Earlier this week I heard from a high school acquaintance, ostensibly about helping him write a book that would expose all the evils of capitalism.

We’ve had a brief discussion about this before, at the wedding of a mutual friend. I wasn’t especially interested at that point, but I gave him my contact information and waited for an email that never arrived.

So I was a bit surprised to hear from him again, several years later, when he left a comment here. He’s never commented at the site before, so his note went into the moderation queue for my approval.

That comment will never see the light of day, at least not here, but I am willing to reveal a few highlights. Among the things I learned:

I am “in need of substance.”

I am “a self-proclaimed, self-indulgent sartirical (sic) sophisticate.”

I “post tripe for the masses.”

Keep in mind: This comment was intended to gauge my interest in helping this gentleman write a book, a commitment that would take months of working closely with someone who apparently views everything else that’s going on in my life as trivial and without meaning.

Boy. That sounds like fun. Where do I sign up?

I don’t carry any grudges from high school, a time that will be 25 years in my past as of next year; in general I think most of the people in my high school class — including me — have grown up enough that whatever crap happened back then is pretty insignificant now.

I recall that this gentleman and I were never especially close. But given the mostly cordial encounters we’ve had since high school, I would have guessed that he had largely outgrown the significant attitude he had back then.

And apparently, I would have been wrong.

To my would-be business partner: We weren’t ever really friends, were we? And yet you think there’s no problem with approaching me about something this significant while insulting me and belittling what I do here? While you’re asking me to radically alter my life so I can give you a hand?

Seriously?

You need a writer? Great — go find one. Elsewhere.