"Hello?"

"Hi Mike," my Mom greeted.

"Hi Mom. What's up?"

"I have something to tell you that might upset you."

No one – I repeat – no one ever wants to hear those words from their Mom. No one. I sat down, took a deep breath, and asked, "Okay, what's going on?"

"Don't be upset when I tell you, okay?"

How can I not be upset when you tell me it's news that might upset me, I thought. It's impossible. Whenever someone tells you that you might be upset, chances are, you'll be upset. And even before telling me, I'm upset just knowing I'll be upset.

It's like saying: "Don't look down." What does everyone do when they hear those words? They look down. It's a natural reaction. When someone tells you don't to do something, you do it. We're all stupid that way.

"What's going on Mom?" I asked, voice a little shaken.

"Don't be upset, okay?"

What did I just say?? Well, I didn't say it out loud. If this was upsetting news, the last thing I wanted to do was add more upset to the conversation. I bit my tongue and tried not to imagine the worse. Unfortunately, trying not to imagine the worse means… yup… imagining the worst. Death, destruction, divorce, diarrhea, dysentery… what could it possibly be?

"Okay, I won't be upset," I lied. I really wanted to know. "What's going on?"

"You know when you were home two weeks ago?"

Frantically, I reviewed my trip two weeks ago. Seemed like a normal & uneventful trip. Nothing crazy or disastrous happened. No drama of any kind. "Yea…?"

"Well, when you knelt down to tie your shoes, I noticed something…"

I head my breath. There was a tumor on the back of my neck. Blood was gushing out. Blackened skin adorned my neck.

"I saw the top of your head…" she continued.

I cleared my throat. The tumor was on my head. It had a face and eyes. It was my conjoined twin, finally bursting to life.

"Your hair is thinning Michael. I saw the top of your head and your hair is thinning. Right at the top of your head. Your hair. It's thinning."

"What?" I blinked. " That's it Mom?"

"Your hair! It's thinning!"

"You got me all worked up for that?"

"Don't be upset now! I told you not to be upset!"

"Mom. I'm not upset. I know my hair is thinning. I thought you called because something crazy happened back home, like someone died or is in the hospital. My gosh Mom… you scared me half to death…"

"So you're not upset?" She almost sounded disappointed.

"No Mom, I'm not. I know my hair is thinning. I don't really care. If it happens, it happens. Nothing I can do about it."

"You can use Rogaine," she countered.

"I don't need that. If I go bald, so what? It's natural. This isn't something I can control."

"Sure it is, with Rogaine."

Good thing my Mom couldn't see me rolling my eyes. "Rogaine doesn't grow your hair back. Not that I'm an expert on that stuff or anything, but I heard it only keeps you from losing more hair or something."

"Don't you want to keep your hair?"

"Mom." I took a deep breath. "Am I going to be the same person with or without hair?"

"Yea…"

"So why does it matter?"

"Yea… So you're not upset. That's good, that's good."

"I think you're more upset than I am."

She chuckled uneasily. "I just called to tell you that. That's all. I am glad you are not upset."

"Thanks Mom. I think. Don't worry, I'm fine. This is natural. Thanks for… uh… calling to tell me about this."

"Sure sure." She paused. "Are you sure you don't want Rogaine?"

"Good bye Mom."

"Okay okay. Bye bye. Take care of your hair!"

And with a Click she hung up.

©2009 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

It happened to a girl in my high school class. A friend of hers told me the story. I wasn't friends with the girl herself — a short, timid brunette — but saw her around school all the time.

She has fond memories as a little girl of her parents tucking her in at night. Though she would usually look up at her parents with a smile, there were nights when she was so tuckered out that she closed her eyes and enjoyed the comfort of the tight sheets.

However, there were a few times where she would open her eyes as she felt them tucking her in, and see a dark, empty bedroom. Then she would look around and see the sheets halfway tucked in, as if someone was in the process of doing it — then stopped.

Those were just hazy memories though. She never thought much of them. Maybe she was just imagining being tucked in. Maybe she was having a dream. Maybe they had tucked her in earlier and she tossed & turned, pulling the sheets halfway out. Explanations abounded.

Her parents' habit of tucking her in died out around her adolescent years. They figured she was old enough to tuck herself in by then. So she forgot all about the comfort of being tucked in.

Until one night.

