He says he doesn't want anything. He buys whatever he wants the day he wants it. So you spend three weeks with thirty tabs open, and end up back at a gift card or another bottle of whiskey he'll finish in a fortnight.
The music-themed stuff is worse. Guitar-print socks. A novelty keyring. A t-shirt with a headstock on it. He's played for twenty years and the gifts still arrive with the energy of a children's party bag.
Meanwhile the shelf he's proudest of — the bar, the corner with the amp and the pedals — looks like a supermarket aisle. Six bottles, six competing labels, three of them half-empty, none of them chosen for how they look.
Neither problem is urgent. That's exactly why neither one ever gets solved.