Книга - My Appetite for Destruction: Sex & Drugs & Guns ‘N’ Roses

My Appetite for Destruction: Sex & Drugs & Guns ‘N’ Roses
Steven Adler


From original Guns N’ Roses drummer Steven Adler comes the inside story of Guns N’ Roses through a new perspective and his own intense struggle with addiction.Guns N' Roses are one of America's most successful rock bands, with estimated sales of 90 million albums worldwide. Steven Adler is the original drummer, with an infamous past of sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll that led to his removal from the band.And here, for the first time, Steven Adler tells it all. In My Appetite for Destruction, he reveals his personal struggles with drug addiction, including the financial ruin he faced after being kicked out of Guns N’ Roses and the health problems that almost claimed his life several times - two heart attacks, a suicide attempt, and a debilitating stroke, as well as an epic 20-year addiction to crack and heroin.Now clean and sober under the watchful eye of family friend Dr. Drew Pinsky, Steven wants to set the record straight on his life for all Guns N' Roses fans and anyone else who is interested in discovering what really happened during the rise and collapse of one of the greatest rock bands of all time.










My Appetite for Destruction

Sex & Drugs & Guns N’Roses

Steven Adler


With




Lawrence J. Spagnola

















Copyright (#ulink_74b4319d-f802-5bfc-81cc-43707c29b808)


Some names have been changed to protect their privacy.

HarperNon-Fiction

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)

First published in the USA by itbooks, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers This edition 2010

© 2010 Steven Adler with Lawrence J. Spagnola

Steven Adler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780007368464

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2010 ISBN: 9780007368495

Version: 2017-05-02


To my grandmother “Big Lilly,” my grandfather “Stormin’ Norman,” and to my beloved wife, Carolina, whose love and support made this book possible.



To the millions of faithful Guns N’ Roses fans all over the world, I thank you for your eternal devotion.



Special thanks to:

the Adler family,

the Ferreira family,

the Hudson family,

the Canter family,

Steve Sprite,

Dr. Drew Pinsky,

Dr. Charles Sophy,

Bob Forrest,

Ronald “Ronnie My Boy” Schneider,

Chris Green,

Robert Espinoza,

James Vanderweilen, and

Brad Server.



And lastly to my dogs

Shadow, Midnight, and Chichi.

Their unconditional love saw me through.




Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u9006e7b2-4491-56be-987e-dc8db14360c6)

Title Page (#u4f58fc79-bd0b-5cb4-9f83-fd625dcb946a)

Copyright (#uf59dd135-8998-5c4f-9460-553175363142)

Dedication (#u5178bf4e-6524-5d5e-803e-609d7a2a982e)

AUTHOR’S NOTE (#u3157c88d-937e-5354-81ac-74c28dd6ad03)

FOREWORD for the DUDES (#u5eeba2d7-61f1-5960-9d37-d93f4ef6dffd)

1 TROUBLE from the START (#uca51abe1-9f96-551c-8e4d-0f82672ab58c)

2 GOING to CALIFORNIA (#u0e052d2f-8b81-5c1d-8220-acb5f31eeb1b)

3 GROWING UP (#u8e66a022-6ea8-5e59-9ffd-c5143069fff0)

4 LEARNING the HARD WAY (#u6d52609e-7720-5fe8-8ae7-12ec419c7549)

5 BUSTED DRUMS, BUSTED FACE, BUSTED (#uab10198b-6fda-5099-b9fc-64bb7453b57b)

6 THE BIRTH of GUNS N’ ROSES (#u0f6e3fb1-66d4-5108-9e96-6bbdee54823e)

7 THE ORIGINAL LINEUP (#udac14ee3-6b23-5afe-8eb5-95f0fd748fee)

8 GROWING PAINS (#u241f5abf-a1e8-5ad5-b335-125f8e05bd50)

9 RULING the STRIP (#ufb6aeb73-7e8b-5a5b-8a64-b8ad1483cee3)

10 GETTING IT ALL DOWN (#ub769023c-f1f9-54f3-9fcf-62d7577386ad)

11 BUILDING an APPETITE (#ucfdd7b9e-245d-54cb-ba5e-3452cff26490)

12 TEARING IT UP on the ROAD (#u2223c790-b384-5275-b206-8bfc12dc58b5)

13 HANGING with the CRÜE (#u34f4e42b-e793-5fc5-b523-12ae8ead5d36)

14 EVERYBODY OD TONIGHT! (#ucd18f815-c1c0-55c4-9d4c-e09fce7b66d3)

15 TRAGEDY and CONTROVERSY (#u91699b02-ac87-5680-8dd0-3092942ba5c7)

16 SHOOTING VIDEOS and HEROIN (#u96ce8b14-d54b-5d6b-b563-68feca8f768f)

17 MARRIAGE and DIVORCE (#u7b399311-03e7-541b-906c-983e0ff52dbf)

18 HIGH or DIE (#ufc290d33-ebb1-563d-9789-b41570997346)

19 ROCK BOTTOM. AGAIN. (#u02543865-8703-5ec2-811d-1757fb2f5e33)

20 HOW LOW CAN I GO? (#u49489eeb-a0c8-540a-8b18-70b730197416)

21 NEW BAND and NEW LOVE (#uc750474d-0f5f-5be2-b7bc-a3c602ad8d3a)

22 THUG LOVE (#uaecc6c83-da27-5803-a361-16a8dfa5e098)

23 BACK from the ABYSS (#ue0f75023-3472-5afc-b5e0-035979b7f2c9)

Acknowledgments (#u36126cf5-221f-51bc-964a-dbfceeb1efca)

