch of things and survived. I'm old enough to remember when people used "back in the old days" for back in the day." I adopted the latter term years ago because the former sounds like it should go with "horseless carriage."
I look like me, talk like me, swear like me, act hyper like me, embrace sarcasm like me, laugh my ass off at South Park like me (although I'm aware that I'm probably over the top of their demo) and maintain the same low thrill threshold and ADD I've had since I was born.
This has to be karma. All my years as a waitress ( I stand my ground when it comes to this beloved term-'server' lacks warmth and sounds slave-y) I laughed at old people who wanted to know why the light was so dim because they couldn't read the menu, or borrowed glasses from their friends. Now I do that crap!
During first radio gig at 22, I played Porcelana ads and cracked up at the term "age spots." Now I know what they are.
I teach a college class and I warn the agile punks that this, too, will happen to them. Of course they don't believe me. I wouldn't either at their age.
Don't kill the piano player, aim for the singer
I've probably sung karaoke three times in my life. I prefer to get my humiliation on a more regular basis, as often happens just by being myself. But I do understand the attraction-for a few minutes, a nobody can become somebody in front of verbally abusive and/or vomiting people in a badly lit bar.
And, amateur sociologist that I am, you can tell a lot about people by the songs they choose.
1. Aging rock chicks like to sing "Crazy on Me" or any other Heart song in which Ann Wilson sounds Robert Plant-ish.
2. Broads who still own crystals sing Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams" or any song that involves Stevie Nicks twirling around in a black cloak.
3. Number-crunching guys who have yet to be promoted to a cubicle love Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer" or any song that sounds ballsy no matter the group or lyrics.
4. Suburban boys on the edge of puberty love anything that makes them sound urban-songs with rhythmic lyrics that drop vowels and contain colorful euphemisms for sex or the organs involved (see Ludacris, Weezy, Timbaland,Fabolous, et al.)
5.Girls are up for grabs. They're hot for any ephemeral Top 40 hit sung by a woman-be it Ke$ha, Beyonce, Fergie, Lady Gaga, or Rhianna feat. whoever-the -hell: any chick act du hour with no last name will do.
Who am I kidding? I've sung along to every one of these songs in the car. But I just needed some kind of an intro to this article about Filipinos killing people during karaoke renditions of Sinatra's "My Way"
Have a nice day. And remember, public renditions of Ol' Blue Eyes signature tune may be hazardous to your health.
A Threesome: Patrick Swayze, Jung and Me.
Patrick Swayze and I were sitting in nearby booths at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Sort of like a Golden Corral but a bit more upscale (i.e. sauces were reduced rather than thickened with flour or cornstarch, vegetables weren't overcooked.) I'm not saying I like one better than the other- give me a chicken-fried steak made with fat n' flour white gravy any day-I'm just being descriptive.
We were attracted to each other, but Patrick was with another woman who just so happened to the be married-with-child daughter of a good friend. She was all over him. but he kept looking at me. Meanwhile the servers kept bringing out more food-so much that they ran out of room and were putting roasts on chairs and casseroles on the floor. I was attempting to balance my eye-lock with Patrick (can I call him Pat at this point? No? OK. Not a big deal.) with trying to grab some of whatever new food item was being put out.
I started pigging out on macaroni and cheese, scalloped potatoes with big chunks of ham, braised short ribs-all the stuff I wish I had waiting in the oven for me every evening but only have the time and patience to cook once a month. But even stuffing myself, didn't diminish my ardor for Patrick, nor his for me. As dreams often do, jump cut to P. and me, wrapped in each others' body, fulled clothed and surrounded by all that food.
What the hell did this dream mean? I liked Dirty Dancing, I admired the fact that he was still married to the same woman from his pre-fame days, I was sad when he died, but he didn't register that high on my Richter scale of personalities.
If everyone in my dream is a manifestation of something in my personality, which Jung believes fits into of a limited number of archetypes, what part of me is a guy who danced well and never got to the top tier of fame?
Or as my husband Dave would say, are dreams just mind excretions, no more meaningful than taking a dump?
If he's right, then dreams are even more important to me. Nothing is more vital than taking a healthy shit every day. You young punks can laugh, but Karma says you'll be there in a few decades.
