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Take a look at all of our clients! They are not just bloggers, they are part of the Blog Club for Men. Proving that the internet is full of talented male bloggers. We are not not trying to take away from the fantastic women of the internet, after all where would we be with out them? Take a look and make sure to comment on the authors blogs!

Plenty of bloggers have been writing handy little guides to BlogHer. But none of those bloggers are me. None of them have my perspective. Nor my back hair.

The official inevitable inimitable irresistible Avitable guide to BlogHer:

1. BlogHer does not happen in a vacuum. This isn't Hedonism. This isn't a nude beach. This isn't even your fenced-in backyard. There will be at least four million cameras at BlogHer. There will be tongues wagging and tweeting and typing and talking. Unless you're holed up in your hotel room with only you and your bestie who would never tell a soul, there is a very good chance that the world will be privy to your heavy drinking, woman kissing, pot smoking, hardcore dancing, panty flashing evening. It might not be tagged with your name and maybe nobody will say anything about it, but if you pass out on the dance floor at the Sparklecorn party with a drink in your hand, don't be surprised if you show up in the background of a thousand and one photos. And, unfortunately, expecting anyone to refrain from publishing a photo out of courtesy is asking for trouble. If you're worried about something embarrassing being published, don't drink so much that you do something embarrassing. And please, someone remind me I said this in two weeks when I'm mortified by the photos that are published.

2. Nobody cares how you look. Many bloggers (myself included) can be a little camera shy. If you're not comfortable with your weight or size, it can be hard to see yourself in hundreds of photos throughout the weekend. One alternative is to hide in a corner all night long and avoid the cameras, your friends, and all of the fun. Or, you could realize that this is about the celebration of bloggers, people, and especially women, and you're just as beautiful as that one thin blonde who looks gorgeous in every photo. Go out, have fun, and appreciate the photographs for what they are – memories with your friends.

3. Don't be a pussy. If you see someone you read and like, go say hi*. Chances are that person also has someone that he or she reads and likes and might be shy about talking to them! Blogging is about community, and community is about reciprocity. One of the biggest pleasures I had last year was when a blogger would come up to me and introduce herself. Chances were that I already knew her name, but it was nice to put a face to that Twitter account or blogger identity, exchange business cards (look for mine this year with MORE NUDITY), and forge a personal connection that's stronger when it's not separated by a shitload of ones and zeroes. Also, if you're shy, some people might misread this as aloofness and then they won't approach you either. It's a vicious circle. (*Does not apply to Dooce. She will punch you in your crotch.)

4. Your negative attitude should be left at home. Whether you're the type to whine and bitch about the men present at the conference or the drinking that goes on or the breastfeeding or the swag or the lack of swag or the exclusivity or the private parties or Nikon eating babies, shut. The. Fuck. Up. There is literally something at BlogHer for every type of personal blogger out there. Whether you're married or single or gay or straight or a teetotaler or an alcoholic or childless or barren or fertile or Christian or Jewish or Muslim or black or white or yellow or purple, if you have the right attitude, you will walk away with something positive. And wouldn't you rather come away with something positive rather than focusing on the few aspects that annoy or piss you off? I know I would.

5. Don't take things personally. It's hard. You have a lot tied up in yourself – you're psyching yourself to surf the wave of estrogen and squealing and wade in with your business cards flying. You walk up to someone, introduce yourself, talk to her for a minute or two, and mid-conversation she sees someone else that she knows, and the conversation ends. This will happen a million and one times that night, and to everyone! Even me. And I'm fucking compelling to talk to. Someone (actually many someones) will forget your name. You might be ignored or jostled aside. Bloggers you know might sneak through a line while you're still waiting. There will be parties that you don't get invited to where the attendees get pedicures and massages by the Jonas Brothers and Robert Pattinson. There will be secret rooms where they give away Camaros and Botox. It happens. Get over it, and just relax. Have fun.

6. Pronounce my name correctly.

Hopefully this guide helps you enjoy your time at BlogHer 2010. If not, I wash my hands of you. I've done all I can and you're obviously a lost cause. Go to BlissDom instead, where everything is rainbows and sunshines and unicorns. And Jesus.

P.S. Do you have an iPhone? Download the Bump app for an easy and fun way to transfer your information to other bloggers with iPhones!

P.P.S. Don't forget these either!

Several weeks ago, I had a dentist’s appointment.  Sophia’s mother passed away that week, so I had to cancel.  The dentist was not happy because he said “he was waiting for me.”  I rescheduled for the middle of July.

In the middle of July, my FIL went to the hospital, and I had to cancel again.  They were not pleased.   Maureen, the dentist’s receptionist said so on the answering machine.  Sophia called up the dentist’s office and explained the situation.

I rescheduled for yesterday.  Every day for the last week, leading up to yesterday, I would get a phone call at 3PM from Maureen “reminding” me about the appointment to “make sure” that I was coming to it.

Yesterday, two hours before my dentist’s appointment, I received another phone call from Maureen.

“Dr. Fine has to cancel your appointment today.  He has an emergency procedure he has to perform.”

“Uh, OK…”

“Is this payback?” I wanted to ask her.

“Yes,” I assume would be Maureen’s answer.

