Or A Marriage Counselor

I am a not-very-good guitar player, and I have a not-very-good guitar. We suit one another that way. The guitar had a previous owner, but a long time ago: 33 years. I bought it from the first owner in 1981. I forget what I paid for it. Maybe $100 bucks (1981 money, about a month's rent). It has sort of a bastard pedigree. Technically by Guild, a reputable maker, it is a "Madeira" model, which I think is sort of an ersatz knock-off. It doesn't matter to me. It's my guitar. It knows all the songs I know. I have never had another.

I take care of it okay. Periodic cleanings, adjustments. I recently took it to a friend who does repairs and such. He looks at it and scowls. At it, then me. It's okay, we're friends, he can scowl at me. He says to me, though:

- You ever think about getting a new guitar?

Now it's my turn. I scowl at him. I'm actually mad, though. At least a little. "It's a good thing you're not a veterinarian," I say.