She was perhaps thirteen or fourteen. Like every other night, she got into bed and began to drift into sleep. Then she felt her covers tightening around her. And there was a pat on her shoulder.

She opened her eyes. There was no one there. Just her dark, empty bedroom.

Downstairs, she could hear her parents talking. She shivered and pulled her sheets even tighter. Her mind wandered a bit, wondering if she had imagined all of that. Mercifully, she eventually drifted into sleep.

The tuck and pat happened again though. And again. And again. Maybe about once a week with no discernable pattern.

After a month of these sensations, she decided to tell her parents about them. Just to let them know, not to alarm them or anything. It was a spooky sensation, but she didn't dwell on them much.

When she told her parents, her father's face froze. She and her mother stared at his expression in confusion. Then he sat them down at the kitchen table and decided to share the background story about their house.

He had purchased the house cheap. They weren't in a strong financial position, so the low price was very appealing. Her mother thought the house looked lovely, but never asked why it was so cheap. Her father did ask. This is what he was told.

The previous family was murdered in the house. The father had gotten up early one morning and decided to kill his wife and children as they slept. Then he buried the bodies in the backyard.

The murderous father was convicted and sentenced. The bodies of the family were exhumed and given a proper burial. So this girl's father didn't think there would be much of a problem here. He wasn't the type to believe in ghosts and saw no reason to alarm his family with such a story — not when this house was such a bargain.

But since they moved in, he encountered strange events as well. Errant shadows on the way. Footsteps in the hallway. A prickly feeling on the back of his neck. Children's laughter.

Hearing his daughter relate a similar experience gave him all the motivation he needed. They began making preparations to move. I heard this story just as they were about to close on a new property.

I followed up on the story a year later. In the new house, the girl and her family has had no a further encounters or sensations. It seems they were escaped whatever lingering ghosts lived in that old house of murderous past, even if the ghosts were caring enough to tuck a little girl in.

©2009 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

It's all about perception. Life isn't how it is; it's how you see it.

If you see the world as a cold, harsh place, then for you — the world is indeed, cold and harsh. Sucks for you.

If you see the world as a fun & challenging place, then for you, the world is fun & challenging. Rock on.

Here's a metaphor I use: my life as a series of lenses. My perception of life is influenced by the lenses through which I view it. Every lens is tainted by the grime of experience. In fact, each lens was created by the summary of past experience, heated in a cauldron of emotional responses and cognitive rationalizations.

It is impossible to be truly objective, unless you're a robot or Vulcan. But as a human, it's impossible because of the construction of our brains. Studies have shown that memories are forged through a furnace of emotion, for better or worse. Interestingly enough, emotional memories are retained better than those devoid of emotions.

Think about your childhood. Which memories are most vivid? Those that are most painful or happy, right? How about the 303rd bath you ever took? Why don't you remember that one? Because it was mundane and relatively low on emotional content.

Over time, these emotional memories, mixed with your genetic predispositions (you can thank your Mom & Dad for that) and environmental factors (education, cultural upbringing, friends & family, religion, social status, etc) shaped your unconscious view on life. Together, this mixture hardened into a lens through which you now view your life.

Lenses are limiting. They limit how far you can see and what you can see. This is not a bad thing. It is a natural ability that offers you protection, your defense mechanism, if you will. Prejudices, assumptions, and beliefs all come from your lenses. Some limitations can be hurtful, some can be helpful, though the degrees of such are subjective.

There isn't just one lens either. There are many, shaped through various phases of life. You may have your family lens, your work lens, your school lens, etc. The number of lenses depends on the number of wholly different experiences you've have and your awareness of, and synthesis of, those life phases. Living in a foreign country often splinters one's world view and creates a new lens, for instance.

Mine include my family lens, my Chinese American lens, my New Yorker lens, my Californian lens, my traveler lens, my spiritual lens, my anthropological & sociological lens, my self-reflective lens, my self-improvement lens, my entrepreneurial lens, my technology-oriented lens, etc. There are many more I'm not aware of too, I'm sure.

As you can see, your lenses don't map not just to your phases of life, but to the different ways you view your identity as well. And, of course, they all overlap quite a bit.

There are no right or wrong lenses, better or worse lenses, just degrees of helpfulness in society and influence on your actions. Some lenses may enable you to be a highly-successful person in some situations, but horribly inept in others. Others lenses may make you terribly miserable in some situations and protect you from harm in others.