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Three-course Emotion
I like my emotions like I like my dinner-each item separate and far away from the other stuff. Happy, sad, scared, shocked: I want enough distance between each so that I can savor or grieve as my psyche directs.
Unfortunately, that's not the way life is served.
Yesterday I received a call from the son of a friend I lost contact with years ago. The delightful news: he was alive, healthy, and engaged to be marred. The devastating news: my friend was dead.
What the hell was I supposed to feel? My governor wasn't kicking in. As someone who's ridden the roller coaster of emotions for decades, my survival mechanism for crisis has become think first - emote later. The event planner didn't show up and I was left with a bunch of empty chairs and no one to put them in the correct place.
After playing out this narcissistic tirade, the universal shock and disbelief set in. Yes, I say universal because I've never trusted my emotions and end up thinking what I think others would feel in this situation.
But I really felt nothing. Empty, numb, hollow, shot with so many shells I was unrecognizable to myself. How do you grieve someone you haven't seen in years? Someone who died years ago when you assumed all this time they were just doing normal things that people do every day and keeping their demons at bay with therapy and proper amounts of prescribed medication? Someone who was as energetic and humorous and quirky as you are?
So I switched the emote-o-meter to 'gratitude.' After all, her kid-who I've wondered about for years-was alive and gratitude is a good thing, right? The post-it note on my computer has been telling me so for six months now so it must be true.
The mashed potatoes got mixed in with the green beans and I have no choice but to eat them if I want to survive.
Life: 1
Death: 1
I'm waiting for the tie-breaker.
App me once, app me twice, app me 1000+ times
Download | Duration: 00:06:34
Joy of Duct Tape
Inspired by watching Julie and Julia last night on DVD, I decided to repair my copy of Joy of Cooking with duct tape. My husband and I were given the 1997 edition from my brother and sister-in-law for a wedding gift. And in the 14 years since, my passion and lack of archival sense took its toll. Broken spine, ripped, stained, dog-eared and missing pages, segmentation (at page 110; I'll never how to make New England Clam Chowder past scrubbing the "5 pounds quahogs or other hand-shelled clams.")
The book looks like total crap but it's still functional. I broke every bindery rule in the book, so to speak, but I was able to attach the filthy front and back covers. I did sacrifice part of the 'W' and 'Z' pages in the index, but who really cares since I'll never make Whelk Fritters or Kouglof. I thought I was missing the 'X' and 'Z' section, but that's because the book never bothers to cover any foods that begin with those letters. I guess I'm out of luck if I want to prepare xigua or zabaglione.
So of course after watching the movie, I had fantasies of the world discovering my blog, becoming famous, and publishing a book based on my disparate rants. But that only works for Julie Powell and Diablo Cody. The rest of us toil for nothing more than a few pats on the head, never even getting the chance to bite the gold coin like Underdog.
Besides, I'll never have millions hanging on to my every word, because my every word changes with each word. I dart from medium to medium and message to message, never staying in one long enough to build a following.
"So what is your blog about?"
I get asked this a lot by friends who understand analytics and search engine optimization and throw around the word 'monetize" a lot.
"It's about stuff I think about," I reply, coming off like a surly 15-year-old.
So in a half-assed attempt to keep my sanity, I've decided to just write, speak, or video whatever I want to. Maybe it will take some kind of form, maybe it will pick its own "lane." (I just looked this up: "Pick a Lane: How to Focus Your Expertise to Increase Your Bottom Line" The info made me want to do neither.)
So: The topic is Roberta, the focus is Roberta, the tags are Roberta. As for a lane, I've always weaved in and out of them while driving.
Make a left- NOW!
When my mom began school, her teacher tied her left hand behind her back to stop her from using it. Fortunately, I was born in a more tolerant time and grabbing things with the 'wrong' hand was no longer punishable by binding.
However, the tendency to be 'left' anything still has the same negative connotations it did in my mother's time.
Handedness is an inherited trait, according to the most recent study, just like sexual preference, but prejudice against left-handers is so rampant that everything out of whack is named after us.
Chief among these is political preference, carried on no gene but treated with the same kind of ignorance.
