The jewel of Nevada can be summed up in three words – Action! Action! Action!

But you have no time for blackjack, craps and roulette. You’re on a mission, and nothing can distract you from your appointment. You walk through the casino while weekend losers pump the slots, and pass by the elevators to an unmarked door guarded by two gorillas dressed in trailer-park polyester suits that fail to hide the bulges under their arms. One of them sizes you up, whispers something into a walkie-talkie, listens for a moment, nods, then sneers, “Go ahead. And no funny business.”

The door opens to reveal a private elevator, which, upon entering, you discover there are only two buttons – UP and DOWN. You press UP and settle back to wait the climb to the penthouse.

Which doesn’t take long. The door slides open to reveal a sumptuous penthouse suite filled with medical gear. There are heart monitors, X-ray machines and CAT Scanners. An iron lung stands in the corner. At the opposite end of the room stands an old man dressed in a bathrobe and clutching a stand to which his I.V. drip is tethered. Standing slightly stooped, his snow-white hair reaches down to his waist. He mumbles something, but the surgical mask stretched over his mouth distorts his words. You shrug your shoulders in response. He removes the mask and says, “It’s about time you got here.”

And there you stand. Face to face with the man who runs the concert industry.

“Don’t get too close,” he says. “Germs, you know.” As he reaches into the right pocket of his robe, you try not to stare at his five-inch long fingernails that remind you of Cher back in ’88. He pulls out a sheet of paper. “I should be wearing gloves,” he mutters as he hands it to you. “But there’s no time. Here. Take it. Take the dates for Ekoostik Hookah.”

As you accept the itinerary, you stifle an urge to ask about The Allman Brothers Band and Blues Traveler. All in good time, you say to yourself as the man-who-runs-the-concert-industry takes a couple of hits off of an inhaler, then pulls out another sheet of paper from his pocket and says, “Have you heard about Little Feat? Just added some new dates this week. Be careful, though. This paper was touched by booking agents, and you never know where their hands have been.”

He hands you more paper, all the time grumbling about microbes, viruses and bacteria. There’s the latest schedule for The String Cheese Incident, the routing for Galactic and the updates for David Grisman Quintet and The Dead.

“There,” he says as he gives you the current itinerary for Phish. “That’s all I have for you. Now get out of here and take your pesky germs with you. And try not to exhale on anything.”

You turn to leave, anxious to exit this den of sterility, when you notice the shelves on the wall filled with old jelly jars, each one stuffed with ticket stubs from past shows, including stubs for Dave Matthews Band, Acoustic Syndicate and Umphrey’s McGee. The man-who-runs-the-concert-industry sees your curiosity. “Oh, that,” he says as he reaches for a thermometer and sticks it in the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I know people think I’m crazy. That I sit up here in my penthouse eating nothing but jelly and then sticking ticket stubs in the empty jar. All those germ-infested promoters, agents and managers think I’m nuts. They just don’t recognize true genius when they see it.”

Genius? Old jelly jars filled with ticket stubs? What does that have to do with running the concert business?

The old man seems to read your thoughts as he reaches for a package marked Fleets. “Those jelly jars represent my greatest achievement. After all, where do you think I got the idea for jambands?”