However, you aren't stuck with a particular lens. You can change your view, as long as you cognitively try. It just takes effort. Sometimes tremendous effort. But it is impossible for everyone.

How? For some, it's simply a matter of being aware of your different lenses. For others, supportive friends & family can help. And for others, professional advice and help is required.

I'm sure you've met people who've changed the main lens through which they view life. They may be religious converts or political converts. They may be so excited about their new view that they won't shut up about it. Such a person has had a major epiphany (which is generally how a major change in lens view affects a person) and is naturally excited about it, though not all changes are so grand.

Want to try a quick lens switch exercise? Imaging yourself as a soccer player. You're on the field. You can feel the brisk chill of the afternoon air. The smell of freshly-cut grass is all around you. A trickle of sweat is at the corner of your eye. Other players are yelling at each other. The ball is being kicked around. You're keeping an eye on the ball, your teammates, and your opponents. Your mind is flipping back and forth from anticipating where the ball will be and how other players are reacting to the ball. Your legs are also getting tired and there's a side stitch in your gut. And damn, you're thirsty.

Now imagine yourself as the coach of that team. You're standing on the side of the field. Someone's brewing coffee besides you. Your players are yelling, the other team is yelling, and the fans are yelling behind you. You're keenly watching your players run up and down the field, positioning themselves around the ball. At the same time, you're also watching the opponents and analyzing their positions in relation to your team's. Your goalie looks tired and you're worried about a potential goal. Another player is being overly aggressive and you're concerned about the referee calling a penalty. Two of the opposing players are really strong and fast, so you're trying to make sure your team doesn't let them through your defense. Your voice is sore from yelling commands and encouragement to your team.

In the first lens, you had the view of an individual contributor on a team. You had to be conscious of your own actions as they related to others, while balancing your fatigue and condition.

In the second lens, you had the view of a supervisor of a team. You had to have a gestalt of the entire game and offer not only direction, but encouragement as their confidence rose and shrank.

That is a small example of a lens switch. Both views are totally correct while being entirely different. All of us switch like that daily, maybe even hourly.

Now consider this: what if you're able to combine lenses? Or switch between both in any given situation? What if you, as a soccer player, also considered the game from the coach's point of view? That's what a team captain often does. Viewing the game through both lenses would put you on a path for advancement and leadership in this situation.

Combining lenses often gives offers such power and opportunity. It opens your mind to other views you may not have otherwise considered. It keeps your mind amiable to new ideas and new contexts.

You know the saying, "Never judge a person until you've walked a mile in his shoes"? Same principle applies here. When you're viewing your situation through another lens, you're revising the natural limitations of what you perceive. While you're probably replacing them with the limitations of another lens, you're still expanding your previous boundaries. And that's the power of changing & combining lenses.

Of course, this is all an opinion formed through my own lens. This is how I perceive my life. You may perceive it differently and prefer to keep your current world view. In which case, I can't help but think: sucks for you.

©2009 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

In my friend's mind, this story is 100% true, since it happened to her. You can read it and decide for yourself.

My friend was on a business trip with several coworkers. They were staying in a mid-level hotel. Nothing too fancy or shabby. It was old, a little creaky, but provided the basic amenities.

Two days into the trip, one of her coworkers knocked on her door late in the evening. The coworker looked upset. Her eyes were red and teary. She was shivering. My friend asked what happened, but the coworker just shook her had and asked if she could stay with my friend tonight.

Having an extra bed in her room, my friend nodded and invited her shaken coworker in. The coworker was a pretty private & quiet girl, so after a harangue of questions without results, my friend gave up and returned to the TV.

"Maybe she's having boyfriend issues," my friend reasoned. She had seen this girl with a boyfriend around the office and has had a boyfriend drive her to tears too.

For the rest of the trip, the coworker stayed with my friend. They talked a little more, though only about work and other superficial issues. Figuring it was none of her business, my friend never pushed her coworker for an explanation.

The rest of the trip ended without incident. They returned home and a few weeks later, were called out to that client's office again. Time for another business trip. Their travel department booked them into the same old hotel.

My friend's coworker was abnormally quiet this time around, even for her, though she didn't register that fact until she related the story to me.

