One evening on Haight Street, just outside the door to Kan Zaman stood this young, rail thin, hippie-fried busker with innocent eyes and shaggy brown hair, pickin' the shit out of his acoustic guitar and belting out some jumpy, archaic country-folk chestnut from the Anthology of American Folk Music. With a thick nasal drawl and a hillbilly accent, he sounded as if he were some grizzled old Appalachian, but he was, as he told us, "just down from Humboldt." Now, we've never been big fans of street musicians, but this kid's electric performance made passers-by visibly giddy, which is more than we can say for the hordes of stoned crusties up and down the Haight spreading misery with listless renditions of "Knockin' on Heaven's Door." So if you ever stumble across this kid (whose name we never caught), give him a dollar or two; his music is more than worth it.