My Appetite for Destruction

by Steven Adler

  I smiled my rock star smile, broad, gleaming, and self-assured. I took my time to look at all their faces, drinking each one in. As I nodded to each hopeful shiny face, I saw each smile back. I saw the love in their eyes. I even put my hand on Slash’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. I had their attention and I had their hopes. And I owed them. God knows I owed them.

  But the only thing I owed them was the truth. So I told them that it didn’t matter if they kept me there for a month, six months, a year, or a decade. It didn’t matter if they tried to wean me off crack, or keep me sedated, or lock me in a room, or chain me in the cellar.

  Why didn’t it matter? Because as soon as they let down their guard, I was out of there. And I promised them that I would go straight out and do more drugs than I had ever done before in my life. I would be the highest, most fucked-up ingrate in the history of mankind.

  That’s how I’m doing, fuckers.

  Then I saw the light go out of their eyes. I saw their smiles die. I saw some of the dearest people in my life shift in their seats and look down at their hands. I watched those hands clench into fists. I watched their brows furrow and the muscles in their necks tighten. I saw their hopes fade and their resentment flare and I didn’t care.

  No matter how much anger they felt, it couldn’t come near to the raging contempt I felt for myself at that moment. Fuck ’em.

  I.

  Don’t.

  Care.

  They got up and left. I quickly made a couple of calls, and by midnight, I was back in Vegas, lying on my filthy rug, my heart thumping out of my chest, high on the rock of ages. I really went for it this time, a five-day bender. On the last day I drank so much Jäger I passed out before I could kill myself. And that’s why I’m still alive to tell you this story, because I tried to kill myself partying and fucked it up. Again.

  I woke up on that rug, lying in a pool of piss, and slowly blinked through the cobwebs. Finally, I focused on a crack pipe not ten inches from my face. It had a healthy amount of rock still nestled in it.

  How sweet. Breakfast of Champions.

  Chapter 23

  Back from the Abyss

  TURNING POINT

  This went on and on until I heard the crying. Every human being on earth knows this sound, because we all cause it to happen at some point in our lives. It’s the sound of our mother crying. And it’s the saddest sound in creation. I could hear her as she tossed my clothes into a suitcase and grabbed some things out of my closet and bathroom. I asked her what the hell was going on, and she told me I had called Jamie and uttered one sentence, then hung up. And that was the reason she was in my house. That was the reason she was crying, but they were “happy tears.”

  I asked Mom what I had said. I didn’t remember, but I was definitely curious. My mom isn’t surprised by anything I say anymore. She straightened, dabbed her eyes, and said that I had called Jamie to say, “I’m ready now.”

  To my sheer amazement, I didn’t argue or deny what I had said. I felt so fried, so hollowed out, that there was nothing left of me to bitch. I’ll be damned, I was ready.

  I remember looking down at my hands. They hurt so much from lighting and relighting the pipe. I’d get so high I would watch the flame burn down until it was licking my fingertips; but it didn’t matter. Butane torches are much more efficient for smoking rock, but when you’re all fucked up on crack, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. You’ll light yourself on fire to get high. And that’s what I was doing, because my fingertips were all blistered and burned. My mouth felt charred, and I had this horrible chemical taste on my tongue. My head felt cold and empty and my body completely gutted.

  I thought, “So this is what it’s like.” I had finally hit bottom. Rock bottom.

  I heard my mother pleading with me to hurry up. Her eyesight isn’t the greatest and she doesn’t like to drive at night. We needed to get on the road if we were going to be in L.A. before nightfall.

  Okay, Mom. I just need to hit the bathroom. Incredibly, I was still using. I know that makes no sense, but this is what actually happened. Forty-five minutes later my mom was banging on the bathroom door. I stared at the glass pipe in my hands and figured that with one more good hit, I could make it out to the car and we could get going. I told her I’d be right out.

  A half hour after that announcement, Mom was back at the door banging and threatening to call off the whole trip. I guess this got me out of the house, because the next time I was hitting on the pipe I was completely turned around in the front seat of the car. I was leaning over the head rest pretending to look for something in the backseat of the car. But I wasn’t fooling Mom for a second.