Sophia was able to get me an appointment for tomorrow.  This morning I woke up, feeling under the weather.  I told Sophia that I have a cold and I’m not sure how I will feel tomorrow.

“You’re going to the dentist if you have leprosy,” she said.

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So this is what it’s come to: I’m in bed, on the verge of passing out from exhaustion … but, like any obsessive-compulsive iPhone user worth his or her salt, I can’t just climb into bed and go to sleep. Oh no; first, I must check Twitter and email, for you never know when that [...]

Hi. I'm wearing Oakley Split Jackets with no lenses and listening to phat rhymes.

Thought you should know.

Let me tell you something about paid campaigns and me. If it's something I'd never blog about for free, I'll pass. I like beer money as much as the next guy, but I've got my eyes on the real prize: my nip-slips posted on TMZ. Dragging you through a post that I dragged myself to write solely for the money is not the path to TMZ enlightenment.

In other words, yes, Huggies paid me to make this video (along with 1 other upcoming video and 2 posts). But they had me at "poop." Because I can achieve fame through poop videos.

Along with beer money, Huggies gave me a ton of their Natural Care Baby Wipes and challenged me to live "Poo Free" this summer. As you'll see below, that's a tall order.

The edited-for-time video is on Huggies' Facebook page but I have the exclusive Director's Cut here:

It’s a little difficult publishing real-life posts lately, but I do enjoy fooling around with writing, mostly because it is relaxing, and I feel like a schoolkid doodling in a notebook.   So consider this a doodle.

Holy, Holy Elevator

Oh Lord, if these my final days
Of gray and cloudy weather
Take me to your Heaven’s Door
Aboard your Elevator.

I climb aboard; there is no fear
My hair has long been graying
I think I hear the Beatles
Ah yes, Muzak is a-playing.

I feel the gears are shifting
I tense to feel more steady
I hear the carriage lifting!
Oh, King, I am so ready!

Rising, Rising, Rising
We ride upwards so so high
I cannot tell you how or what
Or who or when or why.

Holy Holy Elevator
One button, one address.
I yearn to see my final home
And feel my wife’s caress.

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“Hi, daddy,” she says sweetly.

I look up from my book and see a form that sounds and smells like my seven-year-old daughter. But something is off. Something has happened to her face. She looks…undead.

“Hi, kid,” I say back, smiling through my terror so as not to scare the child. “Whatcha been up to?”

“Oh nothing. Just playing the my makeup and stuff.”

She says the words with so much pride in her voice, and her posture tells the same tale. It’s as if she knows she looks like a princess and she has come to my side simply to register that I, too, her majesty and royal beauty.

Only I don’t. I register only that seven-year-old girls should not be allowed to apply their own makeup.

I register that there is a malformed circle around each of her eyes, each about two inches in diameter, each a shade of electric green so putrid that she looks like the raccoon who found the stash of radioactive waste out behind the nuclear power plant.

I register that her application of marshmallow-flavored lip balm is so gratuitous that the entire bottom half of her face is sticky, opaque, and smells like a s’more.

I register that she is wearing large, clip-on, hoop earrings that are one part sophistication and three parts Tootsie.

This is clearly a rite of passage for my daughter, not unlike her old brother’s discovery of his junk and his contention that a flat-billed baseball cap worn crooked makes him looks gangsta (I don’t have the heart to tell him that the closest thing to a gangsta in our Jewish heritage is the legendary Rabbi Chaiser-Schmaltz, who used to conclude the blessing over wine by humming the familiar Hebrew refrain, “Rollin’ down the street, smokin’ indo, sippin’ on gin and juice”).

I guess it’s fine if my daughter wants to wear her war paint and try on the idea of beauty. I just don’t want her to get used to. I like her precious, non-threatening, non-radioactive face the way it is. I like that her concern over how she looks is really just a game to her, not a lot different than when her brother tries to imitate the baseball swings of his favorite players.

But there’s a sad part of me that knows this is only the beginning of her relationship with makeup. Someday, before I’m ready for it, she’ll get serious about hiding behind this war paint and possibly feel embarrassed about the way she looks without it. That seems so tragic to me. She’s so beautiful, and I hope she is never made to feel that who and what she is needs to be covered up

I know it's a little delayed, but in the wake of the Swiss refusal to allow the US to extradite Roman Polanski, I thought I'd put up a little primer for all of those people out there who worry that they too may have to flee to Switzerland, land of chocolate, clocks, cheese, and chesters the molesters. If you match more than one of these traits, you might be a sexual predator on par with Roman Polanski.

You Might Be a Sexual Predator If:

• You can enjoy the subtle hints of grape in the bouquet of a Caprisun
• The delay in the release of the Blu-ray version of the Hannah Montana series really ruined your Saturday night plans.
• The Pope reassigned you to a parish in Poland or Russia.
• Every time you see a football field with no turf on it, you get an urge to go play ball.
• You have a "regular room" at the Nickelodeon Hotel in Orlando.
• Chris Hansen haunts your nightmares.
• Your race car bed is specifically designed to have a Craftmatic Adjustable Mattress so that your back feels okay.
• Without consulting the Internet, you can tell the difference between each individual Jonas Brother.
• Your name was Michael Jackson.

In other Avita-news, happy birthday to Bellaventa – hope you have a great 31st, Robin!