It was a fine day in the summer of 2006. Fluffy shady clouds were blocking the sun from making the day to hot. I had money, and it was rejecting my back pocket like my stomach rejects bad Taco Bell.

I knew that there was a small collection of very limited guitars of unparalleled quality and beauty being stored n the vault of a world famous guitar store known as Wildwood.

I don’t go to Wildwood often, even as a lover of fine instruments of exotic woods. I don’t go that often because the selection of superior AAAA grade instruments housed there, drawing musicians of fame from thousands of miles to soak in the stellar selection of instruments dreams are made of. The place screams money. I don’t usually have money. So I don’t usually tempt myself into debt only equaled by the nations trillions in imaginary legal tender.

But this day was different. The owner of the store and I had previously had a few phone conversations regarding a particular 3 extremely rare limited edition instruments he had the blessing of applying to the stores stock. I could not stand it.

I begged my wife. She reluctantly agreed to an obscene amount of money for a thing that had absolutely zero value to her. I walked into the store with my wife in tow. The owner saw my face, and immediately said that he could hear me coming from miles away.

The store was filled with stunning art work hanging from the walls. Instruments that people write songs about. Instruments that people spend the rest of their lives with, and write songs that touch millions of peoples lives.

The smell. It is a store that hits you with an aroma of exotic woods from around the globe so strong that lovers of fine instruments feel faint, and emotions well up inside, usually resulting in tears, and a sales man rubbing your back saying, “I know, it happens to the best of us…” while you roll on the floor in the fetal position crying like a 6 month old child.

The guitars I had come to see were not even on the showroom floor. No. These 3 guitars were too special to be where mere musically inclined and overly funded idiots would possibly defile them with their incapable unappreciative minds, and sweaty un-calloused hands.

The cases came out one by one. He set them carefully on the plush carpet of the “players” area. I removed all items from my person that might cause damage to the flawless finishes. I closed my eyes and took in huge lungfulls of the wooded atmosphere.

I opened the first case.

I knew what they looked like. I had seen pictures on the internet. But the beauty of what I saw first hand was so overwhelming, I had to pause and just drink in the beauty.

“Are you going to play it?” asked the owner of the store with a smirk. I needed my moment. He was not going to ruin it.

I pulled my favorite pick from my right front pocket.

The guitar slowly came out of the case.

I gazed at every angle, every inlay, every piece of trim, the serial number, the perfect neck, the buffed shine. The woods, oh the woods. Rare. Hand selected. Stunning. This is a guitar that stands out amongst seas of guitars, makes grown men stop and think like women.

The pick hit the first string. The sound resonated through my body. It was a dream come true. It was precisely the sound I wanted, precisely the sound I expected.

The second guitar came out. Then the third. Then again the first.

The first was it.

There was a small crowd of people standing against the counter watching this display of rarity in skilled craftsmanship and unparalleled beauty, in one of the best exotic and rare guitar stores on the planet. It was as if there was an air of tension as everyone watched. I felt for a moment as if I was in the center of the universe, and my decision would change the course of everything.

I looked at the store owner, and said, “Thats the one.”

Everyone there was thoroughly impressed except for my wife who had this bored look on her face, annoyed, as if she was enduring the most male testosterone moment she had ever endured before in her life.

I unloaded cash. Lettuce. I was not going to pay for this artistry with plastic or paper with routing numbers all over it. No. This demanded the respect of cash money. I counted it out as if what I was about to hand over paled in comparison to what I would receive in return.

My wife’s expression remained the same.

“You are allowing him to do this?” asked the store owner as he arranged the warranty paper work.

“Stupid dumb a** guitar.” is all she said.

So that is how my guitar got it’s name.

By the way, it is a Taylor.

http://web.mac.com/reuben68/iWeb/Site/Taylor%20914.html