My Appetite For Destruction (36 page)

Kimberly was a petite, attractive blonde. She said, “I used to be in love with you.”

I barked, “Used to?” They all laughed. Chuck said he would not have known it was me had I not been introduced during the show. That was probably because my hair was so much shorter and my skin had taken on a sickly gray tint.

I realized it had been quite a while since I had been recognized in public. One of the last times was not pleasant at all; in fact, it was downright heartbreaking. I was in the frozen foods section of a local grocery store, stoned out of my mind as usual. A shapely female had caught my attention, and as I walked closer to her, she turned toward me.

It was Cheryl! She had barely changed and was as beautiful as ever. Before I could utter a word, she looked me up and down, put her hand over her mouth, and began to sob openly. I tried to say something, but she quickly turned and ran away. For at least a full minute, I just stood there in shock.

Being around Chuck and his crew reminded me of the friendly, enthusiastic fans who surrounded me during my heyday, and that was nice. Chuck proclaimed, “I’ve got over a hundred
GNR
shows on video.”

“No way. I need to see them.” A few days later I had him over. He was thrilled. He asked if he could bring some things for me to sign. No problem.

Sheila and I made sure to score plenty of dope before Chuck came by. Chuck arrived and handed me a box of over fifteen videotapes, each with custom-made
GNR
covers. It was the coolest thing ever. First, I popped in a show from the Felt Forum, New York. While the concert was playing I would duck into the bathroom to smoke out while Sheila remained, and when I returned, she would drop out of sight. We took turns. It must have been obvious as hell that something was going on.

I
t didn’t take long before Chuck enthusiastically bombarded me with questions. Some I wasn’t entirely comfortable with answering. He asked me about the contract that I signed in 1990, which I assumed was the probationary agreement carrying the $2,000 fine if I slipped up. “What? I signed something that said I couldn’t party?” I wasn’t really up to explaining everything to him and dismissed the whole matter by branding it “bullshit.”

“Well, do you still party?” he asked.

“Only weed. That’s my last vice.” I lied.

Chuck had brought me a CD he compiled of all of the early Guns N’ Roses demos, including the original version of “Don’t Cry.” Man, talk about memory lane. I hadn’t heard these recordings in years. I popped the CD on and got behind my electric drum set, which was set up in my bedroom. First was “Shadow of Your Love,” one of the band’s fastest songs. I played along and didn’t miss a beat.

Among the items that Chuck had brought over for me to sign was an eight-by-ten photo of me at the Ritz concert taped by
MTV
. I said to Chuck, “Hang on.” I ran into my closet and grabbed the pair of leather pants I was wearing in the picture. I wanted to give him something to show my appreciation for his devotion, much like Nikki Sixx had done for me with his leather jacket. Chuck was delighted, telling me, “This is rock history, the Ritz show, right here.” I felt a temporary lift in my mood, and I embraced it. I had nearly forgotten what it was like to be treated like a celebrity and not a fuckup.

A
friend of mine had gotten me Slash’s phone number. I started to call him regularly but was always bounced to his voice mail. I left him messages, but unfortunately he never returned them. I guess I felt that if I kept calling, I would eventually reconnect with my old friend.

I continued with my daily routine, partying with Sheila, watching TV, eating only from time to time. Chuck called quite a bit, leaving upbeat messages, and one evening I invited him over while I had a number of other friends around. One of them was John Weissmuller, grandson of Johnny Weissmuller, the Tarzan from the thirties and forties films. He came by with two of his friends, a guy and a sweetheart of a girl they had just met.

The girl offered to buy food for us, so we called up to Pink Dot, the convenience store delivery service. While she was placing our order she gave them my address and phone number, then let out a laugh. She told us that the person from the store said that there was a note next to my phone number on their business computer screen: “Former rock star—be patient.” Now, that’s perfect. They certainly know me.

Chuck had brought over a number of eighties L.A. metal magazines, including
Bam
and
Mean Street,
all featuring my old band on the covers. As I was flipping through an old
Bam
article, someone shouted, completely out of the blue, “I wanna smoke some coke!”