On the last day of the trip, my friend returned to her hotel room after an especially arduous day. Tired, she took a nice, long shower. When she finished, she got out and began toweling off. She stood in front of the mirror as she wiped her hair. The bathroom door was open so she could hear the TV in the bedroom.

Then she looked at the mirror and saw an old man standing behind her. Wrinkled face, wispy hairs, a blank expression. Just standing behind her. Staring right at her eyes.

Her heard stopped and she swiveled around. No one was there. She was alone in the bathroom.

She immediately stomped out of the bathroom and ran around the bedroom. She threw the closet door open. Looked under her bed. Peeked into the hallway. Checked the locks on her door. There was nobody was in the room and her door was locked tight.

Now you'll need to realize something. My friend is a Brooklyn girl through and through. Some guy once tried to mug her and she fought back, scaring the assailant away.

So it shouldn't surprise you when she grabbed a lamp and stomped around the room, shouting, "Who the fuck is there? Where the fuck are you? Get out of my fucking room you pervert!"

Her first thought wasn't, "It's a ghost!" No, she thought, "It's a pervy old man!" How's that for a Brooklyn girl?

After the team returned home the next day, she related the story to her coworkers. They all thought she was nuts and just laughed it off. The quiet girl pulled her aside later and asked in which room she was staying. My friend told her.

"That's where I stayed last time," the quiet coworker answered. Then she told my friend about the lights going on and off in the room. Right in front of her eyes. She didn't see an old man, but the flickering lights, coupled with a grave sense of fear, sent her fleeing to my friend's room.

My friend laughs when she tells the story. "I don't know if it was a fucking ghost or not, but whatever it was, if I caught it, I would have kicked its ass." Coming from her, I believe those words. I'm not sure what I should be more afraid of, a ghost or a Brooklyn girl.

©2009 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

She looked up into the sky and, without missing a beat, replied, "There would be a lot more going on in the sky, that's for sure."

I blinked. "Really? You didn't want to think about that first?"

She gave me a look. One of those Of course peanut butter goes with jelly! looks.

"Okay. So there would be a lot more going on in the sky. Like what, floating buildings?"

"Oh, definitely. Since ducks can fly, there would be all kinds of floating buildings."

"Definitely."

"Definitely," she nodded. "And there would be sky traffic lanes and zoned spaces."

"Zoned spaces?"

"Sure. That piece of sky over there would be commercial. And over there, residential."

"Ah."

"There would be buildings on the ground too. Because ducks can also walk, you know."

I slowly nodded. "Of course, of course."

She looked back up into the sky and stopped talking. I scratched my chin. Shifted my weight. Then I asked, "So you disagree with the Howard the Duck scenario?"

She gave me another look. One of those, Did you just fart in the car? looks. "What?" she asked.

"Howard the Duck. In his world, things aren't floating. Everything is just like it is right now, except the people look like ducks."

"Oh no, no no no no no. That wouldn't be it at all."

"You seem so certain."

Now a Great, I have to teach him the alphabet AND how to count to three look. "Well, duh. Ducks can fly. Hello."

I blinked again. Twice.

"You don't understand evolution at all," she continued, then returned her gaze to the sky.

I looked up at the sky too. Scratched my head. "I guess I don't," I replied.

We both watched a flock of ducks fly by. I think I heard her sigh too. Probably off thinking about floating buildings and zoned skies and whatnot. I decided not to ask any more questions and let her watch the ducks go by.

©2009 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

Excitement tingles in our fingertips. We could throw lightning bolts from our hands, it's so strong.

This is how it always is. It's become our Vegas tradition.

Our first destination is the Zuri Bar. Dark shadows criss-crossed with crisp blue lights cast an unsettling web on the walls. Deep bass boom-boom-booms into our bodies. It's a club atmosphere meant to psyche up even the most anxious player. To us, it just adds to the soundtrack of Vegas, followed by the singing of slots and cheering at craps.

Smoke waifs our senses. Occasional puffs pollute our noses. It's a city of all sins, especially the self-destructive and peer-destructive ones. It's a place where one goes to die a little each day, literally, morally, perhaps even spiritually. That's okay though. As soon as you leave, those mutilations remain. What happens in Vegas, well, you know.

We crash into the couches and survey the scenery. Some of the guys see them as prey, with their loose wallets, polished ATM cards, and optimistic naivety. Me, I like to people-watch. I make up stories for each one.

