There was a time in my early 20s when I spent about a year playing my guitar and reading poetry at open mics in the Eugene Oregon area. I say area because I ventured out to a neighboring town called Cottage Grove a couple of times too. This was a special time in my life dedicated to music and writing. I wasn’t particularly exceptional at either, especially poetry, but the experience was unique and interesting. There was a studio apartment I lived in close to the University of Oregon campus called apartment 101. Besides being actually the number of the apartment, it also correlates with learning the introduction of life as a young musician. This apartment ended up being a hub for a rag-tag bunch of creative misfits who stayed up late into the night smoking, drinking, and playing music. While the experience may seem grand and the likes of Jack Kerouac may romanticize similar instances with amazing prose, the actual time was full of questions and consternation— there was a chaotic sense o...