You see him sitting on the park bench, his shopping cart filled with bottles, cans and other refuse that the city tosses up each day. He’s sitting on the left edge of the bench. You nonchalantly park yourself on the right side and stare straight ahead. Thirty seconds, maybe a minute clicks by before anything happens. Then he turns to you and says, “It’s about time you got here.”

And there you are, face to face with the man who runs the concert industry.

He fishes in his shopping cart, past the empty MD 20/20 bottles and the Big Mac wrappers and pulls out a piece of coffee-stained paper. “Here’s that Sound Tribe Sector 9 routing I promised you. Dates up and down the West Coast.” He slides the paper across the bench as you watch toga-man walk past with a new sign. “THE END IS NEAR!”

The man sitting next to you pays no attention to the man with the sign. Instead, he digs deeper into the shopping cart and pulls out a Starbucks cup with something scribbled along the side. “And you’re going to want this,” he says. “We made some changes to the Eagles tour, flipped-flopped Cincinnati with Nashville and slotted additional dates for Atlanta, Houston and Philly, as well as a third date for Boston.”

Once again you survey the noontime crowd as the man sitting next to you digs even deeper into his shopping cart, past the broken eggshells and discarded newspapers. “Lessee,” he says. “I also have new routings for Bettie Serveert and Hadden Sayers Band. Now, get going, before someone sees you.”

As you gather up the new tours you look apprehensively at the man in the toga who is carrying a new sign. “THE SKY IS FALLING!” You shudder as you stand up and start retracing your steps.

“Pay no attention to him. He’s harmless,” shouts out the man who runs the concert industry. “He’s just the man who runs the recording industry.”