No more Cold Stones and Ben & Jerrys. Goodbye Pizookies. Hello estrogen-laden soy milk. (Reduced sex drive what??)

To be fair, this isn't a case just for Asian Americans. A lot of people are lactose intolerant. It affects all ethnicities and cultures. The commonly cited number is 70-75% of the world's population. That's a heck of a lot of people!

In fact, it's perfectly natural to be lactose intolerant. Lactase, the enzyme that breaks down lactose in our small intense, is gradually reduced as we get older. This reduction begins right after weaning and is practically all gone by adulthood. Bummer.

So if this is natural, why would I want to be able to drink milk? I'll give you three reasons: Cold Stones, Ben & Jerrys, and Pizookies. I have a thing for sweets, what can I say?

My path to lactose intolerance reduction began innocently. One day, a friend casually mentioned to me that yogurt contains live bacteria that aids in lactose digestion. Hmm, I thought. So I did some research and found that:

Yogurt contains probiotics - microbial organisms that are naturally present in our digestive tracts. They are known as "friendly" bacteria. And more specifically, yogurt contains a particular kind of probiotics called acidophilus. If you want to get even more specific, it's Lactobacillus acidophilus.

When yogurt is consumed, bile acids disrupt the cell wall of the bacteria in yogurt. This releases the enzyme beta-galactosidase (related to lactase) into the intestines, where it can enhance lactose digestion.

Not any yogurt will do, however. It must contain live active bacteria. Fortunately, yogurt labels clearly list whether or not they have live active bacteria - which sounds gross, I know, but it's really a good thing. Remember, they are "friendly" bacteria!

With that in mind, I decided to try a very unscientific experiment:

1. Eat yogurt every day for 2-3 weeks
2. Drink a glass of milk at the end of each week

The results?

Week 1

Lactose intolerance still there. And how. I admit, I didn't drink a full glass of milk. But the effects were the same. I shall spare you the details.

Week 2

Lactose intolerance is going away. Still a bit of its consequences, but a full glass of milk doesn't have the, uh, intense adverse effects it once did. Experiment is working!

Week 3

Lactose intolerance… gone! Holy crap! (Or lack thereof.) Hello ice cream, goodbye soy milk! This is a glorious milestone, simply glorious.

I've been drinking milk semi-regularly since then, with no problems at all. Well, perhaps I've been a might bit gassy, but hopefully that will go away in a few more weeks. My friends all sure hope so. Fut.

I can hardly say this experiment is reliable or conclusive. What worked for me may not work for you - just like acidophilus works for some, but not others. If you want to try this, consult your doctor or nutritionist first. After all, maybe humans are lactose intolerant for a reason. (And if you are allergic to milk, that's a very different condition.)

Now pardon me while I enjoy this cup o' Cold Stone ice cream. Mmmm!

©2008 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

The Sloppy Kiss

I can slap your lips and cheeks with my tongue, draping it everywhere until your face is a dripping mess of saliva. Extra points for long strands dangling from your chin.

The Over-Enthusiastic Kiss

I can hungrily chop at your mouth like you're a delicious meal and I haven't eaten in months. Though you may not expect it, I won't care because, hey, I'm hungry.

The Timid Kiss

I can peck you on the corner of your lips. You may not feel anything, but if you do, it may remind you of a baby deer sniffing your face before dashing off into the woods.

The Dead Fish Kiss

I can stand there with my mouth open, attracting flies and hopefully your lips too. Even if you come in for a deep kiss, my tongue will just lie there, limp and lifeless like a dead fish.

The Sealed Tomb Kiss

I can squeeze my lips together tighter than a juvenile virgin's ass in prison. You won't be able to penetrate, no matter how hard you try.

The All Tongue Kiss

I can protrude my tongue and wrestle your tongue with my tongue. We can stand back at a safe distance with our lips far apart and watch our two moist wrestlers battle it out.

The Snake Tongue Kiss

I can rapidly dart my tongue in and out of your mouth, as if I'm smelling your breath with my tongue. It may feel funny, sort of like a wet, indecisive intruder.

The Lip Kiss

I can kiss and nibble just one of your lips. Maybe your upper lip, maybe your lower lip, you won't know which until I actually do it. I like to mix it up to keep you on your toes.

