As regular readers have probably gathered already, I'm not a huge rock music fan. I may sport a shock of hair that prompts people in the street to ask me what kind of shampoo and conditioner I use (a secret I'll take to my grave) but that doesn't necessarily mean I like to thrash it to the sound of brainless bands choking loud guitars. A rock-ish tune I do dig though, comes from an Irish band called Ash, mainly because it's called Kung-Fu and pretty much dedicated to Jackie Chan. Previous to writing this week's column I loved Jackie Chan, like a young boy loves the first hair that appears on his body in any other place than his scalp.

From Drunken Master to Rush Hour (which is lame except for Jackie's jaw-dropping performance), I have watched spellbound as the economically-sized master wove a web of combat skill so spectacular that if he was a spider he'd catch flies the size of Concords. Even when he went Hollywood, I still totally respected him even though he starred in movies that make Howard the Duck look like Oscar material. The Tuxedo and The Medallion eat it so much that I momentarily thought about burning my "I want to be champion fight man like Jackie" boxing bag in protest. Luckily I called my mother in these moments of impetuosity and she set me straight about my idol's previous heroics.

I didn't think there was anything that Jackie could do to make me hate him. Not even if he came around to my crib, drank all of my Krug and snapped my mint copy of Kool and the Gang's Cherish with his quick little hands. Sure, I might ask him to leave and even have some of my homies empty some concrete into his petrol tank but I'd never harm a hair on his oval-shaped head. I kind of figured that he would pay me, the guy who shaped modern China, the same kind of respect too but I was about to find out first hand what a cruel, heartless baron of pain he really is.

I heard about The Disciple through my bestie, Cruiser, who called me from his Jeep Wrangler. He was so excited that he forgot to turn down the dope Color Me Bad track that he had blaring. "Yo, K! Jackie Chan's got a show, bro and he "

"Turn it down, yo, I can't hear you over I Wanna Sex You Up," I said.

"Sorry cuz, I said that Jackie Chan has got a new show and he is looking for some peeps to become action movie stars," Cruiser said. "This is your shot K! With your archery and man-killing skills you are primed for this son!"

My head began swimming with images of movie star life: on-set trailers packed with exotic fruits and condiments, free bling from Tag Heuer and biographies written about me that don't focus on wars and other things that are so yesterday.

"I'm oiling up and training in the living room right now holmes. Thanks for the tip," I told Cruiser.

Within a week I was splitting tree trunks with a single blow and hitting coin shaped targets with my throw knives from impossibly long distances. My biceps were swelling like a Microsoft executive's wallet. I was ready.

Thinking that it was best to dress low-key, I turned up in traditional Shaolin monk attire (from the Marc Jacobs collection) and drove bare foot to the audition. I listened to an Anthony Robbins motivation CD on the drive there, repeating to myself "today I will touch the sun without catching fire" over and over again.

I fixed an intent stare on those that had gathered in the studio and magically they cleared a path for me leading to the guy with the clipboard that was passing out competitor numbers. He gulped in fear as he handed over my number and I bowed as I took it from his hands. As I turned my back I heard a familiar voice and those in the rooms began whispering to each other. Suddenly I heard the voice say: "Hey pops, what's with the monk suit?"

I swung back around to be faced by Mr Jackie Chan giggling and pointing at me. "Who do you think you are?" he said. "Master Po from Kung Fu?"

The rest of the competitors began laughing hysterically and I gulped hard and tried to focus on happy thoughts to stop myself from crying. I dashed to my Hummer and sped off, momentarily stopping off at a gas station on the way home to pick up some lighter fluid.

That night was a cold one but I stayed outside on the balcony, kept warm by the burning "I want to be champion fight man like Jackie" boxing bag, which made a small pile of ash by daybreak.

Contact the author at kublaimeister@gmail.com

(China Daily 05/16/2007 page15)