With this column I’d like to memorialize a phenomenon that has both tickled and tormented me over the course of my life.

People ask me a lot of questions. Personal, profound, mundane, surreal. Why? Said without a hint of ego, self-involvement, or self-indulgence: I’ve led an extraordinarily weird life.

So I’d like to ask you to ask me any question that confounds or plagues you. In order for you to do that, you will need to trust me. Take a leap of faith. I don’t judge.

Okay. We’ve established a relationship. I feel good about this.

You may remain anonymous. Caveat: My answers are my advice and should not be construed as actions you should necessarily take. Lawsuits and all that.

So let’s begin.

How can I avoid a bear attack?
— Matthew G., Los Angeles

That’s a wonderful question, Matthew, and one with which I’ve had personal experience.

First, it’s important to note that if you’re in bear country, as I was, you cannot avoid the bear. Only the attack. The bear has free rein to wander his home turf and you’re in his backyard. It’s a bit like avoiding the guy barbecuing the food at his backyard BBQ that you’ve crashed. As you’re enjoying his savory ribs, you must leave when he says, “Get the hell out of here!” It’s his BBQ.

Similarly, the best way to avoid bear attacks is to stay away from the places bears congregate: forests. That’s the bear’s BBQ, so to speak. Especially if the bear is hungry. You’re his savory ribs.

Of course, bears never send out invitations, as they lack access to greeting cards and stationery, so one never really knows if the bear wants your company. For argument’s sake, let’s assume the bear has not invited you.

My personal experience: One sunny afternoon, I found myself in Yosemite National Park taking a walk. I encountered a brown bear, a large one, at most 80 feet away.

I harkened back to the two formal paths to avoiding a bear attack. I learned these two rules by A) reading the Forest Service Guide to Bear Encounters, and B) attending one, just one, “Campfire With Ranger Rick” event. I snuck out when the singing began.

First, if you are camping, inside a tent, in an area where bears roam, do not leave your food out. Configure a rope-pulley-type device-thing and hang your food off a tree, blah, blah. But screw that. I stayed at the inn. I got room service. The server was not a bear. (My door was chained, so I could peek out and make certain it wasn’t a bear in disguise. They are crafty bastards.)

The second formal way to avoid a bear attack? Upon sighting the bear, don’t run! I didn’t run. Not because bears are faster than tourists, rather because of the bone-freezing, mind-blowing fear. (Mine. Not the bear’s.) So I took both the Forest Service’s and Ranger Rick’s advice. That advice? Find a large boulder, climb it, stand on top, make a lot of noise, and, I kid you not, make yourself big.

The best way to avoid bear attacks is to stay away from the places bears congregate: forests. That’s the bear’s BBQ, so to speak. Especially if the bear is hungry.

Huh? I assumed that advice was not meant in a sexual way, as the arousal factor in a bear encounter is, at best, minimal, and lacking some sort of futuristic make-yourself-big machine, I scratched that idea. So I made a lot of noise. Mainly in the form of screaming like a bitch: “Help! There’s a big fucking bear here!” I could have used Ranger Rick at that point, but I believe he must have seen me sneak out of the campfire event. Because Ranger Rick didn’t show. That prick.

The noise-making nonsense went on for quite a while. I was exhausted, it was beginning to get cold, then freezing, and the bear didn’t move. Like in a spaghetti western, we stared at each other (the bear was Clint Eastwood, I was the pasta). Clearly, I was playing chicken with a bear. Until I was so wiped out that I laid down on the boulder, figuring either the cold or the bear would eventually get me (and wondering, in all candor, what people would think when they read my obit that said “suicide by bear”).

However, to my delight, the bear left. I did not know why… until, back at the inn, warmed up, half a bottle of gin later, I figured it out: boredom. On the bear’s part.

So, how to avoid a bear attack? The solution is solely verbal. Bore the bear to tears. Tell the bear about the prom you never went to because you thought you were too cool for prom and ended up in another loser’s backyard getting drunk. Slam-dunk your bad poetry. Recite the parts of your diary you remember. Especially those having to do with prom night. Ponder whether your future, current, or ex-spouse and you are, were, or may not be a good fit. Tell the bear why you think your shrink is wrong. About everything.

You get the picture. If all of the above fails, take the riskiest but possibly most effective action: Offend the bear. Tell the bear that bears are pussies and that wolves laugh at bears behind their big fat bear asses. At the precise moment the bear looks down, assessing its own self-worth… jump off the boulder and RUN FOR YOUR FUCKING LIFE.

That’s how you avoid a bear attack.

Photo: Shutterstock.com/Matt Hayward