The Deep Throat Kiss

I can launch my tongue deep into the crevices of your mouth, practically gagging you with my Gene Simmons tongue. I can even tell whether or not you still have your tonsils.

The Vacuum Cleaner Kiss

I can form a suction around your lips and suck in deeply, drawing the breath from your lungs. This way, I can literally take your breath away.

The Bite Kiss

I can bite down on your lips. It won't be just a friendly nibble either; it'll be a toothy chomp, as if I'm a vampire here to suck your blood. I could also bite your neck too, for full effect.

The Dentist Kiss

I can drill down on your teeth with my tongue. Though you won't feel much because enamel doesn't have nerves, you'll leave with fewer cavities and cleaner teeth.

The Tooth Smash Kiss

I can smash my teeth into your teeth. The crunching impact will be shocking, maybe even painful, but if you make sure your lips aren't in the way, we can minimize the pain.

The Poor Aim Kiss

I can miss your lips and catch just the corner of your mouth. Or your cheeks. Or the wall behind you. Just like my aim at the toilet bowl at night, I can miss horribly.

The Open-Eyed Kiss

I can kiss you with my eyes spookily open. If you peek at me, you'll see me staring wide-eyed in wonder. Perhaps I'll study the way your eyebrows almost form a uni-brow.

The Distracted Kiss

I can kiss you, then look at my watch or read a book behind your back. If there is a game on TV, that's even better, because then I can cheer when my team scores and scream into your mouth.

The Giggly Kiss

I can giggle and chuckle as we kiss. The more passionate you are, the harder I'll laugh. I might even spill some saliva on your shirt because I'm laughing so much.

The Bad Breath Kiss

I can eat lots of onions and garlic and other nasty-smelling food before I kiss you. If my breath is bad enough, it'll seem like you're making out with a septic tank.

The Out-of-Breath Kiss

I can pant like a dog while kissing you. Every few seconds I'll gasp for fresh air. I'll pop open my mouth to suck in oxygen as if I'm drowning underwater.

The Noisy Kiss

I can make lots of moaning and smacking noises. My moans can intensify as our kiss does, shaking the walls with our lip lock. Extra points if the neighbors complain of the noise.

The Spiderman Kiss

I can hang upside-down and kiss you, so our noses don't mash together. This requires some dexterity and skill though. Plus, our tongues won't be totally coordinated.

The Just Barely Reaching Kiss

I can stand away from you, stretch my neck out, and juuust barely reach your lips. Maybe they'll just brush each other. Maybe the tips of our tongues will kinda sorta meet. But that will be it.

The Jailhouse Kiss

I can stand behind some bars and kiss you. In between our bodies will be cold, hard bars of steel that we can reach around in desperate agony, right before the guards come and drag us apart.

The Ice-Tongue Kiss

I can stick my tongue in some ice, then kiss you. You'll get a mouth full of frosty tongue meat. Yea. You know you like it. Maybe I can add a little olive oil on my lips too…

The Muzzle Kiss

I can open my mouth wide and surround your lips with mine. My lips won't actually touch yours. In fact, they will envelope your entire mouth with such totality that you won't be able to speak or shout for help.

The Hero's Kiss

I can hold onto your back and dip you in a dramatic fashion, as if I'm a war hero in a sailor's uniform. You can even pretend to be a nurse too. I'll dip you back, as far back as I can go, and plant a big wet sloppy on you with such passion that your body will go numb.

The Eskimo Kiss

I can rub my nose on your nose back and forth gently. No lips, no tongue, just noses.

The Perfect Kiss

I can kiss you because I love you.

©2008 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

So one day, after she departed and I returned, I poked through my kitchen for something to eat. I had an attack of Mr. Munchie and his cohorts. My appetite didn't call for anything substantial though. Just a morsel of pepperoni would have sufficed.

Then I discovered the tray of chocolate eggs in my fridge. Six in total, two columns, three rows, neatly arranged.

I pulled the tray forward. They were light brown with tiny brown specs. Looked yummy! My tummy growled. I picked one up and popped it in.

As I rolled it around in my mouth, I grabbed the milk. I always like milk with my chocolate. To me, they go together like leather and spice, summer and ice, ebony and ivory, living together in perfect harmony.

