But you’re trying to make the best of it. Per the instructions tied to the rock that someone hurled through your living room window earlier today, you’re at a street corner, standing in the rain between an old lady carrying an armadillo, and a guy wearing a ratty trench coat and stains on his pants who insists on calling you “chief.” It’s raining. You’re wet. You don’t want to be here.

But that’s the way these things go. Sometimes you do what you have to do. Other times you’re where you have to be. And while you’re standing in the rain wishing you were somewhere, anywhere else but here, you hear the hiss of the air brakes and catch a whiff of diesel as the bus pulls up to the stop.

Door opens, you climb up and in (ladies and armadillos first, of course), drop the exact change into the coin box, and hustle yourself down the aisle as the bus lurches forward. There’s only one vacant seat – next to a man wearing a hat made out of Reynolds Wrap who appears to be talking into the shopping back on his lap. You drop into the seat next to him. The bus backfires a couple of times. And then… A voice.

“It’s about time you got here.”

And there you are, sitting side by side with The Man Who Runs The Concert Industry.

“Sorry about the bus,” he says as he angles his aluminum foil hat over his brow, Sinatra style. “But Yanni’s limo is in for servicing, and I promised he could use mine until he gets his out of the shop.”

He reaches into the shopping bag. “Let’s see what we have today. Here’s the schedule for Drive-By Truckers. Worked all through the holidays to finish the routing. Hope you appreciate it. I also have the dates for The Juliana Theory and Patrick Smith Band. You interested?”

You nod affirmatively. He continues. “Are we at 56 Street yet? That’s where I get off. Oh, while I think of it, here are the Vegas schedules for both Barry Manilow and Celine Dion.”

He hands you the routings as the bell sounds, the bus slows, and the driver calls out the stop. “58 Street,” he says. “58 Street.”

You tell The Man Who Runs The Concert Industry that it looks as if he’s missed his stop. “It’s this damn Reynolds Wrap hat,” he replies. “I can’t see a blasted thing when I wear it. The aluminum brim causes the light to reflect into my eyes, blinding me.”

You start to shake. Your palms sweat and your knees tremble. You’re looking at him, cringing in anticipation of what he is sure to say next.

“Yeah, that’s right,” says The Man Who Runs The Concert Industry. “Curses! Foiled again!”