If I didn't do any deliveries, I got paid twenty bucks a night. I'm fairly certain the ticket cost thirty bucks, so the ticket was of similar value to a couple of my Monday evenings spent staring at the drinks fridge. So I did the time, bought the ticket, stood front row centre, made eye contact with the singer, had a life changing experience, blu-tacked the ticket stub to my wall and so forth.
This band is set to visit my home town for the first time since that time, way back when the internet lived inside a squawky modem next to beige 486s, and tickets start at two hundred dollars.
Two bloody hundred bloody dollars.
It's such a boring, tired story that I'm annoyed with myself for becoming a character in the plot - that of the jilted ex-fan who prefers the band's older stuff. I used to be the guy who wore the t-shirt before K-Mart stocked their CDs in bulk, and after that I was the guy living a life shaped by that front row experience.
But whether those tickets are thirty dollars or two hundred dollars, there are only a few spots right up the front.
And you only need to be there once.