  “Steven, stop that.”

  “But, Ma, I ain’t doing nothing!” It’s the same way I talked to her when I was twelve. So there we were, heading down Interstate 15, daylight dwindling along with my once bountiful supply of crack.

  MOTEL CALIFORNIA

  It was too cold outside to open the windows in the car, so Mom was begging me to stop “smoking that stuff.” I nodded okay, then went right back to hitting it. About twenty minutes later, Mom realized we were completely and utterly lost. She somehow got off the highway, and now we could have been in Bumfuck, Idaho, for all she knew. She was very upset. Poor Mom; I told her not to worry, I’d get her to L.A. I heard her laugh, a shrill unnatural giggle. Uh-oh, maybe Mom picked up a little secondhand smoke!

  I told her to take the next right. She looked at me, and I got to hand it to her, because although I was higher than Everest, she somehow knew to roll with it. She followed my directions and within thirty minutes the L.A. skyline was in view. But Mom was fading fast and her eyes were itchy. She wasn’t seeing well, she was exhausted, and the smoke was making her miserable.

  Mom realized she couldn’t check into a hotel that had a lobby. She rightfully believed it would spell doom the first time motel management caught sight of me. We needed to find a place that had an office where you could check in, get your key, then go park your car in the motel parking lot by the entrance to your room. In other words, we needed to locate a roadside fleabag dump right away.

  And we did. Soon, I was happily spread out on one of the beds, TV on, reacquainting myself with the pipe. She yelled at me for not helping her unload the car. She was furious. I managed to say I was sorry between tokes. She told me to lower the volume; she’d had it with me. I ignored her.

  Things didn’t get any better. My mom started the next morning by talking with Jamie, who was doing everything in his power to find a suitable place for me in Hollywood. He and our cousin David were on it, but it’s not easy finding a pad that’s ideal for a severely impaired drug addict who had to have a pool, a big-screen TV, and a gated entrance.

  By the third day, the motel situation had severely deteriorated. My mother was sleeping in the bathtub with the door shut and a wet towel shoved under the door. She was convinced I was going to fall asleep with the TV blaring and a lit cigarette in my hand that would burn down the whole goddamn motel.

  By the evening of day three my rock supply was gone. I told Mom I was just going out to get more cigarettes and she had the audacity to follow me outside when I tried to cop. No matter how much I threatened her, no matter how much I screamed, she wouldn’t stop tailing me. She stayed right on my ass. She was so obnoxious, I just wanted to punch her the fuck out.

  I finally gave up; I couldn’t get close enough to any sketchy dealer types without their being scared off by the wicked witch behind me. When we got back to the room, I was so fed up with her that I shoved her, hard. I knocked her down, and there’s not a cell in my body that felt any remorse for what I’d just done.

  Mom slowly got up. She was shaken but not a bit scared of me. She composed herself and calmly told me she knew it wasn’t me who had done that to her, it was the drugs. But it was the last straw for her. She called Jamie, who was at the motel in like ten minutes. He took over the situation and told me my days of pushing Mom around were over.

>   When I shoved Mom, it was like I was watching a film of this horrible person doing these terrible things. Then at some point in the movie, I caught a reflection of who the person was in a mirror, and it was me. I was surprised, and ashamed, but completely helpless to stop it.

  Jamie’s spent a good portion of his life telling me what a worthless piece of shit I am. And at some level, he’s the one guy who gets through to me. He’s the one guy who hurts me when he says those things, not because he’s my brother, but because he’s my brother and he’s right.

  At this point, Jamie had pulled out all the stops to find a place for me, exorbitant rent be damned. He quickly checked us out of that motel and by the time we’d packed, cousin David had picked up the keys to a place up in the Hills for about six grand a month. It was not a moment too soon, because Mom was at her wit’s end.

