It Might be the Whine Talking…

…but the moratorium I called late last year on doling out advice among friends and acquaintances who ask for it has borne personal fruit. Doing so has caused displeasure for some of you, but at least I no longer bullshit for hours on end with people who can't or won't act on the tips of the trade they requested.

Here's how I did it:

When someone I barely know or rarely see asks what I think, I ask them to submit their inquiry in writing

This simple dodge weeds out more than 75 percent of all suitors. I kindly refuse to "shoot the shit," "do lunch," or "chew the fat" on the phone. Not because the people and their problems aren't important—they are. No, I have resorted to this tactic simply because there isn't enough time in my day. And believe me—it's definitely not because I'm out here fucking the dog. The Internet has made sure that I've never done more. Or less.

I hate to be a dick. I REALLY do. "Dickhead" has always been part of my comic repertoire, but never my prima facie. But because my circle of friends has grown exponentially with my age, "elder statesman" has become an occupational hazard—not the badge of honor it used to be.

To Vic, Eric, Steve, Tommy and all my other friends old and new who "just wanted to talk," I sincerely apologize. I will always be here when you need me… I just need "here" to mean "e-mail."

Yours truly,

Harold

It Might be the Whine Talking…