I always have high hopes for the day. I look at my beautiful guitar, Marilyn, sitting in the corner, languishing under a thin film of dusty neglect. I do brush her off, lovingly and longingly, every few weeks. But mostly that is to keep people from seeing how dusty my guitar has gotten, and rightfully assume that I am not the acoustic rock star it implies with its very presence in so prominent a location. Surely people walk into my home and as they scan the living room, so vibrantly and creatively decorated ("like the owner" they music admiringly), their eyes drift briefly over my guitar proudly propped up on its stand, and they think "This is the home of a rock star.: They briefly (almost as a subliminal flash) imagine me in my living room, guitar propped up on my knee, perhaps leaning over a over a sheet of music and strumming away at some indiscernible piece of musical prose. Perhaps their image of me goes so far as to place me at a gathering--not unlike one they have likely come to attend this very evening--and everyone is circled around listening to me jam a little. "Let me show you this cool new riff I learned!" (my very casual use of the term 'riff' being a badge of my rock stardom). Or maybe I have learned (or composed!) an irreverent or bawdy little tune about the latest political woes or Brittany Spears' latest breakdown '07. And they laugh and think how clever I am, and how does she find the time?

Yes, I am sure that is what people are likely to think to themselves as they notice my guitar. "This woman is a rock star."

At least, that's what I think when I look at it.

Quickly followed by some guilty realization that I should, you know, play it now and again to earn such an outrageous reputation.