About the Publisher (#u39a2ad15-aab8-5a9c-814d-fc53d89abd28)





AUTHOR’S NOTE (#ulink_8d44f2b9-b3f1-5aba-b86b-d06531ad7b2c)


Oh my God, this is the highest I’ve ever been in my life. I can barely hold on. Sweat is pouring out of me, my eyes sting like hell, and my gut is jumping. I’m completely soaked, my arms and legs flail, my head shakes, and my heart is thumping out of my chest. I am flying, and I love it. I desperately want this feeling to go on forever. I’m Steven Adler, the drummer for Guns N’ Roses, and tonight we opened for the Rolling Stones. It’s October 18, 1989, and after a brutal but amazing journey, this should be the happiest moment in my life. But as we explode into our last song, “Paradise City,” I’m already terrified of leaving the stage and losing this incredible buzz. Just like the “pre-high” addicts get right after they score but before they use, I’m experiencing a devastating “pre-crash” and I fucking hate it. If only I could find some way to maintain this intense natural high, I would never need drugs, never want drugs again.

Guns N’ Roses gets a standing ovation, but as the Stones take the stage with “Start Me Up,” I’m already alone, tucked away in my trailer on the backstage lot with the door locked tight. Why? Because I’m the undisputed all-time booze-chugging, pill-gobbling, drug-shooting, Katrina-caliber fuckup. Throughout my wretched life there isn’t a friend, family member, or fantastic opportunity that I haven’t shoved into a blender and mutilated.

But people love train wrecks. They just can’t look away from the ODs, lawsuits, prison terms, rehabs, reality shows, meltdowns, and more ODs. So before one or all of the above happens again, I want to set the record straight. And I’m finally sober enough and angry enough to do it right.




COMING CLEAN


While part of this comes from a deep desire to come clean with my family, friends, and fans, another part is fueled by an inner rage to represent. From Chuck Berry to Janis Joplin, from Hendrix to Cobain, many beloved, gifted musicians have had a lot of totally false, negative crap written about them. It turned them into bitter, reclusive artists and may have pushed some into an early grave. But I don’t need the media to bury me; I’ll do that on my own.

The bastards who write the lies about us do it because they think rock fans are gossip-starved, tabloid-trained morons who will swallow anything. They figure the more bullshit they pile up, the more fans will be eager to roll around in it. And they’re always sure they can get away with the most outrageous lies because they know if we hire a bunch of lawyers to go after them, they’ll just get more free publicity and rake in more cash. You’ve got to admire Carol Burnett, Kate Hudson, and others who brought suit, hung in there, and won judgments against these bloodsuckers.

The truth is I’m healthier and happier than I’ve been in twenty years and I refuse to be destroyed by all the negative news about Steven Adler. I’ve made it way too easy for these jerks to write me off as just another has-been junkie asshole.

And hey, I admit it. I am a has-been junkie asshole. But there’s a lot more to this drummer boy. With the help of Dr. Drew, and a lot of other dedicated professionals, I’ve begun to live again and love my family, friends, and music again. I know I’ve let them down, but that’s not going to stop me from trying to get back up and make things right.




MY GNR BROTHERS


Axl, Duff, Izzy, and Slash, I pray you’ll respect my desire to go on the record and tell everyone what actually happened. My goal here is to dig deep and, to the best of my knowledge, tell the whole truth and nothing but.

Now, that’s not to say those guys don’t recall different things, or things differently. But when it comes to writing about my life as a rock musician, Axl, Duff, Izzy, and Slash will be the first to tell you that I’ve been my own worst enemy. And I’ll be the first to agree. This isn’t about laying blame, it’s about accepting it. And in spite of all the fuckups I’ve had, the love is still there. A lot of it. I still love every one of those guys, and I hope they know it.

One of the things Slash writes in the closing pages of his memoir Slash is that he’s truly happy that “Steven Adler is doing better.” I got very emotional when I read that. Slash and I have been through so much. Since we were thirteen! The fact is Slash has had a lot to do with my seeking help and letting the light back in my life. Thanks, Slash!

There is still so much affection there, so much shared pain and joy. You can’t ever take that away. Not from me and Slash. And not from me and Duff, Izzy, or Axl. The only way to make these pages matter to me and you and everyone who has loved or hated me over the past forty years is to make the whole truth the price of admission—and Adler’s admitting everything.





FOREWORD for the DUDES (#ulink_3a2a60d8-41ec-5756-ba97-9adbdc49711b)


NOW IT ’S A MIGHT Y LONG WAY DOWN ROCK ‘N’ ROLL

AS YOUR NAME GET S HOT, YOUR HEART GROWS COLD…

–“ALL THE WAY FROM MEMPHIS,” MOTT THE HOOPLE

Those lyrics are from Ian Hunter, lead vocalist for one of my favorite bands, Mott the Hoople. And it kind of sums up what we went through with GNR. The bigger we got the more stuck-up and out of touch we became. Hunter also wrote one of the greatest books ever about life on the road, called Diary of a Rock ’n’ Roll Star. It takes all the shine off the glamorous rock star image and puts it in its proper unfiltered light. It is a frank, many times joyless account of what rock ’n’ roll is like from the inside looking out.

Hunter was determined to get it all down in his personal account of Mott’s five-week American tour in November and December of 1972. It should be required reading for all kids before they start smoking cigs, skipping school, and jamming in garages. Hunter talks about Mott’s equipment getting stolen, concerts being canceled, and fans being abusive. Believe me, fifteen years later, when GNR toured the world for eighteen months straight, not much had changed.

