<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">This story begins with what you might call a disclaimer/confession combo: I'm not proud that I was a scheming sneak this past Friday night...but I'm not exactly sorry, either. The more I think about it, the more I'm sure that most of us feel this  internal conflict—somewhere between feeling pleased with ourselves and ashamed—on a regular basis.</span>

First let me set the stage: For several years, Jason has loved the band Spoon. When we met, he transferred that love to me (it wasn't hard—it's a great band). Jason has been waiting to see them live for years. The problem is, they only seem to ever play on the coasts and overseas, never in Chicago or Indianapolis or St. Louis.

Finally, one day rather recently, he receives the email he's been waiting for from the band. Spoon will be playing in Chicago, at a great 300-person venue, on a Friday night. The snag? You can't purchase tickets. You can only win them in a raffle from a radio station, and you have to be at the radio station event, in Chicago on a weekday night, to actually win and claim tickets.

To add salt to the wound, we already had plans to be in Chicago <span style="font-style: italic;">the very evening of the Spoon concert. </span>Our plans involved hanging out with our friend, Stephen, who called mid last week to tell us he wouldn't have much time to hang out because his friend Carrie had won tickets to see Spoon. Carrie, of course, hadn't heard of Spoon before the night she won the tickets. That's like throwing some coarse Kosher salt on the wound, for good measure.

Fast forward to Friday. We're going to Chicago anyway. Right about halfway there, at Kankakee on I-57, Stephen and Jason talk and decide we will meet for a drink at Schuba's, the bar where the Spoon concert is being held. At least we will be able to catch up for a half hour or so before Stephen and Carrie go into the concert. Yes, sitting outside the venue of the concert you really want to see is a bit painful, but I can honestly say, at that point, I was resigned to missing out.

Was Jason resigned? Not so much. Maybe that's a sign of a true fan, or a trait of someone who grew up in a big city.

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When we arrived at Schuba's, we sat outside and ordered beer and some food. Soon we were joined by Stephen and Carrie, who had already turned in their free tickets and had their hands stamped for the concert. Jason, suddenly inspired, licked the back of his hand and pressed it on Stephen's stamped hand. It may have been a desperate joke, but it was one that worked. There, on his very own hand, was a stamp that matched Stephen's.

Great, I thought. I'll be sitting out here alone all night. Carrie's stamp was already smudged, and Stephen didn't have enough ink left on his hand to share. This is when the plotting, as it were, thickened. It eventually involved Stephen and I sitting in the car while he drew the rather complex stamp design on my hand with a pen, which I smudged <span style="font-style: italic;">just</span> enough to make it look less fine tip pen-like and more rubber stamp-like.

We all had "stamps." Now to get into the bar, past the ticket-collecting, hand-stamping door guy who might realize he had never seen us hand over our winning tickets and pass through that door before. Once again, the true Spoon fan had an idea.

Jason went inside the restaurant side of Schuba's to use the restroom, and found one in the back, near the kitchen, which connected <span style="font-style: italic;">to the bar! </span>We were golden. Five minutes later, Jason and I both had to use the bathroom (I did for real, not surprisingly) and got a bit "turned around" as we were leaving. Once in the bar, we met up with Stephen and Carrie, who came in the front door.

When it was time for the opening band to begin, and people started pouring back into the concert area, we only had to hold up our stamped hand for a glance from the girl sitting at that checkpoint. We were in! We were elated! And we really had the time of our lives. It was definitely a top-five concert experience for both Jason and me. Being able to see a show we didn't expect to see made the experience that much better, I'm sure.

But now we're left with the story. Do we tell it with pride? Is it funny? Shameful? Or maybe it isn't either—maybe it's just not a big deal at all. Maybe it's the kind of thing people do all the time.

It's interesting to track how your brain (or at least my brain) justifies such antics. For instance, we didn't lie to anyone (although drawing a stamp on your hand is a lie, of sorts). We didn't take anything from anyone, and our actions didn't involve cheating the bar or the band out of anything—the radio station had already paid for everything, and besides, we have bought all of Spoon's cds, not downloaded copies.

Then I get into justifying how we deserved to be at the show because we really love the band and know the music. Surely many of the people there, like Carrie, just thought "Free concert. Cool."

But I still feel sheepish, somehow. Maybe it's just my good upbringing and the flicker of natural desire to please my parents that I can't quite shake. Maybe it's my realization that line-drawing is a rather random, subjective sport—a slippery slope where an outright lie becomes a subtle deception, which becomes really nothing at all (but something you still don't want to encourage in your children).

And maybe I simply grow suspicious of myself, for good reason, when I begin justifying anything. In this instance, however, I would do it again in a heartbeat.