Q&A

Organic in Orleans asks: Is it cannibalism when you chew the insides of your cheek?
Dear Organic: No, it’s OCD.
It would be cannibalism if you were chewing the insides of someone else’s cheek. With fava beans. And a nice chianti.

Curious in Charlestown writes: do you think environmentalists are tree hugging nuts or truly trying to stand for just reasons?
Dear Curious: When I was in the fourth grade, I had a 3-ring binder which featured on its cover the image of a skeleton, wearing a hard hat, laughing demonically as he piloted a bulldozer. The skeleton was bulldozing a forest and all our little furry woodland friends were running away, terrified, trying to get out of the path of the bulldozer. For an entire school year, I looked at that picture of little bunny rabbits, chipmunks and Bambis with fear in their eyes as they tried to outrun the destruction wrought by mankind. This was back when “environmentalism” was called “ecology”, and between that binder and the commercial where the Indian Chief cries because he is paddling his canoe through garbage, I have fallen squarely into the camp of the environmentalists.
Of course, every movement, no matter how just, will have its nut jobs. Pro-lifers who think it’s OK to murder doctors and nurses, environmentalists who will chain themselves to a tree to prevent the construction if a children’s hospital, that sort of thing. But all in all, I applaud the environmental movement. The next time you are watching a rerun of “McMillan & Wife”, take a look at how dirty and ugly we had made the world back in the early 70s. Then take a look at the world we have now. It’s certainly not perfect, and the ice caps are still melting and everything, but it sure is a whole lot better.

Inquisitive in I-Beach wonders: Cats on keyboards....why why why????????
Dear Inquisitive: Such a simple question, one would think that it has a simple answer. But, alas, it does not. People like cats, for one thing.
The best answer I can come up with is that it’s a generational thing. For Gen-X’ers, before the advent of the Internet, it was Pokemon. For my generation, it was giant yellow Smiley Faces all over the place, and “Have a Nice Day!”. For my parents, it was cigarette smoking. Why ask why?

Bullhead City Cat Lady writes: Why does my cat Duke love to smell the carbon dioxide when I exhale from my nose? He thinks it is the greatest thing since cat food, and wants to lick my lips.
Dear Cat Lady: To answer your question, I had to consult Craig’s List, where I found the amazing Madame DeVille, Pet Psychic. She has the amazing ability, via Skype, to telepathically connect with Duke for only $5.99 per minute! Well, according to Madame DeVille, it’s not the carbon dioxide that Duke loves to smell. He simply loves the smell of your breath. He says you “smell like Catalina”. Sounds crazy to me, but Madame DeVille sounded quite certain. Hope this is helpful. It cost me 75 bucks.

Curious in Chatham County wonders: Who let the dogs out? Who? Who?
Dear Curious: It was Smithers.
Old man Burns huddled in the worn leather chair in the study. The heavy, dusty velvet curtains were drawn, and the room was lit only by a sputtering candle and the embers of a dying fire in the cavernous fireplace. He could hear the distant murmur of human voices growing steadily louder as he pictured the mob making its way up the winding drive, through the ancient oak trees and up towards the house. Trembling, he drank the last of his brandy from the Waterford snifter, and stood creakily, walking over to the sideboard and the decanter for more. Shaking, he poured himself another drink. He walked over to the window, and warily opened the curtains just enough to peer out. He could see the glow of torches, the muffled sound of the townsfolk sounding angrier and angrier as it grew louder. He downed the brandy in one gulp, then made his way over to the massive mahogany desk, where he picked up the ancient speaking tube and raised it to his lips.
“Smithers, release the hounds,” he said.

Konfused in Kapa’a asks: Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
Aloha Konfused: It seems to me you have given me two options for answering your question. First, I could take the rather easy and obvious option and go with the “Bohemian Rhapsody” reference. I could respond with something easy and rather flip, like “caught in a landslide” or “Scaramouche! Scaramouche!” and be done with it. Or, I could go with the other approach, and actually think about your question in metaphysical terms; a question which has been discussed and pondered by countless philosophers, writers, poets, and pot smokers for thousands of years. So, I have decided to take a third approach instead, and answer your question directly, as if I actually knew what the answer was. (Let me be the first to admit, however, that I do not actually know the answer to your question.)
Yes, Konfused, this is indeed the Real Life. How do I know? First, I would say because it is persistent. Every morning when I wake up, I seem to be living the exact same life I was living when I went to sleep. After more than 50 years, it seems pretty real to me. And if reality didn’t alter itself after all the “experiments” I did during the 80s and 90s, I’m pretty sure it’s Real Life. Secondly, consider the concept of “fantasy”. Fantasy can mean many things to many people. For me, at least, fantasies sometimes involve untold riches and private islands, or flying, or this one fantasy where- well, never mind. Suffice to say that Fantasy and Reality have just about nothing to do with one another. So, yes, the next time you are standing in the parking lot at Target, looking through your car window at the keys you just locked inside for the second time that week, rest assured that this is, indeed, really your life.