Ian leaves nothing out because he knows that’s the only way to offer the story. If you’re going to tell it, tell it all. I want to thank Ian, Mick, Overend, Phally, and Buffin for inspiring me to give my readers the truest, most unflinching account of rock ’n’ roll since Ian penned his masterpiece. If I can get close to the honesty and guts on those pages, then this will be a great book. And I will owe it all to you guys. You are and forever will be the Dudes, the original lineup, the first and the best.




SORTING OUT THE MESS


Great rock music, whether it’s Mott or Mötley, has helped me crawl out of a hole where I’ve been living a permanent nightmare. For two decades I’ve been haunted by a shady, drug-addled past that sucks any desire to face life right out of me. But in the past year, leading right up to November 2009, when I performed with Slash, Duff, and David Navarro in a sold-out show at the Palace in L.A., the music’s inspired me more than ever. It’s lifted my spirits and made me want to live again so I can create music with my band, Adler’s Appetite. I want to get back together with the faithful companion that never betrayed me, my drums.

Now, understand that many of the interviews I granted during and after Guns N’ Roses are a lot of garbage. I tended to treat them like a game, varying what I said to dick around with whoever was interviewing me and drinking heavily before and during them, because a lot of interviews were tedious and repetitive.

Being sober changes everything. The light is harsh at first, and there’s a lot more I’d rather forget than remember. But I’ve fought hard for the opportunity to come clean here and that means everything to me. Although it’s terrifying to revisit how things got so twisted, it’s also the only true way to get my life back. So let’s start this journey at the beginning, so we can understand how things began to unravel until they got so fucked up.





1 TROUBLE from the START (#ulink_bf20e1c7-22b7-5dc7-9a29-474c1c4e9b5e)

CLEVELAND COLETTI


I was born in Cleveland in 1965, during a time when my father had sunk to physically threatening and beating my mother. Things had really deteriorated between the two of them over the six months before I was born, and Mom was already plotting her escape from this monster by the time I arrived. I was named Michael after my biological father. Poor Mom probably battled a gag reflex every time she said my name. My older brother by three years was named Tony. This was to honor the Italian tradition of naming the firstborn son after the paternal grandfather in the family. The second son gets either the maternal grandfather’s name or, as in my case, the father’s name.

I guess this goes on in other cultures, which is why Bobby Kennedy named his first son Joe, after his father, and his second son Bobby Jr. But the tradition doesn’t fly with Jewish families, where you absolutely do not name your kids after anyone who is living. I’m sure my Jewish mother never confronted my Catholic dad with that fact, because she probably wasn’t eager for another beating.

My pop, Mike Coletti, was sadly just an Italian gangster-wannabe with a bad gambling problem and a worse temper. He and my mother, Deanna, married very young, before they were fitted with brains. A short time after they wed, he became verbally abusive with her, and it just kept getting worse. In fact, the last time my parents were together was the day he beat the hell out of my mom and left her bloody and unconscious on the front lawn of my grandmother’s house.

Now, I know I was too young to remember that day. And most doctors would probably agree that such behavior wouldn’t leave any lasting psychological scars on a newborn. But Mom said that unlike my older brother, I used to cry all the time, day and night. Even that used to piss off my dad, who was too cheap to pay the $30-a-week child support ordered by the judge after they split up. We never saw Dad again. My older brother did a Web search for him recently, finding out that he passed away in 2004. I honestly believe that I sensed there was no love between my mom and dad right out of the womb.




ONE STEP AHEAD OF HITLER


So Mom left Dad and now, twenty-four, with two little kids, realized she had nowhere to go. She was in desperate need of help. Her relationship with her mother was nonexistent, but with absolutely no alternative, she asked her parents for assistance.

My grandmother, “Big Lilly,” as I knew her, came to America from Warsaw in late 1939. She arrived in the United States just three days before Hitler’s armies invaded Poland. Big Lilly lost her entire family to Nazi butchers during the Holocaust. This experience forged her into a fiercely independent woman. Our Jewish heritage was her raison d’être. It formed the basis for everything she held sacred in life. My grandmother’s faith ran so deeply, it was the foundation of her very existence. And Judaism was the one solid rock my grandmother and grandfather could stand on when everything else was threatened. If they ran out of money, if their little bakery business failed, if they were sick, cold, or hungry, they were still the Chosen People with God on their side. They had the Jewish faith and that would get them through anything.

My mom pretty much pissed on that whole belief system. Screw the Jews, I’m marrying a capicola Catholic. I’m in love outside the faith, and to hell with everything you’ve tried to beat into me over the past twenty years. When Mom did this, the family’s rabbi interpreted it as the most vicious attack on everything the Jews stood for and everything they sacrificed during the Holocaust. Big Lilly thought this could not be her child, because no one she raised could be that irreverent, that disrespectful. Imagine how humiliating it was for my grandmother to face the other Jews in her neighborhood, particularly at synagogue.

So Big Lilly believed she had no choice but to disown her daughter. I am torn because my mother was very young and married out of love, which is often so blind. But I guess if love is blind then marriage is an eye-opener.




CLASH OF CULTURES


After such banishment, what could possibly send Mom crawling back to my grandmother? It’s simple: she had no other choice. We were freezing and starving. We needed to eat, and we needed someone to clothe us and keep us warm.

Now, Grandma wasn’t totally heartless, but before she agreed to help my mom, she made it clear that certain conditions must be met. First, my brother and I had to change our names to adhere to the strict Jewish custom that I mentioned that allows no newborns to be named after living people. So to please Big Lilly, my mother renamed us. I was now Steven, and my brother was Kenny.