With the milk in my hand, I slowly bit down on the chocolate egg. It was hard, probably frozen from being in the fridge for so long. My mastication muscles carefully exerted strength. I squeezed tighter. Finally, the hard shell broke.

A cool, oily, viscous liquid poured into my mouth. I thought to myself, "that chocolate egg doesn't taste right…"

I stopped in mid-bite. The liquid sloshed around, rolling under my tongue. It hit all the wrong taste centers. Especially the salty ones. The shell also crumbled into brittle bits.

My eyes suddenly popped like balloons exploding with too much oxygen.

I ran to the sink and spit out the slimy chocolate egg. Tiny chips of light brown followed a pool of clear fluid. Also, out came a bright yellow yolk.

I stared at the yolk for a moment. It floated around the bottom of my sink. Staring back up at me with equal shock.

Hacking and coughing and spitting out every drop of saliva in my mouth, I forcefully voided my cheeks of every spectacle of that awful taste. Bleeech!

I gargled water and swished it violently to and fro. My fingers scraped my tongue 'till it was a slab of tender raw beef. But still, that taste lingered, both in my mouth and in my mind.

Into the bathroom I dashed. I whipped up a slab of toothpaste and scrubbed my tongue good. The stiff bristles ripped without mercy. It hurt, but it was a necessary hurt.

After several minutes, I relaxed. The taste was gone. So were my taste buds.

Sweaty and defeated, I retreated to the phone and dialed my friend. "Um, you know those chocolate eggs you left in my fridge?"

"What chocolate eggs?" she asked. "I didn't leave you any chocolate. I gave you some quail eggs though."

I almost dropped the receiver. My tongue throbbed. Quail eggs. So that's why the chocolate egg didn't taste right.

©2008 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

"It's so cute it looks almost good to eat! Hmm… maybe…"

CRUNCH. munch munch munch…

"Mmm… kinda tastes like peanut buttery chicken, with a soft warm nugget inside."

munch munch munch…

He licked his fingers.

Suddenly, the sky darkened. He stopped mid-bite and looked outside. Some kind of swarm was flying towards him. But a swarm of what? He watched nervously as he continued to chew.

munch munch munch…

When they got nearer, his heart dropped into his bowels.

"Wha…" he muttered."Those are… those are… flying turtles?!"

A squadron of flying turtles crashed through his window and into the room. Splinters of glass sliced the air. He tumbled to the ground and rolled into a ball. Bits of glass and plaster decorated his hair like a Christmas tree.

The outside wind tickled his ears. He looked up and saw the swarm circling the ceiling. His feet sprang and pushed him towards the door. The turtles rounded a corner and flanked him as he tried to escape. Another squadron smashed into his knees and brought him down.

"Noooo!!!" he screamed as the flying turtles repeatedly rammed his skull. They beat down like a relentless bongo drum player with turtle shells for hands. His vision started to go black.

With his last fluttering thoughts, he could have sworn he heard them chant, "Don't eat our babies. Don't eat our babies. Don't eat our babies."

©2008 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

I passed by the lemur cage and heard a rattle. A lemur was staring up at me with wide, round eyes.

I regarded him with a smile. "Hi little lemur!" I waved. He sniffed the air and looked at my stuffed puppy. I held the puppy's paw and waved it. "Puppy is saying 'Hi little lemur!' too."

The lemur stared unblinkingly. Not one blink. For a moment, I wondered if those were really eyeballs or just two glorious marbles on his forehead.

Suddenly, the lemur leapt forward. With one unblinking eye focused on me, he held my gaze. Then he squeezed his body through the bars like silly putty through a set of rollers. It was the strangest thing. And all that while, that eye, that unblinking eye, kept staring at me.

Before I knew it, my stuffed puppy was gone. And the little lemur was cradling it lovingly.

"No! My stuffed puppy!"

The little lemur stared back at me, unblinkingly. I called the zoo security. They rushed over. I stammered on about how the little lemur stole my stuffed puppy. Bits of spit showered them. They called me a crackpot and threatened to throw me out.

"I swear! That little lemur somehow squeezed through those bars and took my stuffed puppy!"

"Why in the world were you carrying a stuffed puppy??"

