I parted, and it was worth it.

So last night, I buzzed on over to the 75th street brewery wearing a blaze orange "golf" shirt I bought at TJ Maxx (where you get the max for the minimum) for about $7 and I sent an email to some person I'd never met and told him/her that I'd be at the bar wearing an orange golf shirt. My phone hummed a couple of times and the email reply came, "See you there."

It could have been that creepy dude from Dateline waltzing in with cameras blazing.
It could have been my next door neighbor.
It could have been some 80 year old feller with metal hips. I didn't know.
Maybe it was gonna be 25 kids with billy clubs come rushing at me to steal the $170 bucks and go wilding.
Maybe...just maybe, it would be Jen Aniston.

But whoever it was that agreed to meet me, sight unseen, in a local brewery to exchange a hundred and seventy smackers for two tickets to see Pearl Jam next week would know my shirt color and name...and I would not know theirs. It dawned on me that I'd tipped my hand. This person could order a beer, spot me from across the room and have a little fun. They could send me another email and watch me open it. It could say, "You said orange. That's not orange. This deal is dead." Then, they could watch me look at my shirt and swear at my phone, and text back, "Ok, burnt TJ Maxx Orange." They could make me wait since they had hand and I had zilch. They were up one with none to play.

But instead, old Joe strode up. He tapped me on the shoulder (see: scared the shit out of me) and called me by name with a hearty handshake. It occurred to me that I could get even with this guy if I just stared at him and said, "No, my name is Stacy," and then went back to staring at the Royals blowout on the flat screen behind the bar (8-1 loss to the less pathetic Jays.)

We exchanged pleasantries, then some Larry David deep-eye stares to affirm trust levels and some careful perusing of the merch. He wanted more than ever in his life to own a counterfeit pen, and I wanted the number to Ticketmaster Fraud department. We settled for the handshake and each other's new found enjoyment of Band of Horses (the opener) to serve as proof that the transaction was cool.

I parted with $170, and it was worth it. I get to take my teetering-on-the-edge-of-puberty first born son to see Pearl Jam in two weeks. I'm horrendously cheap, so this was a big deal for me. I tried winning tickets on 96.5 The Buzz for almost 58 straight hours when they went on sale, but couldn't channel the luck and wisdom of Sgt. Todd B. Hays to assist me in that attempt. I tried throwing the Facebook status post of "Looking for PJ tickets!" in the hope some lovely friend would giggle and retort.."I like this...thumbs up! And, I have two tickets I won't use! Come get them!"

Nothing worked. Eventually I broke down and helped churn the American system of bartering and trading, commodities and exchanges, haves and have not's, and ticket mastering come to full circle. I moved the dial on Wall Street and coughed up real dough for something I didn't need. Write it down. The Recession is over...I used Craigslist.

I love a lot of bands. I really, really love music. I can't honestly go very long without humming or singing something or listening day-long to my Ipod really quiet. I wake up with some song in my head every single morning. When the a.m. shower time rolls 'round, I'm trying hard to sing "Sweet Caroline" out loud just to shake whatever other tune has been crammed in my cranium.

I really love Pearl Jam.

I know they're too commercial for some people. They're too liberal for others. They're over-rated. They're undershaven. They're past their prime. They peaked at Ten. I don't really care about all that.

They lived my life with me. They played for multiple bands in the mid to late 80's and early 90's. They collaborated and sent me Mother Love Bone, Temple of the Dog, Mad Season and ultimately, a refined version of Mookie Blaylock. They matured as I matured. They screamed and leaped and threw shit as I did. They grew hair and wore flannel and lost hair and got glasses when I did. They got married and got smarter and chose a path when I started to reckon.

Luckily for me, both of my boys allow me to over fill them with my love for Pearl Jam. They scream the line "I just want to scream, Hello!" during E.W.B.A.C.I.A.S.T and they savor the simplicity of Vedder's solo pluckings on "Rise" and "Soon Forget" when Eddie has only a ukulele and his heart. You may know the former now if you watch Discovery Channel have seen the promo for the new season of Deadliest Catch.

I simply can't imagine a life where one day I look at my kid and say, "I was going to take you to see Pearl Jam when you were 12. But, it didn't work out. "

You might as well throw in, "So, how's prison?" at the end of that statement as much as I'm sure I'd have failed him as a Dad. See, it wasn't just to churn the Ticketmaster circle of life or to re-awaken Wall Street that I parted with the cash...

It was to keep Sam out of jail. And it was well worth it.