Grandma Lilly’s second condition was pretty radical: Mom had to give me up. I was to live with and be raised by Big Lilly and my grandpa “Stormin’ Norman.” I literally became their son and spent most of my childhood under their care. Mom couldn’t believe her son was being stolen away from her by her parents. I remember my mother’s constant sobbing during this time when she’d be allowed to visit me. With an innocent child’s perception I’d be thinking, “Ma, what’s wrong? Ain’t you happy to see me?”

My mom was completely crushed. It wasn’t that I was her favorite or anything like that, it was just that I was her darling tow-headed son, and that was enough. Now, I don’t know about you, but that rates right up there for all-time fuck-yous. It was payback time, and Big Lilly wanted to show my mom that Italians aren’t the only masters of revenge.




WILD CHILD


At this point in my life, I was pretty much like the free spirit in that song by the Doors, “Wild Child.”

NOT YOUR MOT HER’S OR YOUR FAT HER’S CHILD

YOU’RE OUR CHILD, SCREAMIN’ WILD…

I was one wild, crazy, fucked-up kid, a born contrarian. Anything, and I mean anything, I was told to do, I would instantly do the opposite or just completely reject it.

My earliest memories are of my getting into trouble. I was kicked out of school during the first week. I gathered up and threw wooden blocks as hard as I could at the window. I still remember the sound it made. At any moment the glass could have shattered. I kept laughing at the way the other kids would wince at the sound. Fuck ’em.

As soon as the teacher stopped me from doing that, I tricked some kid into helping me get something out of a closet filled with board games and toys. As soon as he stepped in front of me, I backed off and slammed the door, locking him in.

He immediately had some severe claustrophobic episode. He started screaming at the top of his lungs and pounding on the door. To compound things, the teacher couldn’t find the key to the door right away, and the whole class became freaked out listening to this kid lose his shit.

When the teacher tried to discipline me, I threw a temper tantrum and pushed her as hard as I could. It seemed like I was locked into this other world and every time teachers told me to do something, they threatened the universe I lived in, and I had to fight them with all my might to defend my world. How dare they be a menace to the galaxies I ruled?

To their credit, the school principal and the teachers believed I had a likable side but had some control issues. They put up with an awful lot for a little time, and then they expelled me from preschool.




SPOILED EGG


Regardless of my behavior, Big Lilly was determined to spoil me. She really did everything for her little bratty, impulsive grandson. But sometimes I’d go too far even for her and she would ship me downstairs to be with Kenny and Mom. This was when the whole family lived in the same claustrophobic complex in Cleveland. Of course it took only a day before I would get on Mom’s nerves and she would send me to my room. Now, that’s not going to work, Mom.

I would just open the window and scream out, “Grandma. Grandma!” We lived on the fifth floor and my grandma lived on the ninth. She’d come down, forgetting all about the terror I had been the previous day, and run to my defense. She always stuck up for me. She seemed to take pleasure in ordering my mom around and demanding I not be punished because I was “a very sweet boy.”

She delighted in seeing Mom squirm. Mom was livid with the way Grandma Lilly and I would gang up on her, and there was really nothing she could do about it. When I’d get back upstairs, I could do no wrong until I wore Big Lilly down again.




WESTWARD HO!


One of my mom’s older sisters lived in California. They used to keep in touch over the phone at least twice a week. Whenever they talked, my aunt would always tell my mom how great it was to live in Southern California. She would excitedly brag about the weather, the beautiful beaches, the ocean, canyons, and mountains. You could do anything at any time, because it was always sunny and warm, even in the winter.

Eventually this got my mom thinking about busting a move out of Cleveland, where, in all honesty, things couldn’t have gotten much worse for her. One day, Mom started asking her sister about job openings, and my aunt was ready. She grabbed the paper and actually started to rattle off openings she had circled out of that day’s classified ads.

Mom would usually tell us all about their chats after she got off the phone. When she was on the phone with her sister her voice would actually get sweeter and go up about an octave. She’d even speak faster and we could tell she was getting more and more excited with each call.

Finally, the chance for a fresh start and a new life overcame any fear or reservations she had. Moving was something she had been mulling over for months, and one day, when I was having dinner at her place, she just sat us down.

I’ll never forget the look on her face. She took each of her boys by the hand and told us we were going on an adventure. We were going to visit her sister out in California, and maybe even stay out there if things went right.

The fact that she picked one of the coldest, windiest, wettest days of the winter to tell us certainly sealed our approval. Kenny and I were all for it. I never saw my mom so wired. She talked about our move nonstop. Maybe that was to hide how scared she was during this whole time. She would make lists, then make more lists, then tear them up, make some phone calls, and start a new list.

She read travel brochures on Southern California. Then she boxed up everything we owned, from her sewing kit to the salad bowl, and labeled it all with Magic Markers. The entire time she had this look in her eye, like a runaway train. God pity anyone who got in her way. That’s probably why I never heard Big Lilly put up a fight for me when the time came to head out.

I could feel the excitement as the date neared. This golden opportunity to get a bad start behind her and begin again with a new home gave her boundless energy. She could have sprinted to L.A. So, at the lucky age of seven, we drove to California to get a fresh shot at life.





2 GOING to CALIFORNIA (#ulink_1589cbc2-fb79-5fdd-851d-2ef034adb618)


MADE UP MY MIND TO MAKE A NEW START,

GOING TO CALIFORNIA WITH AN ACHING IN MY HEART.

–“GOING TO CALIFORNIA,” LED ZEPPELIN

Mom found us a tiny apartment in North Hollywood. This began a second series of long phone conversations, but this time it was with her boyfriend from Cleveland, Melvin Adler. A month later Mel showed up with a huge suitcase and a big smile. Mel and the suitcase never left. Even though we were literally living on top of one another it somehow worked out so well that in 1973, Mom and Mel got hitched.




