Last November, our house was robbed. In addition to two cars (which were found by police and returned within a few days) and a little basket filled with Sam’s beloved dollhouse furniture, we lost a lot of the music equipment we kept stored between gigs. Most of these items—a keyboard, speakers, various cords and connectors and P.A. components—were easily replaced with a check from our insurance company and a couple of trips to Guitar Center. But one unique item was gone forever: my beloved Leopard-Skin Pillbox Strat, an electric guitar with a custom-made fuzzy, fringed leopard slipcover I’d had since my days performing as Corky Cougar in the Enchanters, an eighties-era wannabe punk band.

I took this pretty hard. Not that the Enchanters never made it, that is, but the loss of the guitar. Even though I didn’t play the Strat all that often; even though I’ve never been the kind of guitar player worthy of multiple axes or personalized “signature” instruments, to me the loss was something to be mourned. But there was no point searching for the guitar. It was gone, along with the tiny chaise lounge and tea service for four. Any fool thief, even the idiots who stole our stuff, would know enough to throw away the slipcover . . . which, if you come right down to it, was the most important part to me.

I had a brief fling with a gorgeous cobalt-blue Les Paul, donated by tour sponsor Gibson Guitars, on our Remainders blast through the east coast last April (while Sam combed pawn shops and flea markets for tiny bathroom appliances). But I didn’t get to take that beauty home with me. It ended up sporting all our autographs and being presented to a tour benefactor whose donation had gone to a worthy cause, a totally appropriate circumstance that—still—broke my heart just a little. The rebound guitar, adored and lost, is still no substitute for your first true love.

Then Tuesday night some magic happened at our monthly all-star jam at El Rio, hosted by yours truly and Los Train Wreck. In walked Regular Jammer/Guitar Ace Andrew Goberman with a brand new Fender case and a cat-ate-the-canary grin. When his turn came to get up and play, he opened his case and lifted out a guitar—but not just any guitar. It looked for all the world like a Leopard-skin Pillbox Strat for the New Millennium.

No, Andrew did not find and deliver my original guitar. He found a better one, upholstered it with fuzzy leopard fabric, and added a hot pink pick guard for social relevance. It is not, strictly speaking, a Stratocaster but a “Lawsuit Perpetrator.” He played a couple of kick-ass songs on it, then—wonder of wonders—handed it to me as a gift, while Sam looked on, wondering if Andrew had any tiny tea sets in his wizard’s bag.

So I have a leopard Strat again. All it needs is about three feet of hot pink fringe and it will be perfect, or, as I like to say, will “match my underwear”. Andrew did a wonderful, generous thing for me last night, and I hope you will join me in thanking him by paying attention to where and when he has gigs, showing up, applauding loudly, and leaving lots of money in his tip jar. (You can take that literally, or read it as a euphemism about his underwear.)

Rock on.