For instance, that lady in the little black dress over there, sitting by herself? She's having a clandestine rendezvous with a high roller she met at the Mirage. Being that she was staying at the Mirage with her husband, she had to arrange this meeting at the MGM.

Little does she know that her husband is also having his own secret rendezvous… with that high roller's… brother! Gasp.

This is all a manifestation of my mind's meanderings, of course. Take off its leash and it will run loose in all kinds of directions. The scotch whiskey doesn't help either.

Oh, I didn't tell you about the scotch whiskey? Macallan. 21-year, maybe 25-year if we're feeling especially lucky. The 50-year? Well, one day. Like mellow velvet down your throat, the water back brings out hints of toffee and cloves. It takes off the edge for those who have such a distaste, and it accentuates the flavors for those who have such a taste.

Price: a Benjamin and change.

We savor our Macallans slowly. It is a rare delicacy that we appreciate in all its elegance. The sounds, the smells, the sights… every sense is tempted as much as it is offended. Just the way we like it.

The waitress serves as eye candy we devour hungrily. Short skirt, low top, and lots of skin. The uniform designers sure know how to rile up their audience. A comment here, a joke there, and she giggles. The fact that this act increases her tip notwithstanding, we smile and feel invincible. What better way to measure a guy's manhood than by how many times he can get a hot chick to laugh?

Then the psychology begins. We torture each other with taunts and torments. We encourage each other with enthusiasm and applause. Break ourselves down and build ourselves up. Just like in the army. Our way of becoming Vegas Strong. Fuck yea.

Once we've been molded appropriately, we're off to our next destination. The high-limit slots. We're not talking your Grandma's slots here. I'm sure she's a lovely lady who once made that big win of three hundred dollars. Good for her.

I'm talking about a Benjamin a pull. Feed the beast a one-hundred dollar bill, then stroke its shaft. One pull each. Maybe two or three more if we're feeling incomprehensibly indestructible. Fortune favors the fools on Friday, we fathom. It's the beginning of the weekend, the perfect time to lure the lustful with luxuriousness.

The first victim pulls once. Hits one-thousand right away.

The second victim pulls once. Nothing. Twice. One-thousand and two hundred.

I pull once. Nothing. Twice. Nothing. Aw shit, why not? Thrice. One-thousand and six hundred. Thank you beast, for regurgitating such regal riches.

Price: a Benjamin. Reward: ten-fold or more.

Armed with confidence, indestructibility, and optimistic naivety, we approach the tables to start our attack. The rest of the trip is dictated not by tradition, but by the tides of fate. We enter it with the full knowledge of our odds. And that, my friend, is our Vegas tradition.

©2009 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

What's up with that?

Well, I have a theory: they are acting perfectly logically.

"What?!?!" you say.

"Yup," I reply. Allow me to explain.

It boils down to a person's fundamental assumptions of life. These assumptions effect that person's predispositions, understandings, mental maps, and interpretations of the environment.

You can look at it as a lens filter for your camera. Each filter you put on changes the picture a bit. Some distort the picture significantly; others twist it just a little bit. Every filter affects the final picture, however.

Here's another analogy. Let's take the equation 2 x 5. If you assume that "x" means "multiply," then the answer is 10. But if your assumption of "x" is "plus," then the answer is 7. And if your interpretation of "x" is "minus," then the answer is -3.

To give it a more humanistic light, if you see the world as a cold and harsh place, than life for you will be cold and harsh. If you see the world as a fun and challenging place, then life for you will be fun and challenging. While it is possible to change these views, we tend to validate our fundamental assumptions, thus reinforcing such experiences. It's a vicious cycle.

That is how a fundamental assumption can change a person's view on life.

With that said, a person who does something inexplicable to you is actually doing something logical in his/her mind. If you peered deep into the convoluted wrinkles of that person's brain, you will see a set of assumptions that validate that action. To that person, his/her actions were totally logical, even though society and common sense may deem otherwise.

(Also, there's really no such thing as "common" sense, but that's a ramble for another time.)

Let's look at a classic example. Joe and Jane have been friends for many years. To their friends, it is obvious that they have chemistry, yet neither has ever made an overt move for the other.

