For those of us who blog or tweet or use social media for any significant portion of our day, there’s little that is more satisfying than seeing our creation shared by others who have appreciated it. Your baby – something you’ve put effort into – has been retweeted or shared on Facebook, or is getting views from Stumbleupon, or even got noticed on the social media wasteland of Google + – and you feel pride in your work. It’s a great feeling when it happens, and it feels like crap when it doesn’t. Why is one piece better than the others? Why didn’t anybody appreciate my awesomeness and share my content with the world at large? See, when I share something you’ve created, I’m making a withdrawal from my bank of credibility with my friends, followers, readers, and fans, with the expectation that it will be repaid with interest as everyone appreciates what I’ve shared with them.  I can’t speak for everyone (although I wish I could – maybe someday when I’m Earth’s supreme ruler), but here are the reasons that I won’t be stumbling, liking, retweeting, or otherwise sharing your content.

1. It’s too long.
2. It’s too short.
3. You misspelled too many words.
4. You misspelled any words.
5. You misused your, and you’re.
6. You misused there, their, and they’re.
7. You misused its and it’s.
8. You wrote anything in text speak.
9. You have the grammar and spelling skills of Sloth from Goonies.
10. I don’t like you.
11. I like you but don’t like your online persona.
12. I like you but not that much.
13. I don’t support your message.
14. I’m neutral about your message.
15. You asked everyone to in a generic way.
16. You pleaded for everyone to share it in a sad, pathetic way.
17. It’s terrible.
18. It’s not great.
19. It’s marginal.
20. It’s not creative.
21. It’s not unique.
22. I’ve seen it a dozen times before.
23. There are no photos.
24. There are too many photos.
25. You never reply to your followers or friends.
26. You never share anyone else’s material or comment anywhere.
27. You share everyone’s material indiscriminately.
28. You share some people’s material and then keep making a point of the fact that you did so.
29. It’s thrown together sloppily and haphazardly just so you can meet your posting requirement for Babble.
30. You ask for your content to be shared every single day.
31. You call yourself a social media expert.
32. You call yourself a social media guru.
33. You call yourself a social media anything.
34. In the past, you’ve said something negative about me.
35. In the past, you’ve said something negative about one of my friends.
36. In the past, you’ve said something negative about Ke$ha, the future Mrs. Avitable.
37. I don’t know you.
38. I know you, but you won’t be my friend on Facebook.
39. I know you, but you don’t follow me back on Twitter.
40. You’re following less than a hundred people and you have over a thousand followers.
41. You’re following over a thousand people and you have less than a hundred followers.
42. It’s a post for BlogHer.
43. In order to share it, I have to jump through hoops, register, or do anything more than a click.
44. You want me to share it, stumble it, tweet it, and like it.
45. It sucks.
46. It really sucks.
47. It sucks worse than anything has ever sucked in the whole world.
48. It has no relevance to me in any way.
49. It has relevance, but I have other things to do.
50. It has relevance, I have free time, but I just don’t feel like it.

And the reasons that I will retweet, like, stumble or otherwise share your content?

1. It made me laugh or cry.
2. You created something interesting and relevant that is well-conceived and shows that you care about the content you make.
3. You didn’t ask or plead for your audience to share your content, but your material was something that I enjoyed and you made the sharing tools easy and accessible.
4. I agreed with your message and supported the cause or need that you are promoting, without any urging from you.
5. I’ve had sex with you or want to have sex with you in the future.

When I got the email a few months ago from Washington University in Saint Louis, where I attended law school, informing me that my 10-year law school reunion is this weekend, I was floored. How the hell has it been 10 years already?

Where I honed my elitism and pomposity to a razor edge

2001 – It doesn’t seem that long ago, but it really is. Who was I ten years ago?

Ten years ago, I was the nerd who taught myself how to use Flash and set up a Flash intro for my website. Click here to view it – make sure your sound is turned down low. I also created this *fantastic* Flash photo album, replete with *witty* captions. You can substitute “fucking terrible” for “fantastic” and “witty”.

