Many tens of years from now, when I'm finally buried at sea, my Styrofoam tombstone will drift forever, stirred only by the occasional tidal swell or passing whale. The epitaph will read, "Everything was just too damn 'quaint'." Even now, with Bed, Bath, & Beyonds, Pier One Imports, and Martha Stewart boxing up quaintness and delivering it our doorsteps, only Wal-Mart stands as a bulwark, a final line of cheap, tacky crap to hold back the flood. Of course, it's not enough, and soon we'll all be drowning in a raging torrent of only marginally less tacky, cloyingly "charming" crap, and every last handcrafted, authenticity-guaranteed, cried-on-by-an-Amish-kid nugget will have a country-fresh scent. Right now, acoustic folk music is a disturbing mirror of our culture's commodification of all things endearing. Everyone has a tuneful, sappy song to sing.