Chuck asked, “Why in the hell would you want to do that?” The guy looked at Chuck, confused, thinking, “Why the hell not?” A few minutes later, I decided to kick everyone out, and nobody protested.

Several weeks later, Chuck talked me into going with him to the Rainbow. Getting me to go anywhere was no easy task. But I loved the Rainbow, and Chuck was persistent. Later that evening at the Rainbow, I bumped into Carmine Appice, a legendary drummer who had played with Jeff Beck, Rod Stewart, and Ozzy Osbourne, and had been in some great bands, including Cactus and Vanilla Fudge. Carmine was jazzed to see me. We grabbed a table and had dinner, during which he reminded me of a show one time when he was asked to introduce
GNR
. He mentioned that he couldn’t believe what Axl had done to Guns N’ Roses, getting rid of virtually every original member over the years. We just shook our heads.

The best part of the evening was when he told us stories of being in Vanilla Fudge and completely surprised us by telling us it was he who wrote the huge hits “Hot Legs” and “Young Turks” for Rod Stewart. Then I told Carmine my Rod story. Shortly after he had married supermodel Rachel Hunter, word somehow got out about the brief dalliance I had with her. Rod called me, and I was completely stoked to be speaking with one of my rock ’n’ roll heroes. “I’m going to kick your ass,” he said threateningly.

“Cool. Fuck, you’re Rod Stewart. I’d be honored to have you kick my ass.” Carmine laughed heartily. It was a great evening, one of my best in a very long time.

L
ater that week, back at the condo, Sheila introduced me to a man I truly admired, Patrick McGinnis. He was a top lawyer but also one of the most honest people I had ever met. He had recently beat cancer, which had given him a new perspective on life. He gave me the lowdown on all the old lawyers I told him I had hired and was not surprised by the trouble many of them had caused me. I was reassured that I could count on him for anything. He was filthy rich, so I figured that I would never have to worry about him ripping me off.

One evening, he invited me out to Chasen’s, this swanky restaurant in Beverly Hills. The rugs were plusher than plush and it reeked of old Hollywood. I opened the menus and my jaw dropped. A small salad was like $20. Patrick offered to pick up the tab, but I didn’t want to take advantage of his hospitality, so I opted to just have a drink instead. There was a live band playing, and Pat must have sensed my taking them in, because he asked if I would be interested in joining them for a song or two. I smiled broadly just at the thought of it. Well, Pat had serious pull all over town, and I’m sure he knew the owners or management at Chasen’s, because a moment later I heard: “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a treat for you: from Guns N’ Roses, please welcome Steven Adler.” The place went nuts. I got behind the kit and we rocked out to “Honky-Tonk Women” by the Rolling Stones.

Pat was overjoyed and bought the entire room a round. I felt on top again, but the emotion was fleeting. This is so sad, but the pangs of my addiction were getting the best of me, and I had to leave abruptly, much to Pat’s dismay. “Steven, c’mon, do a few more songs,” he begged.

“Sorry, Pat, got another commitment.”

The drugs were beckoning again, and I had to get home. I knew Sheila would be there, but despite her company, loneliness was my true companion. Sheila was around out of necessity. She was a good girl who ended up traveling a road that can bring out the worst in anyone. Her very presence encouraged drug use, and I prayed for the day she’d leave. Although the possibilities of a new love in my life seemed remote, I still yearned.

W
hen the loneliness became overwhelming, I would call Cherry. She still lived in San Francisco, but I foolishly kept her in my heart. I was so obsessed with the thought of her that I ordered six copies of the 1996 holiday issue of
Hustler
magazine that I was told she was featured in. Unfortunately, when I got the magazine, I realized it was the December ’96 issue that showcased her, not the annual holiday special.

One afternoon I had the wild notion to just pop in on her. I grabbed a flight to San Francisco and surprised Cherry at home, but she was not at all pleased to see me. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, and when I came back, I stopped short in the hallway to overhear her and her mother discussing how I looked like a walking corpse. I kept hinting that I wanted to be alone with Cherry, but she stalled, and when her mom finally left, Cherry said she would not have sex with me. She finally agreed to give me a blow job but insisted that I wear a rubber. I had unprotected sex with this woman a thousand times. Did I really look that bad? I must have.

