A GUITAR GOD REACHED FORTY It isn’t like that at all. There is no OD in room 23 of a cheap motel. He got your guitar out of storage, called around to all the members of the old band, agreed to meet at Tommy’s because he still had a drumkit set up in his basement. They played for hours, rusty at first, but then music memory kicked in, fingers found the sharpest fret, the moodiest bass string, sticks pounded the hog out of the skins. Not ones for nostalgia, they broke in the past like it was a new pair of jeans. And they were suddenly as young at the songs they played. And a crowd were pouring in while their new girlfriends grinned from the side of the stage. So forget the news. Ok, so it did happen. But he’s still 25 and the group’s got a gig for…