After much pushing and prodding, Jane's friends manage to persuade her to host a dinner party, with Joe being one of the invited guests. After dinner, the friends make a hasty exit, leaving Joe and Jane together to finish off the dessert.

Joe pours Jane a glass of wine. He teases her about her alcohol tolerance and continues pouring her more wine. They laugh and heartily and happily. The night goes on and still they talk.

Jane moves over to the couch to get more comfortable. Joe slides next to her. He turns on the television and they talk about their favorite shows. Feeling buzzed, happy, and perhaps a little bit daring, Jane leans in and puts her hand on Joe's hand.

Suddenly, Joe's body stiffens. He excuses himself to the bathroom. Then he tells her it's late and he has to go.

Confused and hurt, Jane calls a friend and tells her the full story. "What did I do wrong?" she asks. "What's wrong with him? Couldn't he tell I like him? Couldn't he read my signals? I thought all guys would want what was coming next." (e.g. Sexual intercourse. Gasp!)

Her friend agrees. What is wrong with Joe? The logical conclusion of the night, they both agree, should have been an unbridled romp in the bedroom, unleashing all the sexual tensions the two have held for all these years.

What Joe did was simply illogical, they conclude.

But was it? Let's peer into Joe's mind. First, what are his fundamental assumptions of life? Joe is a guy who still feels young and virile. He really cares about his friendships and loves spending time with his friends, whether it is at a ball game, helping a friend through a tough time, or going to a dinner party. Joe has two younger siblings, a sister and brother, both of whom he cares for deeply as well. He has the paternal instincts of a typical older child and tends to behave similarly with friends.

Do you spot any clues in there?

Yes, Joe does have some feelings for Jane. Being a man, he can't help occasionally following his hormones. But he won't follow them to Jane. Jane, in his mind, is a great friend, a friend he doesn't want to lose. A relationship with her would be significant, not only because they are such long-time friends, but because they share a tight circle of friends too.

Therefore, logically, the only time he would try anything with her would be if he is totally sure she is someone with which he wants to settle down. Nothing short of that would do. At this stage in Joe's life, he isn't ready to settle down yet. He still wants to pick up girls at bars, travel the world, and do all the crazy things he feels he should before starting a family.

To Joe, dating Jane — even at this young age — would mean settling down and starting a family. Therefore, as soon as anything reminds him that he is on such a path — such as Jane touching his hand — Joe will immediately halt the moment and exit as quickly as he can. In his mind, this is perfectly logical.

In poor Jane's mind, this is utterly confusing.

That's just one possibility. Another equally logical explanation: Joe is a guy keeps his room tidy and organized. His books are lined up alphabetically by topic. His DVDs are by genre and director. He always cuts his hair and tucks his shirts in. The youngest of three brothers, he's had both the advantage and disadvantage of receiving lavish attention from his immediate family. That doesn't mean he's spoiled though; he still does his chores and pulls his own weight, especially when he's on the football field. And he's proud, damn proud, that he's seen by his peers as a tough guy.

So what happened tonight?

That extra helping of wine, that's what. He's a heavy partier. Known to slam down Alabama Slammers as quickly as a case of Coronoas, Joe is no stranger to alcohol. But wine is a different story. His stomach doesn't quite react well with perhaps the sediments of wine. Or the tannins. Or something. Who knows.

What Joe did know was that he couldn't stop drinking just because of a little stomach ache. Not him, a huge football player that could down a six-pack of beer like a soda pop. But when that stomach ache grew and grew, he became increasingly embarrassed to visit the porcelain pool and drop the boys off — especially during dinner where everyone would know what he was doing. He couldn't risk that hit to his reputation.

His last-minute plan to run and do just that was foiled too. His plan: as soon as dinner was over, he would duck into the bathroom while everyone chilled and talked. The distraction of post-dinner conversation would be suitable for a hasty absence. Unfortunately, everyone else ran off before he could execute on said plan.

Then things with Jane started getting more intense. He could tell she was getting drunk. Perfect, he thought! But the boys were relentless. By the time Jane touched his hand on the couch, the boys were knocking hard. Know the term turtlehead? Yes. Joe had a turtlehead.

Joe wanted nothing more than to reach out, caress Jane's hair, pull her in, and kiss her gently. But turtleheads have a way of killing romance. So Joe raced to the bathroom, let out a quick load, lit a match, and ran back home to continue his porcelain devastation in privacy.

