When I was 15, I voluntarily slept in the garage of our home in California’s Mojave Desert. I hung blankets to form a makeshift bedroom. Other than the occasional snake and/or scorpion, it was just me, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix and Carlos Santana.
It might seem like my garage bedroom was crowded but it wasn’t. It was simply the only place I could listen to my musical “roommates” at an hour and volume that wouldn’t drive the Old Man to gunfire.
However, I remember pushing the boundaries of his patience one night (morning, actually) when I was air-guitaring to “Badge.