I was genuinely pissed when she suggested that it would be best if I leave. It was pouring rain outside. She offered to take me to some local commuter airport, and I just said fine. She dropped me off out front and as she drove away, I discovered there were no more flights that day.

I walked along the side of the highway, down the long-ass hill that led me to a windswept port, a lost soul with no money. I stopped in several motels along the way, and none of them had a single room available. I was drenched and ducked into a nearby Denny’s, taking a seat in the lobby. A waitress approached me and asked, “Can I help you?”

“Yes.” I smiled. “May I use your phone?”

“Sir, there is a pay phone right behind you.” I explained that I didn’t have any money. Her eyes narrowed and she turned away. A minute later the restaurant manager approached me.

“Sir, I need to ask you to leave.”

“But it’s raining outside.”

“There is a homeless shelter a few miles down the road.”

As I walked out of that Denny’s in the pouring rain, I realized that I had truly, miserably hit bottom.

When I got home, my addictions just took over, and I continued to party. I thought it was amazing that I hadn’t killed myself yet. When I smoked coke, my heart pounded viciously. One hit was never enough, nor twenty. I became so wired, I was paranoid
and
schizophrenic. I’d lock myself in my bedroom or bathroom, but this would only intensify the paranoia. I was so spun on the shit, a mere knock on the door made my pulse rate skyrocket. The answer for me was insane: I increased my usage.

The cycle was brutally nonstop, with incredibly abusive bouts yielding to pathetic attempts to clean up, which only served as an unintended way to set myself up for the next free fall. I didn’t realize, never consciously grasped, that I was locked into this destructive routine. I just lived it, up and down, up and down, with occasional disruptions caused by my stroke, some cardiac incidents, and an uncontrolled fit that would leave me so mangled, I couldn’t possibly reenter the cycle for a while. But as soon as I felt better, ususally one notch above foot-in-the-grave status, it was time to party. The resultant depression became so suffocating that I didn’t even know it was a stage; I believed this was all there was to my existence. This intensified the drug abuse until I crashed and burned more disastrously than before. Those were the only variants: the severity and extent of the wreckage.

Beginning in 1990, when I was kicked out of
GNR
, this was the way my life degenerated for nearly two decades. I had literally created my own personal lost generation, a high that ended up making me feel so low, nothing could bring me back. Eventually, death seemed an attractive option, or more precisely, an alternative to the satanic treadmill I had created for myself.

A
fter parting with
GNR
, Slash had formed his own band, Slash’s Snakepit. I had an opportunity to see them as Jamie, hitting his stride as a promoter/manager, could now get us into any club in L.A. He invited me to check out Slash at his show at the Whisky. Before the show, I met my old friend Taylor, who knew Slash too. She had been a part of the band’s circle since the beginning. I entered the upstairs area of the Whisky, where a section was roped off for friends of the band.

Someone yelled, “Hey, Adler!” and I saw Slash’s head turn. He saw me and immediately got up and approached me, looking surprised. “I just figured it was Jamie who was here, then I saw you,” he said. We hugged, and I took a seat next to him. “So how ya been?” he asked.

As usual, I didn’t think twice about sweetening the truth. “Great! Oh man, I’m playing everywhere. There’s so much going on.” I wanted him to know I was psyched, ready for action. I was thinking that it would be so great to join Slash onstage.

“So what songs you guys doing?” I asked. Slash suddenly became incoherent and mumbled something. I know him well and was disappointed that he had no interest in inviting me to join his band for a tune. I turned and looked for Taylor and saw that she was still behind the ropes. Security would not let her in, so I asked Slash, “Hey, let Taylor in?” He refused. I couldn’t believe the nerve of this guy. I stuck a middle finger in his face and stormed off. I was so hurt.

During this time, Jamie started coming around more often. We were getting along so well we decided to move in together. We rented a house in the Hollywood Hills. He had the downstairs to himself. One of his buddies, former porn star Buck Adams, showed up from time to time and we became fast friends. Although he was now a producer in his industry, it didn’t quite pay the bills. So Buck had a side gig painting houses.