I was 24 years old and had never had a full-time, permanent job. I’d worked since I was old enough to count money, but they were always jobs while I attended school. I had earned money by being a babysitter, a window washer, a telemarketer, a bag boy, a movie theater manager, a security officer, a webmaster, a graphic designer, a salesman, a researcher, an author, a camp counselor, a video rental clerk, a retail employee, an ebayer, and a thief. I didn’t drink, had never had a cigarette, and had dated less than ten people in my entire life.

In May of 2001, Amy and I moved to Los Angeles, moving into an apartment that I had never seen. In fact, I’d never stepped foot in the city until that May. It was a tough job market, and I was applying for any job I could find. In July, as I was about to take a job managing a local Blockbuster, I got a call from an attorney who I had met who had his own business. He wanted to start something new, and he put the entire responsibility of it in my hands. Two months later, I launched a brand new business as the sole employee, and over three years, learned the ins and outs of starting and building a business, branding, marketing, hiring, managing, and everything else you can imagine. It was a trial by fire, but I was hungry for it.

In October, I got married. Our guest list was cut by a third after 9/11, and there was an anthrax scare at the hotel where all the guests were staying, essentially keeping everyone confined while the Health Department investigated for an hour. It was still a fantastic time. We left the next day for a cruise to the Bahamas, which was miserable, and it’s barely over ten years later that I will be going on my second cruise ever, hoping for a better experience.

It was in 2001 that I created the image that graced my header of my blog for 6 years:

Along with several other less successfully Photoshopped images:

I didn’t blog, per se, but I owned Avitable.com and maintained a website that I would update with photos, information about my life, and links that I found interesting. I wrote everything in HTML by hand, and would email my friends and family whenever I updated it. Even though I consider my blog anniversary to start counting from June 2004, in reality, I’ve been doing it since 1998.

I even wrote fanfic, which I talked about years ago.

There was no Twitter or Facebook. Yahoo, Livejournal, and Altavista’s image search had relevance. I had slowly started getting rid of the hundreds of VHS tapes I had in lieu of DVDs. My only cell phone was an emergency phone with 100 prepaid minutes on it.

And now, in a blink, it’s ten years later. This weekend, I’ll be revisiting the place where I got my degree, where I met the woman who would become my wife, and then my ex-wife, where my adult life really, truly started. I will be on a panel talking to law students about alternative careers for lawyers, and not alternative like dressing in drag, although having painted toenails is probably pretty close. Am I going to fit in with my peers, most of whom have been practicing law for the last ten years? Eh, it doesn’t matter. I’m used to being that guy – the one who’s a bit different, who doesn’t really do things like everyone else. I’m the clown, the prankster, the geek, the jeans and Hawaiian shirt amidst a sea of suits and blazers. I’m the one who took my exams so quickly that there was a betting pool on how fast it would take me. I’m that guy who played Monopoly in the library the night before a paper was due because my priorities are out of whack. And finally, since it’s going to be a high of 40 degrees there, I’m the guy who’s going to be really fucking cold.

Have you missed me? I’ve been around, just not here.

Over at the new satire site, Insert Eyeroll, I dispense advice with my monthly column. You can submit questions and know that you’re getting sage advice that will in no way cause your own death and/or humiliation. Go check out my debut post.

As I have been for the last several months, I write about pop culture at MamaPop, and by pop culture, I mean geeky movies and tits.

And over at MoxieBird, I’ve written about eating dogs, improving Google Plus, and finding dead bodies, amongst other topics.

As for where I’m going, Wednesday morning at the ungodly hour of 6:30 AM, I take off for San Diego to attend BlogHer for six days.  I’ve already told you how to avoid being a loser and gave you my cell number so you can drunk text me.

