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December 9, 2002 Run Lola Run. Lola run's and the sound blares at top volume here in the living room at Dave's, my couch campout. I love Lola. I love her dyed red hair. I love her dedication. This must be Rick's heroic female partner week. Because if you asked me to choose a handful of ideal girlfriend's from fictional characters, I would choose Lola, Betty Blue, Hope Sandoval (not fictional, and for all I know not a nice person, but OH WHAT A VOICE). There are others. Many more. But that's not the point of today's rant. I pulled the motor out of Duke today. Not for the first time. The third time. And each time I get better. And each time I have help. The first time it was Bruce standing over my shoulder and lending a wrenching hand in the late November cold and short days of Idyllwild, freezing my fingers off. It took me a week. The money came, quite miraculously and wonderfully, from a handful of art car family, my bestest friends. The second time was just months ago, in April, in the fucking sweltering heat and uptight atmosphere of a supportive yet ein bissien ferruckte host who drove me hard in that humid Houston heat. I did okay. But I made mistakes. And the mistakes actualized themselves in the ill-fated yet (thanks to Cricket) not unpleasant journey across Texas in the weeks following Burning Man. Yesterday, I met with art car amigo Sean O'Connor to stash Duke in the gated industrial complex that is his work's base of operations. When we showed up, Dave and I, we pulled Duke off to the side of the building in an empty area where Sean said I could leave it as long as I needed. But then I chanced to ask if, when I had the time and could come back, might I be able to work on the engine here (here being right where it sat, on the dirt lot beside the workshop). And then the red carpet just started rolling out, rolling out like a big dog's long thirsty tongue. What? We can use the warehouse? And you have a chain hoist to pull the motor? And floor jacks? And a heater in the warehouse? Shit. I love the way Lola says "stop." It's one of those words from English that's apparently caught on in German. But Lola, and I suppose all German tongue's, say it like this: "Schtop." Too good to pass up. So not 24 hours recovered from the nastiest of flu bugs, out of money and feeling a strong urge to blow this New Mexican green chile taco stand with its winter window frost and gray skies and an x-girlfriend and an x-house and the Val Kilmer stand-in job turning out a big nada and nothing new except Dave and all his surprises to keep me happy and craving that bay house and all that water over which to gaze and laze and write and create... I said okay. I said "Let's do it." It's Saturday afternoon and I've got til Sunday late night to do the job and get out of the warehouse. Kudos to Dave. He got me through it all. Walked me through it. Drugged me through it. Ritalin and K cocktails. And when we showed up last night, there was Sean and his son Jason and their friends Jack and Jackie checking out the car and knocking a few back and wouldn't you know they left us with about a 12pack of Corona. In three hours we had the engine pulled and out and on a dolly. Ein hunert tousand. That's how much Lola needs to cinch the deal, to save Manni. Love this flick. The German language, which I studied so hard years ago and have since had no chance to practice, comes back to me like fond memories. I am angry that I have not yet.. that Duke has not yet been chosen to go to Germany and the Essen Car show. Sheisse! And that Tom and Harrod, to name two friends, have gone with their art cars and not taken me up on my offer to accompany as translator. Fuck em. If I watch Lola one more time, I think I'll be on a plane to Deutschland in a matter of months. Bone up. Finish what I started, what high school friend Chris Kueker's family ignited in me ein tousand Jahre ago: the desire to become fluent in another Sprache, und trink lots of schnapps. I called B. in Houston tonight. He called me Sir again. Weird fucker. I can't help but put together the "sir" thing (which nobody calls me, thank god) and his belief that I've got something going with his wife (total projection, no basis in reality) and his use of that line from "Streetcar" on me en route to Burning Man, the one the crazy chick says at the end "I've always relied on the kindness of strangers" a thing he used on me that SOOOO rang of an insult.. anyway.. I called him to tell him that the missing oil pump crank rod wasn't really stolen by gnomes, that I found it in the oil pan, and he was, well, he was B. He called me Sir. I HATE being called Sir. His mad hatter wife wrote me letters from Duke, from my art car, as it sat in Houston all summer. She now rights me about the rats taking over her house and abducting her youngest daughter, making the kid their queen. She's a good writer, great imagination, totally fucking whacked, and I love her for it. And apparently that (the whackedness) and the fact that she was writing me more than she was talking to B. in the past six months is B.'s basis for thinking I'm fucking her. Hey B., if you're out there listening, if I was fucking your wife, YOU'D KNOW ABOUT IT! Hell, I'd broadcast it RIGHT HERE on my own little pirate radio station. Why not? I tell you people everything else about myself, every dirty little secret, every insecurity, insanity, etc. Why shouldn't I gloat about rolling in the hay with a hot redhead from Houston? I would if I could. But I ain't. My sex life sucks these days. That's why I love Lola. On the TV, Lola Runs and Runs and there's that great frantic background beat accompanied by the lyrics, "Never, never say never." Incredible soundtrack to this movie. You gotta rent it if you haven't seen it. I've been chain-smoking the flick for the past three days, through every meal and through most of my online eBay (nightmare) business. In the other room, poor sick Dave gets a little relief from his cold in the loving arms of his Jewel. I'm glad for him. Frikken maniac hung out with me and cranked wrenches the whole damn night despite being so sick he could barely stand up. A good man, Dave. A really good man. Lola heads to the Casino now to place her fate-boosted bet with one 100 Mark chip. Great fucking scene. She bets on the number 20 on roulette. Twenty. Her magic/tragic number. Twenty minutes to save the boyfriend. She screams and I want to scream with her, a scream that shatters champagne glasses throughout the room and intimidates the little white ball into meeting its fate in the 20 slot. "Tswanzig, Schwartz." Is there really a T in tswanzig? Or is that my Englishness, my pent-up aggressive desire to toss silent consonants into every third word? Now I want to meet this Lola, this Franka Potente who, I now learn via a snap-snap Google search online and a synaptic-fast mini-research session, starred recently alongside Matt.. (sound of my throat clearing) Damon (brief visual of me dry-heaving) in the film Bourne Identity and had some major role in Johnny (me smiling) Depp's "Blow" (much better). Good luck, right? Well, we'll just see who laughs last. Today's email? A real barrel of monkeys. Some guy in Austria, says he's gonna sick Interpol on me for non-delivery of a painting I sold him... I, me, my name, my reputation on the line, but in reality Danny and I, Danny's painting, Danny's.. whatever. Then another one from some guy with the name Disney (coincidence?), also pissed off because he hasn't received an item we sold him. Thank God for bullshit like this to remind me WHY WHY WHY WHY I AM NOT a businessman or anything other than what I am. Me, Writerick. I may never meet Franka Potente. I may never be rich. I may never have my art car in a museum or my words in college textbooks. But I will have lived as Lola ran.. and ran.. and ran.. and lived again. And died. And denied death. And lived to run again. Conviction. Truth. Beauty. Stop asking me where I am from. Stop asking me where I live. Es macht nichts. -His Lordship RSM the Duke of Schtopp
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