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I suffer from GAS. No, not the kind that comes out of that horrid place the poop comes from. And not the kind you cook with either. GAS is short for Guitar Acquiring Syndrome, and though I’d love to take credit for it, I did not come up with the term.

In short, GAS is a mental illness that makes people want to buy guitars. They don’t have to be special limited edition ones or signed by megastars either. Simply being guitars is enough, and preferably guitars not already in the GAS-patient’s collection. Electric guitars are usually the most coveted.

For years, I’ve been able to control my GAS, simply because guitars are fairly expensive, and I am not a rich man. But since I moved to Seattle, I have discovered that by comparison, they are a lot cheaper than what I am used to from Denmark. This is not good.

Today, I was out shopping with some people on a noble quest to find the perfect curtains. However, right next to the place where curtains grow, there was a Guitar Center. A shaft of blinding light shone down on its doors and a choir of angels praised its existence, and suddenly, I found myself away from my questing companions, trapped alone inside this cave of temptation.

I am looking for an effect-board, I told myself. Something to add a little extra to the sound of my guitar. And yes, I briefly glanced at the pedals and boards, without really looking, for my attention was being drawn towards a display full of wonderous Telecasters. My first Fender was a Tele. I love them. I wanted one.

In the end, I was saved by the fact that I could not locate my ID, which they would most certainly want to see (or so I told myself), when a multi-hundred-dollar purchase such as a Tele takes place by use of credit card. So I escaped. This time. But now the thoughts of luscious Tele-sound haunt me. It’s feeding my GAS like I was seventeen again. I am afraid.

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