Have you gotten the BlogHer 2011 app yet?  While not 100% perfect, it’s the best thing to come from BlogHer, ever.  It’s about as easy to use as their website is terrible to navigate. If you’re going to be at the conference this year, I’d suggest getting that app for your phone now.

For those of you who are voyeurs and stalkers, or if you’re actually going to be in San Diego, here is my anticipated schedule:

Wednesday, August 3rd

6:30 AM (EST)
Take off for San Diego

6:31 AM (EST)
Start drinking.

11:00 AM (PDT)
Land in San Diego. Stumble to taxi.

12:00 PM – 5:00 PM
Go find a doctor and get a prescription for my “anxiety” that can only be solved by some type of medicinal herb.

5:00 PM – ??
Eat, drink, be merry.

Thursday, August 4th

8ish AM – Noon
Wake up, masturbate, work, shower, masturbate, dance, dry hump something.

Noon – 6:00 PM
Eat, mingle, hug, grope, take photos, talk, dance, dry hump something.

6:00 PM – 8:00 PM
Evening at the Expo. Look at exhibitions, try not to dry hump anything.

8:00 PM – 10:00 PM
People’s Party.  I’m a people so this is totally my party.

10:00 PM – 12:00 AM
Queerosphere.  Be clear that I’m here but not queer.

12:00 AM – 5:00 AM
Road trip to Tijuana for a donkey show?

Friday, August 5th

8ish AM – 11:45 AM
Wake up, dry hump something, work, shower, masturbate, sing loudly to embarrassing music.

11:45 AM
Lunch.  Talk to people. Give them naked business cards and watch them weep in horror.

1:00 PM – 4:45 PM
Go see “Rise of the Planet of the Apes”.  Or maybe socialize.

4:45 PM – 6:00 PM
Voices  of the Year Community Keynote.  Applaud loudly for everyone who got chosen to read their posts while quietly judging their posts for not being nearly as good as mine.

6:00 PM – 8:00 PM
Voices of the Year Reception.  Enthusiastically congratulate everyone who got chosen to read their posts while quietly judging their posts for not being nearly as good as mine.

8:00 PM – 9:00 PM
Listen to Your Mother Open Mic.  No idea what the fuck this is.  Try to do comedy here if they’ll let me.

9:00 PM – 1:00 AM
Motherfucking Sparklecorn!   Wear glitter shirt, guyliner, and body glitter.  Try to keep Shawn and Whit from fucking me in the ass.  Fail.

Saturday, August 6th

8ish AM – 9:00 PM
Relax, swim, go to beach, bum fights, bury bums, dry hump everything in sight.

9:00 PM – 10:00 PM
Aiming Low Party.  Plan on dressing up, but then realize it’s Aiming Low, so fuck it.  Wear a thong and pink cowboy hat.

10:00 PM – 1:00 AM
CheeseburgHer Party.  Eat, drink, and be hairy.

Sunday, August 7th

8ish AM – 3:00 PM
Laugh at all of you fuckers who have to get up early and check out of your hotel to fly home to your hectic lives.

3:00 PM – Midnight
Get bored out of my skull wondering why I didn’t fly out on Sunday.

Monday, August 8th

Fly home.  Use ointment on sore arms.  Cry myself to sleep.  While dry humping.

Some friends put together a fiction magazine called Thrice Fiction. It’s fantastic, with lots of great art and pieces by several great authors, including yours truly. Wait – is it bad for me to call myself a “great” author? Let me try this again – this issue of Thrice Fiction has some amazing pieces of art, and excellent pieces of fiction by great authors, and me, just your regular every day fanfuckingtastic author.

Go download it in e-book or PDF form or buy a print copy now! And, of course, read it.

Where I’m From.

I am from swimming pools, the beach, and water parks, from the Magic Kingdom and Epcot, from Transformers, Garbage Pail Kids, and Go-bots, from watching Mr. Boogedy and V and Space Balls, from Superman and Indiana Jones, from writing BASIC programs on my Apple IIIe.

