Posthuman Blues

There's this wildly popular fiddle player here on the Plaza who's steadily grated on my nerves over the years. He tries his hardest to look like Yanni: a pretty distressing fact in itself. He sets up shop outside the coffeeshop I frequent and starts this god-awful hillbilly routine. How "rustic"! Passersby eat it up, of course, and fling little wads of money into his donation basket.

He fleeces tourists and window-shoppers year-round, but holidays are the worst. To get my coffee, I have to pass through a small crowd of fascinated, tasteless listeners. The other night he was squealing his way through a bone-chilling Branson-ized medley of Christmas songs. Members of his audience were literally slapping their knees in time to the music. I wanted to vomit -- as noisily as possible.