It's not "right," it's not correct, it's different, it's chaotic, it's not what most people think, it would mean restructuring everything in our lives (of course, in the case of doorknobs and scissors I would welcome this.)
It's time to take back the word 'left' from people who use it as a slur. Just as gays took back the word queer, lefties can do the same by using the word ad infinitum. Problem is, they're too pussy to do so. They've caved in to those on the 'right' who've co-opted the word 'left' to define something dark and evil that will somehow affect 'the children.'
'Progressive' just doesn't have the same history and gravitas. It says "we're moving forward but we don't know where and by the way, thanks for the ceramic composting crock from Plow and Hearth.
It's also time to be thankful for what we've got. When Bush was in office, his right-wing minions (they're not afraid to call themselves 'right' whether or not they actually are) supported him to the hilt, no matter what insipid or dangerous crap he pulled.
But the left's support for Obama (a left-hander, BTW) continues to be in free-fall with each decision he makes that isn't exactly to their liking. So they're going to abandon Obama in 2012 and nominate another overly-intellectual ball-less wimp like John Kerry who has a snowball's chance in hell of being nominated because he's too scared to slay the dragon. Then we're back where we started- with a total dipshit for president.
So whatever the hell you call yourselves, be it liberal, left, or radical, say it and be it proudly. But don't kill the goose that laid the golden egg, the messenger, or anyone else on the side of some kind of reform with an IQ over 100. Or I'm going to call you idiot.
Let's get the band back together
A message to my old NJ 101.5 radio partner Brooke Daniels to see if she wanted to record a podcast with me for old times' sake. She wasn't home, so I did the next best thing- a solo mini-show after being inspired by her somewhat witty voice mail message. (Does anyone else even bother to inject wit, intelligence or anything other than abject indifference into their answering machine message these days?
Download | Duration: 00:02:19
De-friended and it (doesn't) feel so good
Yep. I fell into the "Every One of my Facebook Friends Means Something to Me." trap. I'm warning you, you do not want to follow me into this particularly painful virtual hell.
Download | Duration: 00:08:49
Ignore this kids, it's for a Podcast Alley Feed Thingie
<a href="http://www.podcastalley.com/"> My Podcast Alley feed!</a> {pca-1af7b7f32b7b3a37fa644367813ffbfb}
It's Christmas at the (former) Commune!
A just-for-fun video made with a very old video cam, no polarizing filter, and no thought of what I was going to do. It's as funky as the community it portrays.
Help me, I'm saving tons of money!
How could anyone not find something that's right in front of their face? Especially if it's a bag of coffee the size of Costa Rica.
Download | Duration: 00:04:02
Of Fake Claps and Kings
Obama takes on sleepy West Pointers, possible bad lighting and disingenuous military men during tonight's speech on Afghanistan. And I'm fixated on those frankensteinian veins on his forehead.
Download | Duration: 00:10:54
Who needs Oral A?
I woke up at 6 a.m. just to brush my teeth. But he adrenaline started pumping way before a hint of light reached my eyelids; I barely slept during the night.
I ran to the bathroom where my new OralB Professional Care SmartSeries 4750 toothbrush with Dentist-Inspired Cupping Action, plus FlossAction and Oscillating-Pulsating Technology was sitting in its Innovative Base Station plugged into its Portable SmartPlug Charger. The In-handle Smart Display let me know it was full and ready.
Why did it make me wait ten hours for a charge? That's just cruel. OK, I did sneak in a quick sweep of my mouth a half hour after I put the base in the charger, but that doesn't count, because the experience didn't last long enough to be satisfying.
So, as the birds started singing and the other desert creatures made whatever threatening noises they could, I popped on the Floss Action brush head, added a schmear of toothpaste, and was ready to go.
I picked it up, ready to brush, but I had to stop. An ergonomically designed handle is a beautiful thing to hold. I rolled it in my hand, admiring it; its heft and tang as fine as a Wusthof. The brush head felt as if it had always been part of the handle, hand-forged in a foreign workshop by some guy who's been making them for hundreds of years.
How handsome it was-in hues of blue and summer white, highlighted by silver wings that were waiting to take the inside of my mouth to ecstasy and beyond. Beyond could be to the toilet for all I cared-If my Oral B it was taking me there, I wanted to go. My mouth tingled with anticipation, nervous as a virginal schoolgirl.
