Read Online My Appetite For Destruction by Steven Adler - Free Book Online
Authors: Steven Adler
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“Please forgive me—it’ll never happen again—I’ve been such an idiot” routine. But it didn’t really make much difference because Mel had already issued his edict before Mom came to get me.
Mel said no way I was welcome back in the house, so I was taken to a foster home in Pasadena. There were all these crazy kids running around, screaming at the top of their lungs. I never felt sorry for myself, it was just “This sucks. I’m out of here.” So I called Lisa and said, “Woman, you gotta come rescue me.” Within an hour she was there to pick me up right outside the home. The lady running the place was freaking out, all yelling after me: “You’re not allowed to leave. Come back here. I’m calling the police!”
MY DESTINY DEFINED
W e were just like Bonnie and Clyde. We laughed and tore off down that dirt road. I can still remember the unbridled freedom I felt as we sped away. That night I realized that home for me would always be where I was loved for what I was, not what I could be molded into. I told myself that home was an illusion anyway. We all die alone, and the people who learn to be their own good company are the ones who have the best shot at being happy.
Lisa was so very cool. She was always up for anything, and I loved hanging with her. We would drive to Malibu Beach and park up by the cliffs. We’d party in the car, push the seats down, and slide them way forward. We’d screw in the backseat and then pass out.
That summer Lisa took me to the U.S. Festival in San Bernardino. We went on Sunday, the heavy metal day. Opening the show was Mötley Crüe, who were well on their way to becoming superstars. I remember studying every move Tommy Lee made that day—the way he counted off the next song; the way he twirled his sticks; the way he used those sticks to point at the audience, then at the other members of the band. Those drumsticks became extensions of his hands.
Most important, I studied the way Tommy smiled that day. He was always beaming. I got chills. That was gonna be me. I couldn’t stand musicians who looked so serious up on the stage, like they were constipated. If you want to look that way, go get a fucking root canal. Playing music is a pleasure and a privilege. Tommy showed me the way, and that was to be my way. Thanks for being an incredibly positive inspiration, Tommy.
NO REPRIEVE
T hey’d only let me back in school if I agreed to see a counselor. He wanted to know about the recurring trouble at home and why I was skipping school. Even though Mel and Mom had relented and let me back in the house after the foster home fiasco and my weekend furlough with Lisa, it just wasn’t working out. I was just impossible and told the counselor so. I said, “Life at home sucks. I can’t stand it and I can’t stay there. If you can pay me three fifty an hour, I’ll get my own place and guarantee a C average.”
He said, “I can’t do that.” So I told him I couldn’t stay in school; I needed to work.
I had been home less than three months before I was kicked out and all my shit was on the street again. I should have asked Mel to install a revolving door on the front of the house. At least there were no extended tirades this time; it was just “Hit the road, loser.”
I couldn’t take the look on Mom’s face. Now, it’s not like I hadn’t seen it before, I just didn’t want to see it again. It meant failure, total failure, my failure. My repeated ability to screw everything up pummeled my parents to the point that now they just went through the motions without any feelings.
Mel and Mom had most of my stuff out on the front lawn before I got home. The worst was saying good-bye to Jamie again, his teary eyes, wet cheeks, trying to smile through it all. I don’t even want to think about it. He was standing in the yard and I knew if I went over to hug him, I was going to lose it. It was déjà vu all over again, loading up Stormin’ Norman’s troop carrier to take me
Mel said no way I was welcome back in the house, so I was taken to a foster home in Pasadena. There were all these crazy kids running around, screaming at the top of their lungs. I never felt sorry for myself, it was just “This sucks. I’m out of here.” So I called Lisa and said, “Woman, you gotta come rescue me.” Within an hour she was there to pick me up right outside the home. The lady running the place was freaking out, all yelling after me: “You’re not allowed to leave. Come back here. I’m calling the police!”
MY DESTINY DEFINED
W e were just like Bonnie and Clyde. We laughed and tore off down that dirt road. I can still remember the unbridled freedom I felt as we sped away. That night I realized that home for me would always be where I was loved for what I was, not what I could be molded into. I told myself that home was an illusion anyway. We all die alone, and the people who learn to be their own good company are the ones who have the best shot at being happy.
Lisa was so very cool. She was always up for anything, and I loved hanging with her. We would drive to Malibu Beach and park up by the cliffs. We’d party in the car, push the seats down, and slide them way forward. We’d screw in the backseat and then pass out.
That summer Lisa took me to the U.S. Festival in San Bernardino. We went on Sunday, the heavy metal day. Opening the show was Mötley Crüe, who were well on their way to becoming superstars. I remember studying every move Tommy Lee made that day—the way he counted off the next song; the way he twirled his sticks; the way he used those sticks to point at the audience, then at the other members of the band. Those drumsticks became extensions of his hands.
Most important, I studied the way Tommy smiled that day. He was always beaming. I got chills. That was gonna be me. I couldn’t stand musicians who looked so serious up on the stage, like they were constipated. If you want to look that way, go get a fucking root canal. Playing music is a pleasure and a privilege. Tommy showed me the way, and that was to be my way. Thanks for being an incredibly positive inspiration, Tommy.
NO REPRIEVE
T hey’d only let me back in school if I agreed to see a counselor. He wanted to know about the recurring trouble at home and why I was skipping school. Even though Mel and Mom had relented and let me back in the house after the foster home fiasco and my weekend furlough with Lisa, it just wasn’t working out. I was just impossible and told the counselor so. I said, “Life at home sucks. I can’t stand it and I can’t stay there. If you can pay me three fifty an hour, I’ll get my own place and guarantee a C average.”
He said, “I can’t do that.” So I told him I couldn’t stay in school; I needed to work.
I had been home less than three months before I was kicked out and all my shit was on the street again. I should have asked Mel to install a revolving door on the front of the house. At least there were no extended tirades this time; it was just “Hit the road, loser.”
I couldn’t take the look on Mom’s face. Now, it’s not like I hadn’t seen it before, I just didn’t want to see it again. It meant failure, total failure, my failure. My repeated ability to screw everything up pummeled my parents to the point that now they just went through the motions without any feelings.
Mel and Mom had most of my stuff out on the front lawn before I got home. The worst was saying good-bye to Jamie again, his teary eyes, wet cheeks, trying to smile through it all. I don’t even want to think about it. He was standing in the yard and I knew if I went over to hug him, I was going to lose it. It was déjà vu all over again, loading up Stormin’ Norman’s troop carrier to take me
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