My mouth gaped open. A random fly zoomed in. "Because I was strolling through the zoo!" It was an answer as plain as day. Why didn't they understand?

They grabbed my arms and dragged me away. I turned to yell at the little lemur, fists blazing. He sat there with my stuffed puppy in his arms. And stared at me with those damned unblinking marble eyes.

©2008 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

Nearby, something squealed. Poppy popped up. Two boys were skateboarding down the park. They were weaving in and out of terrified pedestrians. And both weren't wearing helmets.

Poppy leapt from the fountain. High into the sky he soared, high as a pigeon. And down towards the boys he aimed.

The boys were moving fast. Poppy had to flap frantically to catch up. "Slow down, you miscreants!" he chirped. But the boys didn't heed him; they didn't speak pigeon.

A young couple screamed. An elderly man teetered off his walker. A little baby started to cry. The boys skated on, laughing and jeering.

Poppy looked down at them. On their heads were target symbols. Like the ones at archery ranges. These head targets are not visible to humans. Only birds see them.

So naturally, as any good archer would do, Poppy took aim. And fired.

SPLAT. "What the?" One of the boys crashed. "Oh damn, is that bird poop in my hair?"

"Ha ha ha! You got shat on!" hollered his friend. "You got"—SPLAT—"oh no!" He jumped off his board.

"Haa! What? You got shat on too? Serves you right!" He looked up.

SPLAT. "Dude, that bird shat on me again!"

SPLAT. "Ugh! My eye!"

SPLAT SPLAT. "This bird is a fricken poop machine!"

SPLAT SPLAT. "Dude, let's get the hell out of here!"

The boys jumped on their boards and raced out of the park. The pedestrians stared unnervingly at the pigeon, not sure if they should thank him or run for cover. Poppy hovered for a moment. "90% on target this time." He grinned a pigeon grin. "Not bad."

Trickles of tiny pigeon sweat gleamed between his feathers. "It's so hot out here," he muttered. The fountain in the park, once again, invited him for a spell. Back into the stream he jabbed his head. "Ahhh, refreshing."

©2008 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

My eardrums pulsated. The music was loud. Energizing. I rubbed my hands together and jogged in place. The air was spiked with a spirited chill.

"I can't believe I'm about to put my body through this punishment again," I thought to myself.

I shook off the doubt and looked around me. Packed elbow-to-elbow was an assortment of runners of all shapes, sizes, colors, and ages. Like a box full of random toys.

"Runners, get ready!" shouted the loudspeaker. Everyone turned to face forward. "Get set!" My heart shuddered. "Gooo!"

We took off. The thunder of a thousand horses fought the booms of the bass drums. It made me forget I was doing another half marathon. For a moment, it was more like a chilly outdoor concert.

Though I already had breakfast, I popped in some power gel. Mushy and hyper-sweet, I mashed it around my mouth like peanut butter. I was aiming to beat my previous time of 2:08:45 and wanted every advantage I could get.

As the music faded, the race became more real. There was huffing and puffing all around me. Scores of runners zoomed by. I took note of some of them and wondered if I would see them on the side of the road later.

One guy soared by me. Then spat a big, juicy, wet loogie on the ground. Friggin' guy. I had to leap to avoid it.

One girl looked like a ghost. She was as white as this background color. I almost thought she was wearing white stockings, until I realized that she was just, well, really really white.

Another guy, probably in his late forties with graying hair, zipped through the crowd pushing a baby in a stroller. Bystanders waved and cooed at the baby, who I presume waved back.

Another lady, maybe in her fifties, also surged by me. What the hell. I began to increase my pace. It's one thing to be passed by a guy with a stroller. It's another to be passed by grandma.

Honestly though, I totally give her props. She was extremely fit. I hope I can stay that fit throughout my life. Seeing her run by was both frustrating and inspirational.

After a few blocks of nothing but the thunderous pitter-patter of countless feet, we hit another live band. Their guitar chords vibrated my adrenal glands, filling my veins with liquid energy goodness.

I increased my stride. Fewer leg rotations, longer steps. The savings were immediate. I didn't expend as much effort, yet was going faster. I felt more like I was gliding than running. People who previously passed me were falling behind now.