I put into my mouth; gingerly at first, letting the pulsations and oscillations buzz me away. Daily Clean mode felt so good, but I had to back off, the sensation was too much to bear. Pushing the brushing mode button to Sensitive seemed like my only choice at this point.
It cleaned each quadrant slowly, giving each one its pre-allotted time that somehow seemed exactly right. But soon I was salivating for more. I moved on though Massage (or “Kobe Teeth”), Whitening, (a good idea; though my teeth were clean, my married self felt dirty) all the way to Deep Clean. Or as the Spanish-language version of the instructions informed me, Profundo.
They had it right. Deep Clean was so Profundo, its toothpaste tsunami so pleasurable, that I lost track of time. It was only when a smile face broke the mood and informed me that I'd been brushing for 11 minutes and 38 seconds that the OB 4750 left my mouth.
I began to put the handle down on its rightful place, (just to the left of my bathroom sink and next to that woven thing full of cotton balls) stopping once to lightly squeeze its ribbed underside and marvel at its girth. I knew it would be many hours before I felt it again.
How to get the love you want from a blog.
I tried. Honestly, I tired many times a day every single day to log in to my blog, write something and then get on with my day. But instead of using my confused beloved as the world's window to me, and vice versa, our relationship has become a candidate for couples counseling.
It's not that your empty spaces mock me, or your technology confounds me. It's just that...well.. brace yourself, sweetie.... I have another suitor who begs me to come whisper words in his ear-intimate words that will never see the light of the Web.Yes, I've been having a non-virtual affair with my personal journal.
When my pen touches his thick, handmade paper, I feel free because I know I'm writing for no one but myself. That narcissistic ass Kerouac got one thing right when he advised writers to keep "Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy."
But I will never stop loving you, hanging out with you, and sharing my witty, pithy comments on life, politics, and everything else with you.
I shall never, ever divorce you. But from now on, my secret dreams, passions, fears, thoughts, will be shared with another.
Please don't be sad. It's not you, it's me.
Im a lazy human being and I have no right to be on the blogosphere
According to some site that I glanced at once that I'm too lazy to check out again or even hyperlink to, a huge number of blogs are abandoned after a few weeks or a few months or some other statistic that I half-remember but don't feel like searching for right now.
I can see why.
Blogs are similar to relationships. When you first meet, you're smacked by that bolt of phermerones that keeps you so full of in-love stupidity that you post ten times a day. You call in sick, ignore family and friends and survive on whatever frozen crap is closet to the checkout lane.
Then, the shift. Imperceptible at first, ignorable for a while, but you feel it deep in the pads of your fingers. You start differentiating between day and night, begin wearing clothing again, and suddenly notice those breathing things walking around in your house. Your posts twitter down to once a day.
Once a day! You can do this! There's so many things going on in your head that surely you can post something, even a few sentences, once a day.
Once a day. Every damn day.
And you do for a while, because you've told everyone you have a blog and they commented a few times on the clever bon mots you saved and published. At this point, clicking on the publish button still gives you a thrill. You're an author!
But authors come out with books maybe once a year at the most. And since you take so much care to structure your sentences and show off your writing chops as opposed to those hacks that multiply like bacteria in the Petri dish of the Internet, you'd be prolific if you post even once a month.
I mean, you have to redo your business website that you've ignored for the past year. You're teaching Web writing and your own site reads like the kind of bad example you'd show your students. You've got to either hustle more or get off the air with this crazy dream that you can continue your radio career in a recession while staying put. Your husband feels ignored, your dog is shedding like crazy, your house looks like crap and you're embarrassed to have anyone over.
So you tell yourself that posting as often as a non-menopausal woman has a period would be fine and after all, you can spend less time honing your pithy/witty Tweets instead-the ones that go directly to Facebook so you don't have to jack around with writing stuff solely for that time suck.
Hey, you don't have to post at all anymore! You can just cut and paste your Tweets onto your blog, and when you have enough, you can make a real live printed book from your Tweets!
Then you'll be an author and start a blog. At first, you post daily...
