I feel tired. It’s been a stressful two weeks. I became unemployed just before Halloween, just before I wanted to go see Bauhaus. I decided to go anyways. It’s a long, stressful drive for someone that doesn’t like being in cars, but I really wanted to go. My friend Ava picked me up in the rental car in the morning and we headed off. She was happy to get away for the weekend. We didn’t yet have a hotel so we had to leave as early as possible. Of course we stopped at the Mad Greek; something of a ritual on my last trips. The falafel was somewhat dry this time, disappointing, but at least the beer hit the spot. Instead of just taking I15 to I10, we took some other route that skirted San Bernardino and most of that gridlocked mess of I10 west. We didn’t hit much traffic until I10 becomes 101, where those murals grace the steep walls surrounding the freeway. I brought along a case full of 80s mix CDs that make the time go by quickly.

Exiting the freeway, we start looking for the Wiltern. It’s an easy target. We have a few hours to find a hotel, and that was also an easy target. We found the Dunes Inn about a mile away from the venue. The man has problems with my ID. It won’t scan and doesn’t light up right under the black light. When he sees my less freaky companion, he lets us get a room anyway. I guess I should know better than to get a hotel in LA wearing a camo bandana, BDUs, a black wife beater, and a leather jacket. He probably thought I was a junky. We unpack and relax for a while. I walk out for some beer. Not the right neighborhood for this, since I have to walk about a mile before I find a supermarket. Grabbing some Newcastle and some cheap bourbon, I head for the line. The woman in front of me is buying some exotic produce and the cashier has trouble ringing it up. “That’s what you get for eating healthy,” I quip. She smiles and, noting my shopping, says “I guess I should know better, I like your plan better.” I should have brought my backpack; carrying a 12 pack a mile can be tiring. I have to enter the hotel through the lobby and the man who’d checked us in sees my haul. He half-smiles and I shrug as I head for the room. We drink some and prepare for the evening. My companion used to work at a make-up counter and does my make-up for me.

She has trouble walking, but I much prefer to walk than drive the mile and pay for parking. The walk really isn’t that bad; I mean she has to walk that far for some classes at UNLV I’m sure. She’d forgotten to print out the Ticketmaster confirmation, but there is no problem at the will-call booth. They didn’t even frisk us. This venue is so much better than the Palladium. It’s beautiful and spacious inside and security is relaxed. There is no opening band, like the time I saw them in ’98, but unlike that time we didn’t have to wait until midnight for them to come on. They are amazing musicians. Two men sitting beside us are over-enthusiastic. They were older than I am but hadn’t managed to see Bauhaus before. I guess I’m lucky that this was my 3rd time seeing them.

After the show lets out, we spill out into the streets with the rest of the mob; like rats leaving a sinking ship I suppose. She’s hungry and we stop at some Chinese restaurant and gets some beef soup or something nasty like that. No kisses for you till you brush your teeth.

The next day, we check out and head for LACMA. She’s from the Palm Springs area but hasn’t made it to many museums. There’s a King Tut exhibit, but after a friend gave it some negative reviews, we decide to skip it and just go to the regular exhibits. I am sad that the sculpture garden is closed, but we still enjoy seeing the outdoor tar pits in the sprawling park surrounding the museum. I show her some of my favorite pieces. “Satan” still sits there; defeated, holding his head in one hand and a broken sword in the other. I think they should devote a whole building to Frida Kahlo. Weeping Coconuts is such an amazing piece. The netsuke and Asian prints are cool since she’s taking an Asian lit class. I give a small lecture about Magdalene with the Smoking Flame to two men. How pretentious can I get? I’d make a decent docent; too bad I’m a poor poet. I wish the Magritte piece was on public view. We don’t go through the whole museum since we still have to drive home, but I think we got most of the important stuff in.

On the drive home, I have something of a panic attack. My stomach knots up and I get dizzy. Did I mention I don’t like being in cars? We get stuck in traffic about halfway home and got to sit still for almost 15 minutes. That wasn’t fun, but we made it.

I’ll write up the next weekend’s trip to Mount Charleston later.