I am from Hummingbird Lane and fake wood paneling and ceiling fans that never turned off and a bedroom that was covered in layers of movie posters and a kitchen phone with a 50-foot cord so it would reach into my bedroom.

I am from woods filled with poison ivy and snakes, turtles, and boars and I am from swamps turned to mud pits.  I am from swinging on vines into a river while watching for alligators.  I am from pine trees and rattlesnakes and cockroaches.

I am from Santa leaving our stockings by our bedroom doors and eating homemade fudge and loud, boisterous meals and dark, twisted senses of humor.  I am from Avitables and Learys and Robyn and Jim and Howard and Mary.  I am from Cosby and Brooks and Nielsen and Yankovic and Gaines and Aragones and Neuman.

I am from sheltered childhoods and PG movies and never swearing and learning about life’s mysteries on my own.  I am from gifted childhoods and high expectations and support and pressure and from knowing that I can do absolutely anything I want in life.  I am from manipulators and salesmen and persuaders and rule-benders.

I am from get a job as soon as you’re able and you can sell ice cubes to an Eskimo and girls won’t like you if you’re fat and you should be an athlete and why the hell do you talk on the phone so much and an A is never good enough when you can get an A plus.  I am from we know best and blood is thicker than water and don’t like that girl she’s a slut.

I am from Catholic when we felt like it and delayed confirmation and never understanding why it’s okay to pray to Mary when she’s not God and thinking that people have religion all wrong.  I am from fervent prayer and proselytizing to schoolmates and having nightmares about heaven because the concept of eternity terrifies me.

I am from Florida and Daytona Beach and Weymouth and Braintree and Boston and Ireland and Italy and Naples.  I am from lasagna and corned beef and cabbage.  I am from the Mayflower and Peshawar and the bogeyman.

I am from wearing Superman pajamas with a cape and flying through the hall in front of girls.  I am from sleepwalking and from visiting my great grandfather and going to the arcade with twenty dollars in quarters while he watched.  I am from a late night eating Mother Butler pie with my dad after coming back from the state spelling bee and hearing dirty jokes from my mother.

I am from an old album filled with 70s hair styles and family members long since lost to time.  I am from Polaroids and old, yellowed film.  I am from photos stolen from the walls and shelves of my old home and shepherded to mine where they will stay.

1990 - Age 13. Meagan, age 10. Sean, age 7.

Saw this at Ali’s and Lou’s. If you want to do it yourself, there’s a really cool set of prompts here.

I am the very model of a modern metrosexual
I use lotion on my body that smells quite delectable
My feet are pampered monthly by an old lady who is Asian
And when it’s time to get a wax I don’t need too much persuasion

Looking at me you’d think that on my hands you’d find calluses
Instead the hardest work I do is drawing cartoon phalluses
I appreciate the female form for all its grace and beauty
I also get sympathy pains monthly when you are moody

If I get bored I don’t drink beer or visit strip establishments
I’d rather sunbathe by my pool while wearing zero underpants
I don’t know who is playing who in a tournament of basketball
But I’m up to speed on which actresses were called in for a casting call

I listen carefully when you talk and remember everything you say
And in case attention has not been paid, metro does not equal gay
I am meticulous and clean and like to have my bed get made
But that doesn’t mean I’d rather be your friend and not get laid

You see in matters that may be vaginally contextual
I must explain that I am straight and not a homosexual
And the fact that my grooming makes me so damn delectable
Just means I am the model of a modern metrosexual

(with apologies to Gilbert & Sullivan)

I made a joke on the Twitter yesterday:

Literally within seconds, I received numerous responses on Twitter and Facebook:

