So I was sitting at home a couple of weeks ago, watching Big Trouble in Little China for the
eight trillionth time, (For this viewing I learned Chinese, so I could make
sure the film makers got the details correct. John Carpenter is known to be as
precise and exact as Stanley Kubrick when it comes to what appears on screen.)
when it hit me: this Jack Burton guy has his shit together more than it appears
at first glance. He’s a frood who really knows where his towel is.
Upon further reflection, I realized that Jack Burton (the
main character is this flawless masterpiece) approaches life from a very
well-defined point of view. He’s a man who has spent years in his truck,
traversing the highways and byways of this great country (America?) hauling the
sundries that we all so desperately need. Were you able to drink coffee this
morning? You can thank Jack Burton for that. Is your lawn well-manicured? It’s
people like Jack Burton who smuggled the immigrants into your neighborhood for
that very purpose. Did your life-sized John Holmes “Xtra Veiny” black dildo
made from Space Age polymers (and Blutooth enabled) arrive on your doorstep
this week? That’s right, Jack Burton once again.
It was during his time on the road that a well-worn and
time-tested philosophy formed for Jack. And he loves to shares this philosophy
with others. He spends the majority of his time in his truck giving advice and
life lessons to his fellow truckers. All of it from knowledge and experiences
gleaned from years of being a rig jockey. Nobody asks him to, but you can be
damn sure everybody within earshot of a CB radio sits in rapt attention
whenever Jack Burton’s pitchy voice comes over the speaker.
And his words! The things he says can really open your mind.
From the existence of life on other planets:
“Well, ya see, I’m not
saying that I’ve been everywhere and I’ve done everything. But I do know it’s a
pretty amazing planet we live on here, and a man would have to be some kind of
fool to think we’re alone in this universe.”
To dealing with adverse weather:
“Just remember what Ol’
Jack Burton does when the earth quakes, the poison arrows fall from the sky,
and the pillars of Heaven shake. Yeah, Jack Burton just looks that big old
storm right in the eye and says: ‘Give me your best shot. I can take it.’”
To methods of placating obstinate bill collectors:
“When some wild-eyed, eight-foot-tall
maniac grabs your neck, taps the back of your favorite head up against the
barroom wall, looks you crooked in the eye, and asks you if you paid your dues;
you just stare that big sucker right back in the eye and you remember what Ol’
Jack Burton always says at a time like that: ‘Have you paid your dues, Jack?
Yessir. The check is in the mail.’”
To proper driving safety:
“Like I told my last
wife, I said ‘Honey, I never drive faster than I can see. Besides that, it’s
all in the reflexes.’”
And sometimes he says stuff that has absolutely nothing to
do with eyes or vision. But not too often. Any thoughts involving eyeballs or
sight are squarely in his wheelhouse.
His attitude on life is so refreshing and unique. His method
of coping with setbacks, from his truck being stolen to having to fight demons
from the underworld, is to shut up and just get it over with. Sometimes without
shutting up and usually without actually getting it over with either. But it
never really matters in the end because things work out for Jack anyway.
Thus inspired, I decided to apply Jack Burton’s lifestyle to
my very own, to see how a day in his vaguely racist tank top, unnecessarily
tight jeans and stylish boots would suit me. But without having to wear any of
that stuff, because come on. Halloween it ain’t.
The next day I drove in to work. I don’t actually have a CB
radio in my car, but that didn’t stop me from monologuing into thin air about
whatever random shit popped into my head, (how the hell did Norm manage to be a
regular at the Bull & Finch if he never paid his tab?) This exercise helped
to prepare me for the day to come.
As I stepped into the office, a coworker ran up to me in a
panic. It seemed that over the evening hours, our systems may have crashed,
costing us many important files and potentially erasing the payments of several
of our customers. Were this true, it could be a disaster for the firm. I had to
act fast. I had to calm this guy down and set his mind at ease. So I grabbed
his shoulders as they shook from his feminine crying fit and looked him dead in
the eyes.
“The check is in the mail,” I said. And walked away. The
company filed for Chapter 11 two days later.
Continuing my Jack Burton experience, I headed to a nearby
food truck for lunch. Unfortunately, the line for “Hot Mess” the
ironically-named gazpacho food truck, was far too long for me to stand in for a
bag of soup (they sell soup in a bag, what can I say?) I just didn’t have the
patience for waiting. And why should I?
I’m Jack Burton now goddam it! I’m a VIP! So I pushed my way to the front of
the line.
Whenever I passed grumbling nobodies I would favor them with
a smile and say “Ol’ Jack says…what the hell?” This did nothing to help clear
up my behavior and actually made a few people more irate. Which, in turn, led
to my involuntary gazpacho shower as patrons pelted me with bags of soup. I
barely made it away safely.
So far, my experiment had failed me. Jack Burton made it
look so easy. He was able to simultaneously quip, smooch the ladies and fight
people who shoot lightening from their fingers. Why was I having such trouble?
That evening I went to my favorite watering hole, The Hill,
to enjoy some adult beverages and try to piece together where I went wrong. I
couldn’t understand it. As far as I could tell, Jack Burton had it all figured
out. He was but a few short steps away from Nirvana and complete universal
harmony. Meanwhile, here I was, probably out of a job and covered in tomatoes
and pureed veggies.
After sipping on my fourth gin and tonic, I realized what I
was missing. See it’s not enough to try and just follow Jack’s advice. If one
wants to truly know enlightenment, one must commit to walking the same path as
that great man. I would have to go out and buy a truck. I’d have to get married
and divorced a few times, probably have a bastard child or two out there
somewhere. I’d need to get into gambling and playing Mah Jong (probably) at grimy
city docks in the wee morning hours. I would need to become stupider and more
obtuse. And most importantly I would need the experience and hemorrhoids that
only come with untold hours of sitting in a truck. I understood that all of
these things were too much for me to attempt as a simple social experiment. I
would have commit to a complete life overhaul. And since Love it or List it was going to be on in a few minutes, I just
didn’t have the time.
I had to abandon my experiment there. But not all is lost,
for I know that someone, somewhere out there, must be replicating what I did.
But going further. Trying harder. Somebody out there is close to tasting
spiritual oneness with Jack Burton and the cosmos. And to that person, whoever
they may be,
I can only say:
“Sit tight, hold the fort, keep the home fires burning. And
if we’re not back by dawn…call the president.”
Or something like that. Whatever. It’s not an exact science.
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