NEW ARRIVAL


In 1975, Mel and my mom became the proud parents of a baby boy, Jamie. Just before Mom had Jamie, Mel believed it was time for us to officially become one big happy family. He spoke with Mom, then asked Kenny and me if he could adopt us. We were thrilled and had our surname legally changed to Adler.

Jamie lit up our world. I loved my little brother so much I decided that I was going to protect him. Next to his crib was a small couch where I slept every night with a switchblade in my hand.

Nobody was going to bring any harm to my little brother ever. I’d kill them if they tried. I’ll never forget the flash of alarm in my mom’s eyes when she spotted the knife, but just as she was about to explode, she caught herself and leaned over to kiss me gently on the head.

Somehow my parents knew this was just a phase and they never freaked out about the knife. Long after I stopped guarding Jamie, I continued babysitting him and even changed his diapers (well, just a couple of times…).

With Mel and my mom both working we were able to move into a bigger house in Canoga Park. Mel got a steady job, one he held until he became very ill in 1991, as a chief clerk for the Southern Pacific Railroad. Mom worked as a waitress at a restaurant called Two Guys from Italy. (What the hell is it with Mom and Italians?) Since most of Mom’s family, her three sisters and a brother, had now settled in California, my grandparents soon followed suit and moved to Hollywood.




SIBLING DEATH MATCH


While I couldn’t have been closer to Jamie, I had to share a bedroom with Kenny, and we could not get along. We really hated each other. We fought all the time. He was always taunting me. It may have just been a run-of-the-mill sibling rivalry but it soon got way out of hand. He would tease the hell out of me and push me to my limits. I’d put up with all I could take, then fight back as fiercely as possible.

He was a lot bigger than I was, so I often found myself on the losing end of our brawls. And it wasn’t always a physical battle; many times it was mental torture too.

Like when Kenny had this paper route. He saved up enough to buy a cheap used TV. At night, he would turn the volume way up and position the set where I couldn’t see it from my side of the room. He’d be laughing at The Tonight Show or whatever while I just lay awake unable to see the TV screen or get to sleep.

One time I got so furious with him that I smacked him with a tennis racket in the back of his head with all my might. He keeled forward in the bedroom like he had been shot. Good thing he collapsed on the bed. Kenny didn’t move for like five minutes. He suffered a concussion and I really caught hell from Mom, who screamed at me for an hour.




OPPOSITES REPEL


We were complete opposites in every way. Kenny resembled our dad, olive skinned, dark haired, and heavyset. I was thin and light like Mom. We never went to the same school at the same time. It always worked out that when I’d be entering junior high or whatever, he’d be graduating. In class he was shy and introverted. I, however, was very outgoing. I made the class laugh and made friends easily, usually hanging out with older kids who were almost my brother’s age. Kenny preferred to hide out in our room, reading comic books and watching TV. He was content to do that all the time.

Things hadn’t changed much from my kindergarten days. I would get in trouble nearly every day. I was still getting in fights and talking back to teachers. My mom received calls from the faculty. Teachers, coaches, classmates, the custodian—I didn’t take shit from anybody.




SUMMERTIME BLUES


Mom and Mel were constantly trying to figure out ways my loner brother Kenny could make new friends. So one summer they sent my brother and me to one of those Hebrew summer camps. Clear Creek I think was its name. I got there and just went nuts. Poked around, made fast friends with everyone, then fast enemies. I was so bored by the end of the first week that I thought I was going to go insane. So I did.

I’ve always had an imagination that lets me visualize doing something or being something before even a hint of it happens. Sometimes it serves me well, like when I told Slash we were going to be huge rock stars, but most times it’s just the forecaster of doom. My doom. Big doom.

At the end of the second week, when they had “family day,” my parents proudly came to visit. They were expecting to hear fun stories about what a great time we were having. They were expecting the counselors to tell them what swell kids we were. They thought they were getting a lovely day out in nature.

They got something else. Mom and Mel sat there numbly as the counselors told them I had been running wild in the camp and had probably been the one who stole $300 from one of the camp counselors while she was in the shower.

Can you imagine the shock on my mom’s face? One moment she’s walking along this idyllic tree-shaded lane with Mel. She meets us at the lakefront, all adorable with little Sunfish sailboats bobbing in the background. She sits down to hear the camp counselor telling her that I’m a thief and a liar.

I had already denied it—they had nothing on me—and besides, I knew who did it.

They pulled a full-on search of the camp. Since I was the usual suspect when it came to evil and mayhem, they interrogated me about the missing cash. Three male teenage counselors held me down and forcibly searched me. Needless to say, a situation like that could easily provoke a lawsuit today. I was barely ten.

They didn’t find the cash, and I was tempted to act outraged and demand my parents seek some kind of restitution, but in the end, this little demon that nests in my head received a sharp pang of guilt. That girl counselor looked like walking death. It must have been her life savings.

Yeah, I knew who did it. I did it. But honestly, it was just for kicks. I was so fucking bored by the second week, I wanted to spice things up. So I bought a shitload of candy with some of the money I stole but then, instead of stashing it, I gave it out to everyone. I know, brilliant.

Just when they were getting a little shaky over their accusations, I confessed and gave it back of my own free will, minus what I had blown on candy. It was like as soon as I thought I might actually get away with it, then I felt free to confess. I was more into taking it for the sheer thrill of it anyway.

So on “family day” my parents, much to their dismay, were treated to a request to take me home. My brother was allowed to stay another two weeks. They liked Kenny. He overate, never questioned anything, and kept largely to himself: the perfect, no-trouble zombie camper.