1. @blondefabulous:  green, PMS rage, Sheboygan
2. @wellreadhostess:  violet, hysterical, Duluth
3. @theBitchinWife:  vermillion, acidic, Dubuque
4. @polargemini:  orange, happy, Massachusetts
5. @TouchstoneZ:  green, grumpy, Starbucks
6. @ourladybeth:  obsidian, euphoria, Tierra del Fuego
7. @thursdayschild:  fuschia, frustration, men’s restroom in an Atlanta Denny’s
8. @CabbageDan:  blue, horny, up your bum
9. Burn: persimmon, persnickety, 2 inches inside Hitler’s ass
10. @LeSombre:  chartreuse, self-absorbed, Madagascar
11. Dee: puce, abject terror, Oklahoma
12. Biz: purple, horny, Hershey, PA
13. @SuperJules:  purple, crestfallen, inside a Lego castle
14. @gavmartell:  purple, confused, New Delhi
15. Shannon:  blue, sad, snowy hillside at twilight
16. @TravelMamas:  lime green, silly, McDonald’s in Berlin

So what else could I do except improvise a blog post from all 16 of these highly creative prompts?  The following will use all 16 of those prompts in the order they’re listed above . . .

The clock turned five on this ordinary morning. For most people, this is the time to slumber and dream while the world is quiet. For the rest, there are stories to tell.

“A Sheboygan woman went into a Hulk-like rampage today after being denied chocolate…” the news blared on the old television in Apartment 5B, where Ms. Beauregarde slumped on her sagging couch and wailed uncontrollably over her broken fingernail, oblivious to her neighbors in the decrepit Duluth building.

Next door in 5C, a well-manicured hand curled into a fist and pounded on the hideous wallpaper, which was covered in yellow butterflies and vermilion lizards. “Turn down your goddamn TV, Violet, you pathetic sack of a woman!” Originally from Dubuque, Mr. Deel longed for the days when he was carefree and happy working in Boston for Tropicana, or even his days as a grumpy green-frock wearing barista at the solitary Starbucks located in Iowa. He slumped back into bed, covered his ears, and hoped for a few more hours of sleep.

Two floors down, in 3C, Adriana’s alarm went off. Her hand, slender and smooth, switched it from “alarm” to “radio”, and tango music began to play softly. Laying quietly in the obsidian blackness, she let the music bring her back home to Tierra del Fuego, before she left her mama and papa behind in search of a better life. After being sold into prostitution by slavers who promised her safe passage to America, she spent two years in Atlanta pleasuring sexually frustrated men in a Denny’s bathroom and living under the watchful eye of a pimp named Louis. As difficult as that was, he treated her well, and she would never forget his fuchsia and black spotted hat and fur-lined fuchsia coat. She finally escaped, though, and now she relished each second of her new life working in a small restaurant as a waitress, sending money back home every single week.

Across the hall, Travis was on a roll. His alternative comic, Smurfin’ Crazy, about a man who suffered a psychotic break and believed he was possessed by a perverted miniature demon living inside him, had recently been picked up by DC/Vertigo, and he was already planning the prequel about a persnickety World War 2-era demon, the color of a ripe persimmon, who occupied and manipulated Hitler from within. He had sketched out all 22 pages and was taking a break to play the Wii with his roommate, Mahefa. Also an artist, with peculiarly green eyes, almost chartreuse against his inky black skin, Mahefa expressed himself vividly, painting pictures with his words almost as well as he did with his brush. Extremely self-absorbed, he was once again recounting his first trip to Oklahoma, riding in a truck with his uncle, seeing the sun set, splashing gold and crimson and puce and magenta and saffron, across the barren, desolate landscape, and sharing his complete and abject terror of the environment being such a change from the lush jungle environment of his home of Madagascar. Travis merely grunted and continued with his game.

Pulling into the apartment building’s parking lot, Francis drove a giant purple monster truck emblazoned with the logo of the energy drink company that employed him. He was tired after a long night of hitting bar after bar, promoting their new alcohol-infused caffeinated beverage. Still, Duluth was better than the other locations he’d been. There was Hershey, where none of his usual tricks worked and he went to bed alone every single night. There was Orlando, where he fell in love and has his heart broken inside a giant Lego castle at downtown Disney. And, worst of all, there was New Delhi, where his promotional efforts were met with confusion, apathy and derision. At least here, Francis thought, the men just want to stay up and drink, the women want to dance as long as they can, and the bars love his product.

