Peter Murphy isn't dead?

I am going to see Bauhaus tonight alone. While I would love to stay home and sulk about how I don't have any friends (at least any friends who want to go see Bauhaus . . . I do have wonderful friends), the guys in Bauhaus must be . . . let's see . . . about fifty or sixty by now. Plus all the wear and tear from the drugs. So I'm figuring that they won't tour again and this is my LAST CHANCE.

Bauhaus had broken up by the time I could drive, so I've never seen them. I've never been to Peter Murphy . . . never seen Love and Rockets. So this is it.

My brother pointed out (because I was calling him to see if it was totally lame to go by myself to a concert) that they are an "eighties has-been band" and that it would probably be totally lame. While I agree that it will either be wonderful, or ridiculously bad . . . I have to go. I'll stand in the back and try not to draw attention to myself or my "I'm here alone"-ness.

It's comforting that there are 89 other people who still want to see Bauhaus. 89 people is much easier to deal with than, say, 500. (I was assigned "general admission seat" 89, so I'm making an assumption, which I didn't buy because the service fee was more than at the door tickets) So 89 other freaks like me that want to see Petey propped up on the stage, singing "Terror Couple Kill Colonel" in Detroit one last time. I'm getting all misty.