He handed me the Rickenbacker 365 guitar to inspect. "It's perfect, except for the burn mark." He pointed to a small dime sized charring on the back. "I was at one of Jimi Hendrix's earlier shows in England . . . that's when he became Jimi Hendrix, you know, when he went to England. Anyway, I was playing rhythm guitar with a band that was on the same bill that night. You heard of The Sonic Birds?" He looked at me hopefully. "You mean The Yardbirds?" I asked. He snorted. "Not those posers . . . you remember the song Flower of My Love?" "You mean Sunshine of My Love?" I asked. He looked dejected. "No." He started humming an unrecognizable tune. He looked at me with an even more hopeful look. "I wish I could tell you I've heard it," I said. He sighed. "Jimi Hendrix put his cigarette out on my guitar. That's what that mark is. I had it flipped over trying to tighten the tuner for the E string and he walks by with this Salem hanging out of his mouth. He was so wasted he thought my guitar was an end table and he stabbed out his butt on it." He pointed again at the mark. "By my reckoning that makes this guitar quite valuable." I love storied guitars. "Good story," I said. "Did he sign it?" "No." "Did you get a picture of him doing it?" "No." "Any witnesses that will back you up with sworn statements?" "No." He said, "You want to buy it?" I looked at him with a steady gaze. It was tempting. "No," I said. "But thanks for the story."