And that, in a nutshell, describes every wacky encounter you've ever experienced on a date. It just comes across as utterly confusing because you aren't privy to the other person's fundamental assumptions and thoughts. But rest assured that your idiot of a date is acting perfectly logically — in your date's mind, at least.

©2009 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

"I know you all think I am despicable. But I think you all are despicable."

The second graders blinked. Despicable? They didn't know this word. Only the little boy did, being the advanced reader he was.

The teacher also knew the word. She watched on, her mouth wide open, eyes unblinking.

The little boy exaggerated the enunciation of the word. Des-PIC-a-ble. It was almost like Daffy Duck was standing in front of the room delivering this speech. You could almost see the spit springing from his lips.

As the little boy continued, the teacher put her hands over her mouth. "Must… not…" Her thoughts struggled. "Must… not…" Tears bubbled in her eyes. "Must… not… laugh…"

But it was all too much. The little boy's speech became a incredulous cacophony to the teacher's reddening ears. She buried her head into her hands just as her lips burst forth. Face-down at her desk, the teacher buckled into hysterics.

The other students blinked again. They still didn't understand. What was this word? Why was their teacher crying?

That's what they thought. They thought she was crying.

And so, one by one, the other students started crying too. As the little boy continued his despicable speech, the entire class was washed in a wave of tears.

"Wah ha ha ha ha ha!" the teacher cackled.

"Waa waa waa waa!" the students cried.

"Des-PIC-a-ble, all of you," the little boy continued.

And so ended the funniest, saddest, most despicable little second-grade speech ever. True story. Every last despicable word of it.

©2009 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

"I was flying back to Vietnam. I have not been there in years. Many, many years. It has been so long that I did not remember if I needed a Visa or not."

He shook his head and frowned. "A friend told me I did not because I am Vietnamese. I believed him. So I packed up all of my bags and went to the airport. And guess what?"

"What?" I asked.

He took a step back from my hair and examined it. Narrowed his eyes. Then he looked at me. "When I got to the gate, they rejected me. They told me I needed a Visa. Can you believe it? I listened to my friend. I believed my friend. And here I was, at the airport, with all of my luggage, and I was told I could not get on the plane."

"Daaaaaamn," I murmured. "So what did you do?"

"I had to go all the way back home, get online, and look up information on how to get my Visa." He snipped some hair and shook his head again. "Normally, it takes only ten dollars and a few weeks to get the Visa. But because I needed it right away, I had to pay… guess how much?"

"Fifty bucks?"

"No, more."

"Hundred bucks?"

"Yes! Hundred bucks! A little more than a hundred bucks, actually. I had to call up my cousins in Vietnam to help rush it too. It was such an ordeal. I finally got it in an email, printed it out, and called the airline to book another flight. But then…"

His voice trailed off. I couldn't tell if he was lost in the shears, or in the story. I decided not to push him and let him finish my sides.

"…and then," he finally continued, "they told me all the flights were booked. I had to wait next week for the next available flight! I was so angry. I only had a week of vacation and already took a few days off. I could not wait a week!"

"Daaaaaamn," I murmured again.

"So my brother, he travels a lot. He called up the airline and talked to them. Somehow, he got them to give me a flight in two days. I was so happy"

"Uh huh," I concurred without trying to nod my head.

"I flew from Los Angeles to San Francisco. Then from San Francisco to Shanghai. Then from Shanghai to Vietnam. Oh, and while at Shanghai, there's more to this story…"

"There's more?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes! These things always happen to me. I don't know why." He rolled his eyes. "When I got to Shanghai, they told me I had to get my luggage from luggage claim and check it in again for my flight to Vietnam. I told them No, it should be transferred automatically. But they kept saying No, I need to pick it up myself and check it back in again. Such an ordeal. So I went to luggage claim. And guess what?"

"What? Your luggage was missing?"

"Yes! My luggage was missing! Can you believe it? I talked to the airline and they told me it was still in San Francisco. So I had to call San Francisco airport, and they told me they did not have my luggage, that it was on the airplane."

"Daaaaaamn," I murmured again.

"I know! I was so angry. So I called my brother and he checked it for me. They told him my luggage was on its way to Vietnam already. So I got on the plane and flew to Vietnam. And guess what?"