  ROCK BOTTOM

  They stuck me in a pretty decent crib up near Queen’s Road in the Hills, and I was put on a strict round-the-clock watch. The crack pipe got tossed for a bong and an endless supply of Jägermeister. Now, I know to many out there that’s anything but clean living, but for me, that’s the pure-as–Snow White’s–snatch regimen. And the boys knew that with those two substitutions, I might at least have a shot at getting through the first few days without longing for anything stronger.

  But before long, the severe devastation that had brought on my desire to call Jamie and announce my readiness to clean up had faded. I wanted to party again. I wanted to get loaded. And I wanted it now.

  I began doing everything possible to slip some rock past security. I had my dealers in Vegas ship it to me using a variety of innocent-looking containers. But the bastards in the house intercepted everything. Maybe I should have tried using Snow White’s snatch.

  APPETITE’S TWENTY-YEAR ANNIVERSARY

  The final straw came when I announced to no one in particular that I needed a new microphone. There was a big reunion coming up marking the twentieth anniversary of the release of Appetite for Destruction, and I was determined to honor that event with a kick-ass concert at the Key Club. I was getting Adler’s Appetite together, and we were going to do some of the choicest songs off that album. It made perfect sense for me to order a special microphone because I would be talking to the crowd, introducing the band, and setting up the songs. No one would suspect that I’d try having drugs stashed in a mike.

  When the microphone arrived by FedEx, some fucker intercepted it before I even knew it had been delivered. I kept asking if anyone had seen a FedEx shipment, and no one had. For two days I hounded everyone in the house and cursed out FedEx (who swore it had been delivered but that the confirmation signature was illegible). I swear I was ready to torch the whole fucking house in the hopes of getting a contact high. There had to be some contraband in the deepest recesses of a toilet kit, a jean pocket, or the carpet.

  The following morning, I was told the mike had arrived and was in the kitchen. Praise the Almighty. There would be enough crack in there for at least a couple days of partying. My pulse rate shot up, and I began to enjoy the familiar “pre-high” that addicts get right after they score. I walked in, and my jaw dropped. I immediately flew into a rage. There on the table was a carefully disassembled microphone, sitting in about five parts on the table.

  No rock in sight. I was beyond furious. If it wasn’t for the fact that I had to keep it together for the upcoming Key Club concert, I probably would have done something really desperate.

  LIKE A SUICIDE

  I did anyway. I slashed my throat. The guys who were monitoring my every move in the house didn’t see that one coming. Well, that’s what you get for messing with my deliveries. Fuck ’em. Wait a minute, I’m the one bleeding out!

  So on June 13, 2007, I was taken to Cedars-Sinai Hospital bleeding to death. Fortunately I was put into the very capable hands of one Dr. Fine, who ordered I be put under suicide watch. Dr. Fine sewed my neck back together and then sedated me.

  Being under their care must have been just what I needed to retrieve my sanity, because I got out of that place with more determination than ever to pull off an epic evening for Appetite’s twentieth. I worked with my Adler’s Appetite mates to revitalize all the classic songs, and you wouldn’t believe who showed up to sit in on rehearsal.

  THREE-FIFTHS OF GNR

  Izzy and Duff dropped in on our third day of practice. My heart soared. It felt so great seeing those two shuffle through the door. It was just like old times, the best times (even though I don’t remember a lot of them). The boys in Adler’s Appetite were only too happy to let the maestros sit in and jam. Now, it was becoming more about who was going to be there rather than who wasn’t.

  The songs were cooking up fine, and Duff and Izzy sounded great. These were my brothers. My bloods from the days of trench warfare, when no one believed in us but us and my mom, who I must admit is the first and the truest GNR fan ever.

  The date for the concert was coming up fast, and it was amazing how quickly we got it together for the big night. It felt great to be back behind the skins. I was still a little shaky when July 28 rolled around, but I wanted to rock so badly, it didn’t matter.

  TWENTY YEARS!

  The night Adler’s Appetite played at the Key Club, we were louder and sounded better than GNR ever did. All right, maybe I’m a little prejudiced here, but we sounded tight. What really made the difference was having Izzy and Duff up there with me. Then Slash walked in. The place, which was already at critical mass, totally erupted. I mean, insanity took over. The only downer about having four-fifths of GNR’s original lineup under one roof for the first time in forever was Slash’s bewildering decision to not play.