Then I saw Loogie Guy. He violently veered off the course and onto the side. His body arched forward and he started to dry heave. Yuck. I moved toward the center of the street, anticipating a wet sloppy sound to slap the street. Fortunately, it never came. Loogie Guy sure looked tired though. Maybe he was dehydrated from spitting so much.

Stroller Guy was also back in my sights. And just beyond him was the 2:00 pacer. My brain did a somersault. If I could maintain this speed, I could beat my record and even break two hours. I glided on.

While the longer stride did conserve energy, I still got exhausted. Fortunately, a drink station appeared every time I was on my few last breaths. Thank the gods of water! I sloshed liquid relief onto my face in the hopes that some of it would splash into my mouth. Luckily, enough of it did.

Each mile was clearly marked. I did the first half fairly well. Another power gel, lots of water and Cytomax, a long stride, and vigorous live music kept me on pace. My mind didn't think I was in a chilly outdoor concert anymore though. By this time, it knew I was in a race.

The pavement punished my feet. Fortunately, I stuck an extra cushion pad in my shoes last night. Otherwise, I would have blisters the size of Texas on the balls of my feet right now. Yeeha.

My knees mentally thanked me for training on a partly dirt path. They were screaming at me right now, but were still thankful that training wasn't always like this. And like my feet, they thanked me for that added cushion as well.

By the ninth mile, they weren't thanking me anymore though. My feet felt like bloody stumps of flesh. I imagined my toes bursting like grapes in my socks. Nice image, huh? Just thought I'd share that with you.

But I didn't stop. I didn't take a break. I kept my mind focused on the 2:00 pacer in front of me. He was gaining distance, but I wouldn't let him out of my sight. I started to doubt I'd finish before two hours, but as long as I beat my previous time, I'd be happy.

Another drinking station. Another gulp of Cytomax. Another splash of water. Another live band. Another toe burst, just like glapes (insert Mr. Miyagi's voice here).

Then a station with power gel appeared. They were under a ray of light and glowing halo. No, not really, but I did feel like they were angels from Heaven as they handed me that delicious, scrumptious, life-saving goo.

My speed was dropping. The 2:00 pacer was fading away. I tried to get back into my stride but couldn't. Then the power gel snapped into place. I didn't race past anyone, but regained that stride, despite protests from my feet and knees.

"Sorry," I told my feet, "but I'm going to finish this race, even if I pass the finish line with bloody stumps." Really, I told my feet that.

The eleventh mile was tough. I passed a high school cheerleading squad that shouted and cheered and did high kicks, but even that didn't help. There was no way I was going to beat two miles. So I aimed to just beat 2:08:45.

A police officer on a bike was riding parallel with us. "Can I get a ride?" shouted a woman in front of me. I wondered the same thing. The cop just smiled.

Familiar heads began to surround me. I say "heads" because I couldn't see any faces, just the backs of people's heads. These were the people at the beginning of the race. They were the ones that sped ahead. I had caught up to them.

Perhaps it was that realization, coupled with my competitiveness—or perhaps it was the power gel and water, I don't really know which. But something flipped a switch around mile twelve. I still knew I was going to finish with bloody stumps, but I stopped caring. I stopped thinking about my toe jam (literally) and just wanted to continue gliding.

My pace started to increase. I started to pass more familiar heads. Some were walking now. Others were jogging slowly. I straightened up my form, kept my steps long, and tried to ride a current of air forward.

Mile twelve. The finish line was getting close. I knew it. I pushed forward, pain be damned.

But dammit, every corner I turned wasn't the finish line. Where the hell was it? I was running out of power gel and Cytomax. Just pure adrenalin powering me now. That, and two stubborn bloody stumps.

Ah! Mile thirteen! I turned one more corner and finally saw the finish line. A wall of people outlined the final stretch. It was time to use my fast-twitch muscles. I sprinted the last 0.1 miles and crossed the finish line as fast as I could.

Woo, I finished! I looked at the clock. Did I beat my previous time?

Yup. And I beat two hours too! 1:56:36 baby! I ain't about to do the Olympics anytime soon, but at least I gave myself a new personal record. I chugged some water and rubbed my knees. Each breath of air was like fire in my seared lungs. I walked on and grabbed some much-needed food to refuel my spent body.