Watching Francis from a nearby hill, shivering from the cold snow under his body, Gunther whined a faint, sad whine as he curled up and tried to tuck his cold, blue-tinged nose under his paws. He knew that the sun would be up soon and he would be warm, but for now, the cold was almost unbearable. He closed his eyes and his memories as a puppy kept him company. A small boy, wearing a lime-green coat, feeding him french fries. Giant golden arches. Rolling on the ground with the giggling boy. Feeling the tension between the boy’s parents, not understanding why he and the boy were sent away. Being packed in a crate, marked “Berlin”. Traveling for hours in the cold, cramped crate. Being released by stern looking men who said words like “unclaimed” and “pound”. Going home with a new boy. Excited to see his new home. Sitting patiently outside the door while he heard yelling. The new boy coming outside, tears streaming. ”They won’t let me keep you.” Gunther kept his eyes closed and waited patiently for his next experience.

The sun streaked over the horizon and painted the building with a faint yellow. Rumblings began to tap against the quiet of the morning. The clock turned six, and the world started up again.

He saunters, catching their eyes and offering smiles.
“Notice me, notice me!”
Even though he knows that’s not enough.

When approached, he shrugs it off.
“Lavish me, lavish me!”
It cannot be enough.

The nonchalance on the outside cracks easily and the desperation shows through.  The infernal machine inside his head records every word and replays them constantly, filling his veins with more, more, more.

He embraces them openly, but his eyes are still searching.
“Love me, love me.”
Even this will not be enough.

The yearning to be heard and known and discussed and cited makes him sallow and tired, but he won’t stop.
“Remember me, adore me.”
Maybe.

Twice before, I’ve talked about the Washington Post Mensa Invitational. The Invitational called on readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. I came up with my own group of words and in the comments, many of you came up with ones that were more clever than anything I could think of.

Here are some of the examples from the Mensa Invitational:

1. Ignoranus: A person who’s both stupid and an asshole.
2. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
3. Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn’t get it.
4. Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease.
5. Caterpallor: The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you’re eating.

And here are some of my new additions to the dictionary:

1. Asshope: A guy that you date who is an asshole but you still hope that he’ll prove he’s a good guy.
2. Vagile: Extremely flexible and gymnastically inclined in the vaginal area.
3. Underbear: Tighty whities that don’t hide the large amounts of hair poking out.
4. Stripease: A woman who drops her clothes way too easily.
5. Dourk: A really bitter, depressed geek.
6. Pelevision: Someone who buys a huge television and only uses it to watch soccer.
7. Cockblacking: Losing a girl to an African-American.
8. Warrantsy: The feeling that makes you buy an extended warranty for a piece of electronics or a car because the salesman scares you into it..
9. Weepon: A little tiny weapon.
10. Massuage: When you tell yourself that a massage ending in a happy ending is still legitimate.

Do you have an altered word that you think is better than these? Take any dictionary word, and add, subtract, or change ONE LETTER, and give the new definition in the comments.

2010 sounds like something different, doesn’t it? It’s not going to be the same – it will be a year of discoveries and happiness and riches and optimism. And flying cars and robots who shoot lasers and artificial intelligence systems that try to take over the world.

I may write up my own personal resolutions at some point, but for now, here are my Avitable.com Blog Resolutions for 2010. I resolve to:

1. Continue to write what I think and call people out who deserve to be called out.
2. Find humor in the darkest, drippiest corners of the universe.
3. Encourage comments and dialogue to foster this sense of community that I love so much.
4. Step out of my comfort zone and write about personal issues from time to time.
5. Balls, balls, balls, ninjas, and more balls.
6. Share my life with my closest friends, casual acquaintances, and perfect strangers, without holding back.
7. Draw more Avitable cartoons.

What is your blog resolution?