No they're not. But to me, at least, there's something personal about a guitar. I have a relationship with my guitars. Well, I have a relationship with some of my guitars.
I think I have nine guitars. I think it's nine because I used to say I have eight guitars, and then I bought another guitar a couple of weeks ago. But maybe I have eight guitars, because I sold one about a year ago and I don't remember if I updated my mental count. Why would someone who has seven or eight guitars buy another one? Well, since you asked...
I love playing guitar. It's one of my favorite things. I have acoustic guitars, electric guitars, travel guitars, an old square-neck Dobro, and a hard time getting rid of my stuff.
My favorite guitar is a Taylor XX-MC. It's one of Taylor's 20th anniversary models - they only made a few hundred of them, and this one is set up for fingerstyle playing. Back then I played with a flat pick and occasionally with my fingers, but when I got that guitar I bought some fingerpicks and flailed around for a year or so before I started to feel like I knew what I was doing. But that's how I developed my style, and now I play that way on all my guitars. Anyway, I love that guitar. It feels almost like it's a part of me, and I don't feel that way about any other guitar I've ever played. Also, my dad gave it to me as a surprise a few years before he died, so there's a whole nostalgia thing going on, too. If my house was burning, it's probably the only non-living thing I'd try to save.
If you've been paying attention and not just reading words, zombie-like, because I asked you to read my blog, you might be a bit confused. Just a few short paragraphs ago, I wrote that I have a hard time getting rid of my stuff, which is true. And then I revealed that I only have one item of stuff that I'd try to save from a fire. So do I care about my stuff or not? I don't have a good answer for you. But this does remind me of something that happened after my dad died. I was with my brother and sister, going through his house, picking out the stuff that we each wanted to keep. While my brother and sister looked around, I just sat in my dad's favorite chair and cried. I was sitting in a room that had an entire wall of bookshelves, and as I sat there, I realized what I wanted to keep. When I was a kid, my dad introduced me to this book called, "What is the Name of This Book? The Riddle of Dracula and Other Logical Puzzles," by Raymond Smullyan. It's a bunch of logic puzzles, mostly based on variations of the idea that there is an island with two types of people: knights who always tell the truth, and knaves who always lie. The puzzles get more and more complicated as you go through the book, until you finally get to the Riddle of Dracula. My dad and I went through this book together, puzzle by puzzle, for years. We figured out most of them, but not all. I was probably in my early teens when we finally got to the Riddle of Dracula. It was a tough one. My dad looked up the answer, but I never did.
As a side note, a few years ago on my son's eighth or ninth birthday, my brother told my son that he had a present for him. My son, like many young boys, loved getting presents as much as almost anything in the world. Usually, the receiving of the present was even better than the having of the thing. And because my brother had been very generous with his gifts over the years, the excitement was even greater. My son asked if it was a sword (and if you knew my brother, you'd know that a sword really wasn't out of the question), and my brother said, totally seriously, "no, it's better than a sword." Well, that was enough to put my son over the proverbial edge. He was out of his mind. What could be better than a sword? Maybe a real-life light saber! Or a real-life rocket ship! OMG, OMG, OMG!!!!!!! So finally my brother goes out to his car. He comes back in with his hands behind his back and apologizes for not wrapping the present. The moment was finally here!! My son was ready to explode! Slowly, my brother brought his hands forward. And clutched between his oh-so-generous fingers was....... three books.
I'm not sure I've ever seen a face fall so far so fast. My son didn't know what to do. This didn't make any sense, surely there must be some mistake. He cried. I was pissed. What kind of madman would tell a kid that books are better than a sword? Actually, I know exactly which kind of madman would do that - my brother, with the best intentions, who had no idea that he was about to crush the spirit of an innocent eight or nine year old boy.
By now, you may or may not have guessed that the books were none other than three volumes of logic puzzles by Raymond Smullyan, including, of course, "What is the name of This Book? The Riddle of Dracula and Other Logical Puzzles." I had, in the past year or two, tried to introduce my son to that book. I thought I'd relive the experience that I had with my father. But my son had no interest. And now, due to an unfortunate mischaracterization of reading materials as better-than-weapons, these books were categorized with the least exciting, least interesting things ever to have existed.
But one day not long after, he asked if I wanted to look at the book with him. I did. it was great. Hanging out with my son (one of my favorite people in the world), doing logic puzzles (which I've always loved), soaking in the nostalgia of the time I'd spent doing exactly this with my dad (another of my favorite people in the world) - this was good stuff. And my son loved it, too. Over the next couple of months, we went through every puzzle in that book.
And then we got to the Riddle Of Dracula. All those years later, I had still not figured out nor looked up the answer. We both struggled with it, until finally my son couldn't take it any more and looked up the answer. I did not. And still, to this day, I don't know what it is.
I was going to end this post right there, because I think that's a good, strong ending. But I can't help myself, so I'll keep going. On to ending number 2.
My son and I have since gone through many of the puzzles in the other two books. And as it turns out, though we could not have known at the time - these books are waaaay better than a sword.
Again, I was going to end. And again, no dice.
Swords are good for killin' people in Game of Thrones. These books are good for making memories. The kind of memories that might lead a grieving 25 year old to choose only one small book out of a houseful of memories. And maybe one day, my son will remember this just as fondly (although at 12 he's already starting to realize that I'm not as cool as I was when he was too young to know better). Because really, that's what matters. A life worth remembering. I have the book. I have the guitar (oh yeah, wasn't this post about guitars?). I don't regret leaving the rest of that stuff behind. But sometimes I wish I had also taken his favorite chair.