BACK TO CIVILIZATION


During the car ride home, we sat in icy silence. I couldn’t have cared less. Camp wasn’t my idea. It wasn’t camping anyway. Camping is going to Yosemite and hiking up where no one can possibly find you, packing nothing but a PowerBar, canteen, and sleeping bag.

You sleep under the stars for a week. You eat roots and berries, spy on wildlife, and smell like ass before you hike out again. That’s camping, which I also had no interest in doing.

The only thing I had any desire to do during that silent, unending, and tense drive back to Canoga Park was to get together with my two best friends, Ricardo and Jackie. They lived just down the street from me. Ricardo was a cheerful Hispanic dude. His mom made the absolute best salsa ever. Jackie was Asian, the mellowest wingman you could ever want to meet.

Jackie went to a local elementary school and Ricardo and I both went to Limerick Elementary. We also played in the junior football league, but on different teams. We were very competitive and had each built a reputation for being fast and tough. The season culminated in a game between our respective teams.

My team lost. To be honest, with the exception of a few dedicated players, we sucked. I think we lost every game we played that year. The league was for ages eight to twelve, and I swear, no one on our team was older than ten. The apathy at school was rampant. The older kids were either too cool or too spineless to step up and play.

I used to think we were always pitted against impossible odds. All the other teams had older kids and they were much bigger than us. We developed a humiliating reputation within the league. Instead of the Eagles, kids called us the Bad News Birds.

On my football team, I was the starting running back and kick returner. I even won a trophy my junior year for Most Valuable Player. The coach used to put me in and keep me in for the entire game. He told my parents I was the best player on the team, but it didn’t matter. Even I couldn’t do anything to end our losing streak.




SEX AND SPORTS


I’ll never forget this one time during practice. There was a gorgeous cheerleader hanging out on the sidelines. I couldn’t help but notice her. I was just eleven years old, but I was already developing a healthy appetite for the opposite sex.

But when I’d talk to my friends about how nice so and so’s ass was they’d just look at me like I was a freak. “Asses are gross.” “An ass is an ass.” It’s like their cocks hadn’t kicked in yet.

Anyway, she was way out of my league, sweet sixteen with long blond hair and these amazing pouty lips, like a crushed rosebud, all full, round, and soft and begging to be kissed. I just had to get her attention.

We were having a team scrimmage and when I got in the huddle, I was so amped to impress this babe that I threatened the quarterback. I told him he better give me the ball or I’d smash his face in when we got in the locker room. I swear something snapped inside, and my whole world came down to impressing this cheerleader. Every time I got the handoff I ran like a possessed demon for a touchdown. The coaches were stunned. I scored like five TDs in a row.

I don’t know why I’m wired this way, but there are very few things in life that really light me up. And nothing focuses me or gets me going like chasing tail. Money, fame, status, power…nothing comes close to the pursuit of pussy. It gives me an intensity that brings out the fiercest side of my competitive spirit.

When I was with the band I had to score the best snapper after a concert. I loved parading around backstage and at the after parties with the pick of the litter. So whether it’s trying to score by making touchdowns or playing in a band, I love the ladies. Primo poon: accept no substitutes.




BAD MOVES


After mustering a big smile, I went over to the girl after practice and said something that I thought was cool enough to get a kiss off her. But she gave me such a look. Ouch! Then she just turned away as she muttered something about waiting for her linebacker boyfriend to come over to her after practice. I was so crushed.

As the rest of the guys filed off they looked pissed at me for being such a showoff. I remember shaking my head and letting out this huge sigh. I couldn’t believe what an asshole I had been, and all for nothing.

Just as I started walking away from the bleachers, she turned back toward me and gave me a little smile, saying, “What’s your name?” I got this big lump in my throat and croaked out, “Steven.” She repeated my name, nice and low, and believe me, that made it all worth it. To this day, I can still hear the way she said my name.




HANGING WITH MY BLOODS


Outside of school sports, Jackie, Ricardo, and I spent every minute together. Ricardo was going out with this cute little blond girl at the time, but he always put us first. Nothing was more important than the bond between us. At least that’s what I thought until I received my first lesson in the politics of friendship.

Ricardo and I found some oranges in an abandoned lunch bag at the playground, and we started throwing them back and forth at each other. One orange started to break up from hitting the ground too much. I remember throwing it way up in the air toward Ricardo, who was like thirty feet away. All of a sudden, his little blond babe starts skipping right over to him, and blam! The orange came down and just nailed her on the head.

She was screaming, covered in orange. Ricardo freaked and started chasing me all over the field. “You’re dead!” he yelled. I tried to sprint away but he caught me and got on top of me. I was helpless. He had my arms pinned with his knees. I thought he was gonna start punching me in the face, or at least spit on me, but he didn’t. I guess he realized that she had already run home and it really was just an accident. But he was really pissed at me. Over a girl…a girl!




THE SEVENTIES


The seventies were a magical time, especially for a kid my age. It was the perfect decade for growing up. I remember seeing Kiss records in stores, before I had even heard their music. I thought they looked so cool. And I loved Charlie’s Angels. Jaclyn Smith was my favorite. Of course, Happy Days was a big show for me. I wanted to be like Fonzie.

I collected Stop N Go gas station mini NFL football helmets, which you could only get by purchasing Stop N Go’s inferior version of a Slurpee. I had to have them all, and as quickly as possible, which meant plenty of brain freezes!

I wore tight Sassoon pants, corduroys, or Levi’s. Bell-bottoms were at their peak of popularity, and everyone had to have Vans tennis shoes. The cool thing to do was to have them custom-made. You would have to wait a few weeks, but it was worth it. Just having Vans was cool, really. But they cost about $40…Hey, Grandma!

