I, like many Asian Americans I know, turned lactose intolerant a few years ago. Right around the age of 30. And it totally sucked ass.
No more Cold Stones and Ben & Jerrys. Goodbye Pizookies. Hello estrogen-laden soy milk. (Reduced sex drive what??)
Everyone has baggage. You, me, Chow Yun Fat. And you and me don't have the luxury of shooting our problems away with a gun in each hand.
But what if we did? What would be worse: having just one bad guy to shoot, or ten bad guys? Or twenty? Or a hundred? How many bad guys is too much?
In my opinion, it's not a question of how many bad guys—it's a question of how many bullets.
"What's the most significant thing you've gotten out of this trip?" Masako asked.
I scratched my chin. "Hmmm." There was so much. It was my first trip ever to Hong Kong and Tokyo; heck, it was my first trip ever to Asia. I struggled to find the right answer. Unfortunately, the first answer I gave her was a lie.
"White meat only."
- L. Spencer
"I'm trying to get with a white chick right now," Tim declared.
"Oh yea?" I raised an eyebrow. "How's that going?" I leaned back in my seat while keeping one hand on the steering wheel.
It was the waterfall of blood that shocked me the most. But before I get ahead of myself, let me tell you why I hit him on the forehead.
My parents had never had a vacation without my brother and me until that week. Being the archetypical Chinese parents, our family vacations were to Adventure Land (a lame rip-off of Six Flags Great Adventure), Hershey Park (a lame rip-off of Disney World), and, um, that's about it. It was just those two.
"Squeak squeak squeak!" went the little toddler's shoes as he raced by and out of the pearl tea cafe. His harried Mom raced after him and grabbed his arm.
"Wait, honey. Mommy's still waiting for her order," she said as she pulled him back in.
"Squeak squeak squeak," went his shoes as he followed her back in.
Chinese parents have stomachs of iron. Literally; their stomach lining is cold hard metal. Rivets line their intestines. There is very little they cannot digest; I kid you not. Want me to prove it?
Well, pull up a chair and let me tell you a story. 'Tis a true story, a story from my youth.
Lots of food, lots of alcohol, and lots of loud laughter. That's how I would describe my Filipino Thanksgiving.
I was greeted with lots of warm smiles and handshakes. They welcomed me immediately. "Hi Michael! Welcome to our house!", "Michael! So good to meet you!", "Here Mike, have a beer!"
"I sure can't say it was a feel-good movie," she said. "I really wanted to promote this to all of my friends. But now, after seeing it, I'm not so sure…"
The rest of us agreed. Our first impression of Better Luck Tomorrow was mixed; it didn't leave us with a satisfactory feeling.
"Hey duck ching-chong!" he yelled at me. He put his fingers to his eyes and pulled them into slants.
"Bonzai!" he hollered.
I stood there, motionless. He was sitting in my desk. The bell was about to ring and I didn't want to get in trouble by not being in my seat.
Weekly random rambles, musings & writings of Mike Lee in San Francisco, CA