Brass in Pocket

"I'm so heartbroken. I want to write a song about it but I don't know a word that rhymes with AAAAARRRRRGGGGH."
Phoebe on "Friends"

Today marked the end of an era. I sold the Fender Telecaster guitar I purchased in high school. Fenders were made by Leo Fender, so I nicknamed this blond-beauty "Leo."

It was long overdue - I rarely played it and it had appreciated in value. I had a good offer on the table so I sold it to a fresh-faced high-school senior who counted out 10 $100 bills and sent me on my way.


I hesitated only for a minute. I had recently bought a much better instrument for my purposes (see earlier Martin posting). But I took a moment to ruminate on the days of my youth when that guitar was the Martin of its day and I was so excited to get my hands on it.

I was in a rock-n-roll garage band in high school. I was the token girl in an all-guy assortment of b-rated musicians who favored the works of Aerosmith and the Doors. When I joined the band, we widened our repertoire to include Fleetwood Mac and the Pretenders.

As much as I loved playing guitar and singing in that band, what I really loved was the lead guitarist, Steve. He was the first of many unworthy men who would lead me on and dump me repeatedly. It was nice to start out the pattern at a young age, so as to ensure I could make the same mistake over and over and over for the rest of my life.

He was a better guitarist than I was and played a Fender Stratocaster. I went out and spent what was at the time a sick amount of money to buy my Tele. If I couldn't win his love or out play him, I could out-spend him.

Steve was a winner, all right. He had a gaggle of girls around him most times, me included, and dated each of us at his convenience. Shortly after the first time we slept together, he offered to fix me up with his friend so that we could (get this) go out on a double date. And to think I carried a torch for this guy for YEARS. Amazing what I'm willing to do for a cute, funny, guitar-playing loser sack of shit.

Speaking of which, PAL is getting over a life-threatening illness and is just home from the hospital. During the course of events, it came to my attention that he has a new girlfriend, a nurse, who was by his side at the hospital. As recently as the day before he was hospitalized, he was doing his usual act: leading me on, asking when we could get together and trying to cop a feel (this at a FUNERAL - I am not kidding).

Guess a nurse was more valuable in a life-threatening emergency than a skilled marketer.

So I dropped off a big container of home-made chicken soup to help him recuperate. I included a handwritten note inside the bag, tucked it in and taped it shut before I lost my nerve:

"They say there is nothing like chicken soup when you're not feeling well, so I hope you enjoy this home-made batch I cooked up last night. Glad to hear you are home and recuperating. I heard that your new girlfriend is a nurse and is taking good care of you. How fortunate for you. Maybe now we can put the ambiguity behind us and be friends. It's overdue. Take care and be well."

(And don't choke on the chicken bones in the soup.)

So farewell, Leo. Martin has taken your place. And Steve and PAL, if only replacing you both were as easy as handing over my credit card.