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.
However, I remember pushing the boundaries of his patience one night (morning, actually) when I was air-guitaring to “Badge.” He bashed into my room and said the dishes vibrating in the cupboards woke up Mom.
I sulked. Eric Clapton an STD? Anyone with a brain knew Clapton was godlike. The Old Man was the most out of touch human on the planet.