My second half marathon. Nice. Next up, a full 26.2 mile marathon sometime next year. Bring it on!

©2008 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

The guy looks down at the latte, snorts, and takes a gulp. "I don't see your name on it," he huffs. Fuming, Leslie starts to wave her hands through the air.

"Fine. Want to mess with me? You're going to regret it."

The guy smirks and takes another gulp. Cafe patrons go "oooooo" and take two steps back from the counter. A barista makes a tiny yelp and dives behind the cash register.

A delicate shimmer appears above her hands. The air crystalizes and sparks dance around her fingers. A low hum starts to drum our ears.

The guy blinks and stops drinking. The latte starts to quiver in his hand. He takes a step back.

"Oh man, that guy is totally dead," someone in the crowd whispers.

Leslie's hands glow. The shimmer intensifies. Sparks begin whirling around in some kind of cosmic pattern.

"Wha-wha-what are you doing?" whimpers the guy. He drops the latte all over his khakis. Brown on brown, how pretty.

A shape emerges from Leslie's hands. It's long and pointy.

"Magic Missile!" Leslie chants. The missile leaps from her hands and strikes the guy squarely in the chest, causing 1d4+10 of damage. His body flies across the room and crashes into the wall. Sparks and flames lick his flesh. Shrieking in agony, he collapses to the ground. His tattered clothes trickle with smoke.

"What did I tell you, huh? What did I tell you, stupidhead?" Leslie jeers. "Mess with me, and you'll regret it."

©2008 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

©2008 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

I'm on a Delta Song flight from JFK to SFO. The plane is mostly packed. I'm towards the rear. Although it's around dinner time, the lights are dimmed, and most of the passengers are asleep.

Somewhere over the Mississippi River

I get up to go to the bathroom. There's one person ahead of me, so I stand and wait. A man in the aisle seat of the last row starts shouting something.

"…can't believe you're doing this to me! …you guys are supposed to be helping me! …is a matter of national security!"

He seems to be shouting at the flight attendants, who watch him intently but do not answer. The man is pounding on the tiny TV screen from the seat next to him - the TV screen in front of him is off.

After I finish in the bathroom, the man is quiet but appears visibly shaken.

Somewhere over Colorado

The flight attendants are slowly bringing the drink cart down the aisle. They reach my seat.

"What is the matter with you people! Are you ignoring me?!"

It's the man from the last row again.

"You're taking your time with that damn drink cart! Hurry up and get to me! What is wrong with you people?!"

Several other passengers turn to look. I pass on my drink and put back on my earphones.

On the ground in San Francisco

Finally, we land. As we head towards the gate, a flight attendant gets on the loudspeaker.

"Attention, ladies and gentleman. As soon as we taxi into the gate, please remain seated. There is a security issue that we need to attend to, and we need you all to remain in your seats. Airport security personnel are going to board this plane as soon as we are at the gate. Please remain in your seats until you are told you can get up to deplane. This is a serious matter and I want you all to listen very carefully. I don't want any of you to get up and claim you did not hear this message. You all must remain in your seats until you are told you can get up again. Thank you."

As soon as the message is delivered, just about everyone's heads whip backwards (including mine) to the man in the last row. The man looks at his row mates and shrugs.

The man appears to be of mixed Asian/European decent. He is dressed in business casual attire and wears thick-rimmed glasses. I can't tell if he's been drinking or not.

Several security officers board the plane. A few remain up front while two walk to the back of the plane. They get to the man in the last row, the one who's been shouting earlier.

"Get up," orders one of the officers. The man gets up without any hassles.

"Turn around." As soon as he turns around, the officers cuff him.

"Do you have any bags in the overheard bins?" one of them asks.

"Yea, yea," the man replies with a nod. The officers open up several bins and point to each piece of luggage. The man shakes his head with each. I guess he didn't have any bags after all…

The officers walk him out, past the surprised & suspicious stares of the passengers. Several passengers eye the overheard bins.

In my hand the whole time was my Treo. I contemplated taking a photo, but decided against it in case the man really was a terrorist or mass murderer and started shooting us all or something.

A few moments later, the flight attendants called for us to deplane. We all rushed the hell out of there.

©2008 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.