Let me try to describe to you the difference between walking past a busker and hearing a few seconds of a performance by a person who is blissfully unaware that they are talent free and having to work for eight hours within earshot of them.

Imagine sitting at an hours long concert starring one or a succession of tone deaf, rhythmless, guitar or banjo players that couldn't carry a tune in a suit case, might know 3 chords and mumble through lyrics of virtually unrecognizable songs. Imagine relentless monotonous repetitive drumming, maybe on drums, maybe on upside down plastic buckets—for hours—by somebody with stuff living in their matted white guy dreadlocks. Imagine these people having a repertoire of material that can be counted on one hand.

People, please! Before you toss in that coin, listen for a moment and ask yourself if you really want to support this kind of talent. Please! For heaven's sake! Save it for the real musicians! I'm begging you!

By the way, I'm planning an enterprise of my own. I'll be 20 yards down the street selling quarter-sized metal discs with 'Get a Real Job' stamped on them. Four for a dollar. And the beach version, 'Get a Life'. —Staked Goat II