  Later it got back to me that Slash, in his well-intended wisdom, decided that playing with us would so enrage Axl that it would doom any hope of a future official GNR reunion. Slash had recently gone on record saying that if GNR got back together, it could only be with the original Appetite for Destruction lineup, and I think he just didn’t want to jeopardize that in any way. If he honestly felt that meant not pissing off Axl, then I have to respect his gut.

  And you know what? It didn’t matter. It was perfect just the way it came off, feeling the supercharged atmosphere, feeling the unbridled affection of the crowd. I want to take this opportunity to thank Duff, Izzy, and Slash for showing the love that night and getting up onstage with me. Only one thing could top it, and I hope Axl has the room in his heart to make it happen one day.

  EURO BABES

  The afterglow from that event actually got me more excited about the Adler’s Appetite tour of Europe. I was really up, more psyched than ever when we got to the airport to begin our tour. We were all on the plane, locked and loaded, when someone accused me of being so drunk and disorderly that they had to kick us off. This forced us to miss our connecting flight.

  Now, that in and of itself is just standard operating procedure in my life. What really sucked was by the time the booking agent rerouted us all on later flights, we had to pay top fucking dollar, against which our old tickets could not be applied. Someone figured out that we were basically doing the tour for next to nothing. We literally had to go to Europe just to pay for our expenses and break even. I wonder if that’s happened before: the Tour to Pay for Our Tour Tour.

  But it still felt great to be greeted by the best fans in the world. The enthusiasm and energy, the devotion and love that they put out for every sold-out show was incredible. Nowhere can you find sweeter, happier rockers. They knew every word to every song. They swarmed the stage and screamed for encore after encore. I was getting by on smoking and drinking and wasn’t thinking about heavier stuff at the time. I think all that affection kept me from seeking the dark side, at least for the time being.

  Whenever I’m onstage, that’s the best high, and I realize that’s what I’m chasing after the other days of the year. As a rule, GNR audiences are incredible; there’s even a great DVD we produced of an earlier tour, this one in Argentina, titled So
uth America Destruction. It captures the insanity of our shows in Rosario, Buenos Aires, and other cities. You can see how thrilled we are backstage, onstage, at every stage of our tour. Take a look at the fans and you’ll see the happiest fuckers on earth. The fact that I’m spreading the rock ’n’ roll message into my forties makes me loud and proud.

  The trouble is that the exhilaration is fleeting, and before the cheers fade away, the meter is already back down to zero. There’s no longer any sustain, no longer the thrill of the kill for me. It just feels like I’m staving off the lethal boredom that’s always threatening to do me in if I’m not partying or playing music. So it was no surprise that I was quickly back to my self-destructive best by the end of 2007.

  CELEBRITY REHAB

  It came as quite a surprise to me, though, when I got an idea that could actually slow my sprint to an early grave. I was watching TV with Jamie in Vegas and I had this moment of clarity. It was that VH1 show Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew, and Dr. Drew was making some sense, talking to a young addict. I just blurted out that I liked Dr. Drew and that I wouldn’t mind being on Celebrity Rehab if it meant I could work with him.

  Well, you should have seen the expression on Jamie’s face. It was as if I had yanked open the thick black drapes in my room and let in the light. He didn’t even dare to ask me if I was serious, he just rolled with it, and by the end of the week, David Weintraub and Josh Bender, who work in casting for the show, had brokered a deal to get me on the second season of Celebrity Rehab.

  Of course they still had to clean me up enough so that I’d be coherent and presentable enough for a steady appearance on the show, and that’s when the war of wills started to get ugly. For starters, just try to get me out of my house. My ass was anchored to my home and I wasn’t about to go anywhere. And that meant for anything. If they want to have a reality show or a GNR reunion, they can have it in my kitchen, ’cause this dawg ain’t leaving the pound.