There's a documentary film I've been involved with over the past two years. It's about the significance of physical artifacts. I produce a spinoff podcast, on which I frequently give my cohosts grief about how important they think physical things are. I think stuff is largely overrated.

This afternoon, I'm going to write about the two objects that make me a hypocrite.

I was fourteen when I started playing guitar. I bought an admittedly crummy electric and an amp from a future pro-wrestler, and somehow, something just clicked. I played in bands through high school and continued gigging into adulthood, and with an exception I'll mention in a moment, I never really stopped.

I was young and I really liked Guns N' Roses, and because Slash played a Gibson Les Paul, it quickly became my dream guitar. A year after I took up the hobby, my dad helped me buy one, secondhand, from the local guitar shop. It was probably the most significant gesture my dad made during my childhood to connect with me, and I was too young to get how important it was at the time, but I understand now. And I've treasured that guitar ever since. My relationship with that instrument has been longer than any romantic relationship I've ever had, and it dwarfs most friendships in terms of tenure. It's got some belt rash and some scratches from my heavy picking hand, and there's a chip on the back of the headstock, but I love it more because of those imperfections. It lived through moments with me and it wears those scars in ways I don't.

In 2007, my marriage disintegrated and I spent the next year going through the darkest period of my life. I legitimately thought my life was over, ridiculous as it sounds now. I was depressed and trying to rediscover who I was as a single man. I hadn't performed in probably about three years at that point; at some juncture, I'd made the decision that playing rock music was irresponsible and I needed to focus on providing for the family I was sure would be on the way.

My second guitar had been a Telecaster (traded in when I bought my Les Paul) and I'd wanted another ever since I'd sold it. I was in Niagara Falls visiting my best friend, hanging out at nearby Central Music, when I met my replacement Tele. It wasn't a purchase I made to spite anyone or anything like that. It *was* me trying to nurture a part of myself that I'd let slip away, foolishly.

That's the story of my two most cherished guitars and how they entered my life. I've entertained the thought of selling them, as recently as this past weekend, because our finances are, to put it eloquently, fucked. I've hesitated, for one, because the money they'd bring into the household would be like trying to treat an amputated limb with a Sesame Street Band-Aid. But mostly, I can't imagine not having them in my life.

I've let lots of things go over the past ten years. I got rid of tons of things post-marriage because I decided it was just stuff. In the past three or four years, I've made multiple passes through my record collection and it continues to get smaller. The only physical movies I own anymore are the ones pawn shops refuse to buy from me.

These instruments, though... They're more than things to me. And that may be stupid. And they may still go, for all I know. But I played both of them today and I feel like I'm a better person with my fingers fretting their necks and a pick in my hand.