"You didn't find your luggage."

"Yes! I didn't find my luggage!"

This guy's story is either one huge exaggeration, or the poor fellah really does have horrible things happening to him all the time. Either way, the story was enticing. I listened with intense interest.

"I called my brother again," he continued. "The airline told him my luggage was in Vietnam. But the airport in Vietnam said they did not have my luggage. I was on the phone all day, calling Shanghai, San Francisco, my brother… such an ordeal. Finally, someone told me to check the luggage counter. I did, and there was my luggage."

He let out a long sigh and shook his head.

"Daaaaaamn."

"Everything in my luggage was broken. The luggage itself was okay. Nothing was missing. But all of my stuff inside the luggage was broken. I had to buy all new things."

"Daaaaaamn." Well, at least you finally made it to Vietnam."

"Yes. I finally did." His face hinted at a momentary smile, then it vanished. "But there's more."

"More?"

"More."

"Haven't you had enough already?"

He laughed. "Yes, I have. These things always happen to me. My sister asks me why these things always happen to me. She doesn't believe me that they always do, but they do."

Another long sigh. Then he continued.

"While in Vietnam, sister made me a delicious dessert with coconut. She doesn't know that I get sick with coconut, unfortunately. I ate it and started to feel sick. I didn't know why. I asked her, 'What is in this dessert?' She said, 'coconut.' I ran to the bathroom and had such stomach pains. My goodness I was in such pain."

I grimaced. He noticed the expression on my face and nodded.

"Yes. I had bad diarrhea. It was such pain. I even had to go to the hospital because I could not stand it. The doctor examined me and said there was nothing he could do. I just had to wait it out. But I kept telling him I was in a lot of pain, tremendous pain. He finally gave me some medicine, but it didn't help. I just sat in the bathroom for a long, long time, in such pain."

"Daaaaaamn," I murmured.

He snipped my hair, looked at it in the mirror, and snipped again. I waited silently to hear more, but he just kept cutting my hair. After a moment, I asked, "How did the rest of the trip go?"

"Oh, it was okay. I saw my family, then flew home without any more problems. Getting there was such an ordeal. But coming home was great. I was so happy to come home."

That was so not the answer I was expecting. A part of me almost hoped to hear more horrible ordeals. I dunno why. Something about watching a train wreck, that kind of thing.

"My mother," he started up again. "She wants me to go back again this year. I told her No. I had such a horrible trip, I do not want to go back again so soon."

"I don't blame you."

"Yes. Such an ordeal. Such an ordeal."

Fortunately, he cut my hair without incident. No lost scissors or explosive diarrhea marred my haircut experience. But stories like that sure have a way of capturing one's attention. Everybody loves a good, horrible ordeal, especially when it's someone else's.

©2009 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.

"Oh man, you're being so Chinese," they'll say. And they're Chinese too.

This is often in reference to an act of ridiculous frugality. Being Chinese means being cheap.

Buying old bread from the bakery because it's cheaper and warming it up in the microwave or toaster to make it "just as good as fresh"? That's being Chinese.

Using a scissor to cut open a tube of toothpaste so you can use up every ounce? That's being Chinese.

Adding water to milk to make it last longer? That's being Chinese.

Okay, that last one was a rip from Russell Peters. He argues that Indians are even cheaper than Jews and Chinese. And admittedly, adding water to milk IS pretty damn cheap. And gross. Yuck. Maybe he's right.

But everything else, that's being Chinese.

This makes me wonder. How did this metaphor originate? Where did it come from? Why does it perpetuate?

Is it because Chinese food is cheap (inexpensive), so by extension, being Chinese means being cheap & inexpensive?

Is it because Chinese imports are cheap (low quality), so by extension, being Chinese means being cheap & of low quality?

Or is it because a representative number of Chinese people are cheap (frugal), so by extension, being Chinese means being cheap & frugal?

My guess is the last one, though I know some rather financially careless Chinese people too. But if you ask a random sampling of Asian Americans, you will generally hear them say that their Chinese friends are the cheapest and most frugal of the bunch. Hardly a scientific poll, I know.

So many questions, so many possibilities. I'd sit here and think about them all, but I have to shut my laptop down now because I don't want to pay for the extra power. After all, I'm Chinese.

©2009 Mike Lee.org. All Rights Reserved.