LIFE isn't too interesting for campus activists these days.

Mobutu is headed back to Zaire. ROTC is old news. And the only people fighting randomization are a few disgruntled first-years afraid of the quad.

Unless someone acts fast, the next issue for campus activists may be the lack of issues for campus activists. Bored protestors may soon call for President Bok to do something horrible. In the worst scenario, lethargic liberals will ask for student "sponsors" to provide emotional support during their days out of the limelight.

I, for one, refuse to let this chilling vision become reality. In my ongoing quest to make the world a fairer place and to combat campus activist apathy, I humbly propose a new, time consuming, liberal cause celebre.

Me.

My cause is not racial, ethnic, religous or sexual in nature. It is digestive. Since the age of 13, I have been unable to digest milk and some diary products including cream, soft cheeses and, yes ice cream. In technical terms, my name is Josh, and I am lactose intolerant.

WHY, you may wonder, should campus activists care about my digestive system? What makes me presume that "justice for lactose intolerants!" will become the rallying cry of the 1990s?

Absolutely nothing. But I am a dreamer. I believe that lactose intolerance has four critical elements that will convince leading actists and their doting followers to devote hundreds of hours to The Cause.

Element 1: Lactose intolerants are the frequent victims of insensitivity. As surprising as this may sound, people who have not tasted the creamy delight of ice cream in eight years do not like to be constantly reminded of this fact.

Yet every lunch and dinner for the past three years, my roommate turns on all his Texas charm and asks whether he can get me some ice cream. "Whoops!" he pretends to remember. "You can't digest it! HAHAHAHAHA! [slurp]"

My family is little better. Although they profess to be loving and sensitive, their favorite activity is gorging themselves on ice cream sundaes while forcing me to eat stale and chewy tofu-based ice cream substitutes that taste like dirt. (And I don't like dirt.)

"Okay, guys," my father will say, opening the freezer. "We have seven Haagen Daaz flavors and four fresh gallons of Breyers. And for Josh, we still have some mocha-mint-bark tofu-whip leftover from the Reagan era."

Element 2: The Harvard administration mistreats lactose intolerants. When I was a first year student, and I though I could change the world, I also thought I could get the Union to stock specially digestible milk called lactaid. The Union supervisor told me that storage space was available, but only if I paid for the products myself.

This arrangement worked for two days, and which point my lactaid disappeared. I bought some more, only to have that batch stolen too. Finally I complained to the supervisor that I had spent $20 and had taken just two sips of lactaid. She gave me a special bag for my food, and marked it "Do not touch Josh Sharfstein's bag."

The next day, when I returned to the refrigerator, something was scrawled under the message. It read, "I didn't touch his mother. I swear."