White moccasins were another hip thing to wear. They were available only in the leather stores at the farmers market. My grandparents would take me to get them. The employees would see us coming in and they would take them down for me, knowing exactly why I was there. They cost like thirty bucks, but my grandma never had a problem buying me new ones once the old pair wore out.

I also loved playing with yo-yos. This was when I was ten years old. They’re not very popular today, but back then they were pretty common for kids, a must-have toy that was advertised all over TV. I became a pro. Every week, we had these yo-yo contests at our local 7-Eleven store, sponsored by Duncan yo-yos, right in the parking lot. Ricardo and Jackie weren’t into it as much, but they would still come along with me on their bikes. I could do every popular move, and I even made up a few of my own. I was in the running to win every time.

As a prize, they’d give me a nice yo-yo, like a glow-in-the-dark one. I won at least ten of those things. I rocked at that and always came home excited. In my mind, I was a stud who could be the best at anything I put my mind to, particularly if the girls thought it was cool.




THE BEGINNING OF THE DRUG SCENE


As we got older, Ricardo, Jackie, and I became aware of the drug culture that so many other kids were getting into. It was 1977 and a new phrase that epitomized the attitude of the time swept the nation in an Ian Dury and the Blockheads song called “Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll.” It was in the air and on my mind. My friends and I were very curious about drugs, and it wasn’t long before the fateful day arrived. Jackie and Ricardo must have experimented before me because it all started this way: one day we were all hanging out and Jackie asked if I wanted to get high. Just like that—out of the blue. I knew exactly what he meant. Ricardo had a makeshift pipe he had made out of tinfoil. We walked over to Win-netka Park and sparked up.

We were sitting in this deserted dugout and I remember the first wave of cannabis hitting my medulla. It was subtle at first, then whoa. The sounds were what tripped me out most. Ricardo’s voice sounded so different, and the colors behind him, different shades of green on the trees, shadows slipping in and out of the backstop. I couldn’t help but feel that was the greatest, most profound fucking moment. I discovered what I thought was heaven on earth that day. I thought that I had found a connection with God. Then I just started cracking up. There was a Taco Bell just across the street from the park, but I couldn’t order anything because I couldn’t stop laughing.

At the wise old age of eleven, my friends and I entered a new chapter in our lives, and our daily activities changed completely. While we used to bike around, or play catch or whatever, we now smoked weed almost exclusively. We never drank. Jackie began selling weed, so we would always have a supply. After school, we’d be at one of our houses, just watching TV and getting high. Our parents worked, so it was a carefree time. Those were the days; it was summer, no school, just hanging out. Good times with good friends.

It was also at this time that we had a conversation that I consider to be the most prophetic moment of my life. We were eleven years old, hanging out in Ricardo’s backyard, sitting on his dad’s tractor. It was another gorgeous sunny day in the Southland and we had just finished up a nice fatty. All of a sudden Ricardo goes, “I want to be in construction like my dad.” Then Jackie says, “I want to be a mechanic like my dad.” I looked at both of them and all I could think about was Steve Tyler rocking out, shouting, “Dream on! Dream on!” so I blurted out: “Well, I’m gonna be a rock star!”




THE CRUX OF THE BISCUIT


So let me digress for a moment, because this is really important. And while it might not be as sensational as Axl’s chaps or Izzy shooting up or Slash fucking strippers, to me this is more important. It’s revelatory and from the heart.

Whether you want to be a rock star, or play in the Super Bowl, or go to Harvard, you just got to say it out loud and believe it. That’s it. But you’ve got to have 100 percent unwavering faith in what you’re saying. It’s that simple. I did it, the guy who’s helping me write this book did it, and we both know other people who have done it too. Rock star, Harvard, Super Bowl—believe it and you will be it.




FIRST GIG


When I was twelve, I got my first part-time job at the Pioneer Chicken fast-food restaurant, which was right by where my mom worked at Brent’s Delicatessen. I cooked the chicken and I cleaned floors, whatever they needed me to do. I was at that stage where I’d rather have been making some money than going to school. By now, I was in seventh grade at Sutter Junior High School. I hated it, and I wanted out. The first time I ditched, I remember walking out of the school, shaking because I was so scared I was going to get caught. I walked out the gate and crossed the street, and waited for the inevitable shout from a teacher, but nothing happened. That serious lack of school supervision definitely encouraged me to ditch school every day.

Every morning I’d get on the bus, which only cost like forty-five cents back then; buy a transfer, which was like thirty-five cents; and ride up Winnetka, which was where the school was. But I wouldn’t get off at the school; I would just keep going. The bus would continue down Ventura Boulevard, and I’d get off at the hill in front of Universal Studios.

I used to hang out in the area where people would come out and shop after riding the tram. They had Frankenstein walking around, and people dressed as cowboys and Indians performing the stunt shows. One time I arrived early and met the villain of their little live performances. He sported a sinister, thin mustache and an all-black outfit and whip. He’d shoot the good guys off their horses and stuff. His name was Lance Reamer, a man in his fifties. He used to go to the restaurant where my mom worked, so I introduced myself as her son and said that she’d told me about him.

Lance would let me hang out backstage, and I loved it. It had a really cool vibe. Lance never asked me why I wasn’t in school and actually became a good friend. That was when I realized I wanted to be a stuntman. That lasted about a month.




CUTTING CLASS, SCORING ASS


I was supposed to be in school, and while cutting out one day, I met another kid ditching classes from another local middle school. His name was Josh. He had shaggy dirty-blond hair and wore a brown leather-fringe jacket. We were just walking around the neighborhood, during an unusually cold drizzly afternoon, when we ran into a pair of twelve-year-old girls, apparently cutting class too.

