Confessions of a Guitar Junkie

"GAS," they call it. "Guitar Acquisition Syndrome."

Apparently, nearly every single guitarist suffers from it. Extremely contagious. Usually starts in the blues clubs, the dive bars and the music halls. You waltz in like you own the place. Slap a one dollar bill on the counter and call for a beer from "Jack" the barkeep, who immediately scowls and barks at you that that's "not his name." You ignore Jack as he tries to explain that you haven't given him enough money, and start navigating the dance floor. You take a deep breath and a long pull from your beer, and that's when you see it. Some cat strumming a guitar you've never even seen before, or maybe just never cared about until that very moment. Days, maybe weeks later, you don't even realize it's in you. The disease has lined the inside of your lungs. Lays dormant for a while, but it spreads from there. Maybe when you least expect it, while you're eating lunch at some cheap, downtown hot dog stand, it creeps up the spinal column and then sinks its fangs into your brainstem, forcing you to let out a violent hiss and hurl your Chicago Dog at some teenager tapping his iPhone. He lets out a yelp and puts his trembling hands up to protect himself, but through his mustard-stained coke-bottle glasses, he sees you've already hobbled out into traffic hunched over, howling like John Goodman. The crunch of fenders and squeals of tires peeling off their rims startle you as you lunge into a consignment shop and start shrieking at its poor owner about herringbone binding and mother-of-pearl inlays on a guitar you saw two weeks ago. "What? What? You're holding out on me, aren't you?" you growl through a newly-developed under-bite. In a panic, his eyes dart back-and-forth like a gecko, unsure whether to go for his golf club or punch the silent alarm before you smash your fists through his glass countertop or simply start stealing pens from his empty "Take This Job and Shove It" coffee mug.

Jesus, pull it together! Bring back the sanity for a second. Was that over-exaggerated? Fact.

But, regardless, I've done a fantastic job in my music career thus far of avoiding Guitar Junkie status. I used to just use amp distortion, but now, I generally perform with two guitars (in case a string breaks on one) run through two Ibanez Tube Screamers (one vintage, one new model for the boost), run through the clean channel of a Fender tube amp. May sound complicated to the layman, but for the Guitar Junkies with the sprawling pedal boards and amp stacks, that ain't nothin.'

But the "GAS" is taking over. For the past three or four years, I've lusted after a '72 Thinline Telecaster Reissue (picture attached is Tab Benoit playing his original, not Reissue) but didn't want one bad enough to buy it new. You know, just be patient, wait for the right deal to come along. I've got plenty of guitars to tide me over. After all, in this economy, it's a buyer's market. Low-ball everyone. Play the game. "Asking $1,500? I'll give you $700, you lush. Take it or leave it. I can live it without it. BUT CAN YOU?"

Just a few months ago, I purchased my coveted '72 Tele, and now I've got that centipede crawling up my spine again, waiting to hump my brain. I'm trying to dump it off, or trade it for something else. A new amp, perhaps? More power. Another guitar to fall in love with, then sell or trade for something else? Use it up, then kick it out the door.

Fortunately enough, I'm in the early stages. Or so I genuinely believe. Three acoustics, five electrics, two amplifiers and a PA rig. Hell, I can stop anytime I want! But I realize I need to be careful in self-medicating this disease before I'm hunted down, hog-tied and whipped with batteries in the kidneys and forced into some rehab facility against my will. Amy Winehouse comes to mind.

"They tried to make me go to rehab, but I said, 'no, no, no...'"

Fortunately, I'm in the early stages. I can stop anytime I want. Right? Isn't that what Amy Winehouse said?