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

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.