Josh had a pack of cigarettes and shared them with us. We all hit it off quickly. One of the girls had the Marcia Brady look: long, straight blond hair. The other had the lengthy, curled-back bangs that Farrah Fawcett made so popular at that time. As we talked and laughed, we made our way over to a construction site. We entered one of the half-built houses and looked around. There was just the stud framing supporting some Sheetrock walls and a ton of that cheap multicolored foam padding you see when you rip up wall-to-wall carpeting.

The place had a nice homey feel to it, and it was obvious other kids had hung out there. Someone had tipped over one of those big wooden spools for a makeshift table and dragged over a bunch of cinder blocks for seats. There was even a Led Zeppelin mural spray-painted on one of the walls. It was the four symbols for Page, Plant, Bonham, and Jones included on the inner sleeve of the fourth album. On another wall someone had spray-painted a crappy version of the Blue Öyster Cult logo. Once inside, we casually walked around as if we were thinking about buying the place, then paired off into separate areas. Josh disappeared first with Farrah, leaving me with Marcia Marcia Marcia.

Marcia was the prettiest young thing. The lipstick and light blue eye shadow made her look a bit like a windup doll, and I began to fantasize about what lay ahead. As she peeled off with me to find a quiet place, I could hear her steady breathing turn fluttery, expectant. I was suddenly, acutely aware of a sweetly fresh fragrance wafting off her body. I inhaled deeply, feeding off the seductive bouquet. It filled every pore in my body and made me so hot. Flush with excitement, I ducked into one of the smaller rooms, then turned to face her. Without hesitation she collapsed into me, surrendering completely. Her motion caused her long blond hair to fall forward against my face and shoulders. I thought I was going to lose it right there.

In one thumping heartbeat we were stretched out on a partially unrolled section of carpet padding in a half-built house, moaning, groping, sucking face, and praying it would never stop. I moved in closer to Marcia and she eagerly embraced me. I kissed her again and again, and she returned each kiss fully. Without thinking, I just seemed to know what to do next. In fact I swear I never had a single thought during the entire time. It was strictly, gloriously physical. After kissing our lips raw, we took a breath and I sat up, completely confident as I undid her belt. As I yanked on her jeans I heard the fateful word: “Wait…”

“Oh shit!” But she just smiled and asked me not to pull down so hard. She just wanted to help me get her pants off. She kicked off her sneakers to reveal these brightly colored rainbow-striped socks—so cute! Now her kisses were bolder, more urgent. As her thin white legs wrapped around mine, the full scent of her body hit me and I felt ready to burst.

From then on everything accelerated. She was so eager, so wet, that we were instantly one. The taste of her skin was both salty and sweet. We moved awkwardly at first, then got into a primal rhythm that couldn’t have lasted more than a dozen seconds because I just exploded. I made this weird yelping noise that didn’t even sound human.

This was my first time, and I think it was hers too. Afterward, she seemed to be equal parts nervous and excited, but all I remember was this enormous relief that there was no blood, and to a lesser extent, that I had performed. Yes, it was “mission accomplished” (though I had no aircraft carrier to string my message across). Honestly though, I was never nervous. Maybe that’s because it was all over in a magic minute. I lost my virginity to my Marcia, a girl whose real name I’ll never know. To this day, chilly, damp afternoons bring me right back to my first time.




SHARING MY FRIENDS


At home, my older brother was withdrawing further, becoming a genuine recluse. My mom actually talked to the friends that I had, who were mostly older kids. She asked them not to hang out with me as much and spend some of their time with my brother. After all, they were my brother’s age and they went to the same school. I don’t know why, but this didn’t really bother me. I never had trouble making friends, and Kenny could have them all. I’d just go out and make more.

They actually did my mom the favor and started hanging out with him. It worked out, because my brother had some new friends and I still got to hang out with them. Mom was fine with my being out later on school nights because I was with Kenny. In fact, my not being possessive with my friends ended up paying huge dividends because a few houses down, some of them were in a garage band.

When Kenny and I dropped in, my eyes bugged. I thought they were the coolest kids in the world. They were all tuning up their instruments and playing with their amps, and they all had long hair. I really looked up to all of these guys and treated them like they were gods.

They played Rush, Frampton, REO Speedwagon, Humble Pie, all the big rock tunes of the day. Hell, I knew them all; I was a rocker. The drummer had a blue translucent drum set and I remember he would roll joints on the snare drum. They had two guitars, a bass, and drums. It was so fucking loud. It was the first time I felt the actual, physical crush of live rock music. I fell in love with it instantly.

During one of their rehearsals, I did a beer bong with them. It was the first time for me. For those of you who grew up in a convent, a beer bong is a funnel attached to a tube. You put the tube in your mouth, and they pour an entire beer in the funnel. This forces you to swallow it in one gulp.

I was a wild man, determined to impress them all. I chugged six Olde English 800s in a row. I can still remember them cheering me on: Ad-ler. Ad-ler. Ad-ler! I felt like I really belonged. I smiled and laughed, proud I was able to entertain guys I so admired. When it was time for me to head home for dinner, I grabbed my bike. I had a yellow ten-speed at the time. I hopped on, pushed off, and watched in horror as my foot completely missed the pedal. I fell right off doing a header into the lawn. I was so wasted.

Two of the guys heard me fall and rushed over. “Where’s your brother?” Kenny had wisely taken off, probably after my first beer. So these guys helped me up and walked me and my bike back home. When we got to my house, they set my bike down, rang the doorbell, and ran off. To this day, I wish I had run off with them.





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