It's So Easy - Duff Mckagan [151]
Writing is a solitary undertaking. Whenever I feel all alone, though, my dog Buckley is always there, snoring right by my side. Thanks, pal.
My literary agent, Dan Mandel at Sanford J. Greenburger, eased me through the process of securing my book deal. This could and should have been a pain in the ass. Dan, you made it all understandable and actually fairly enjoyable.
I wish to thank my band Loaded: Jeff Rouse, Mike Squires, and Isaac Carpenter. Thanks, fellas, for putting up with me burying my face in a damn laptop for countless hours in the studio, on the bus, on flights, and wherever else.
Thanks also to my business manager, Beth Sabbagh, the rock and voice of reason in my often chaotic life; to my lawyer Glen Miskel—we’ve come a long and eventful way together and I’ll miss you; to Andy Bottomley, for being the smartest business partner a guy could ever ask for as well as a good friend; and to Jim Wilkie for letting me continue to hone my craft with a column on ESPN.com.
My editor, Stacy Creamer, Touchstone’s publisher, believed in this project from day one, a fact that still floors me. When a professional of her caliber shows such unabashed excitement, it shames the rest of us who are jaded and gray. Thank you, Stacy. We are fellows cut from the same cloth; threadbare, sliced open, and constantly looking for the sun breaks to warm the calluses and cold away.
Words, of course, are the ammunition with which we writers fight. New York Times crossword guru Will Shortz has over the years helped add crafty and smart vocabulary words to my arsenal. Jon Krakauer and Thomas Friedman write stunning and readable nonfiction that constantly inspires me. Cormac McCarthy and the late, great Upton Sinclair craft the most wonderful and dark prose ever written. Period.
To Axl: thanks for putting up with my shit and being my friend in those dark hours.
To Izzy: thanks for leading the way and being a mentor.
To Slash: thanks for being such a musical inspiration.
To Steven Adler: I will always love you like a brother.
To Matt Sorum: you’re a lion of a man.
To Dave Kushner: you are the real hero of Velvet Revolver.
To Scott Weiland: keep on, my friend.
To Sensei Benny Urquidez and Sensei Sarah “Eagle Woman” Urquidez: simply put, I learned to live again through the two of you.
To the Seattleheads worldwide: you guys fucking kick ass!
To Marybeth: thanks for being an awesome friend and for getting a whole mess of photos for this tome. You are one of a kind, sister.
Thanks also to Iggy Pop, who provides the ethical compass I use to point my way. You keep it real. I try to.
To my siblings Jon, Mark, Carol, Bruce, Claudia, Joan, Matt—for starters, let’s just get this out of the way: Mom loved me best. You probably overheard her whispering this to me from time to time. What’s that? You say she loved you best? God, we were lucky to have that woman as our mother. But I also feel lucky to have had you all as sisters and brothers. I appreciate all the inspiration, support, and guidance you have provided—and your low tolerance for bullshit.
And to Grace and Mae: I know that someday you may both be curious to read this book. You have asked me questions about my youth and I have done my best to responsibly answer your questions without terrifying you guys too much. This is the whole story—the good, the bad, and the ugly—and these pages are an attempt to make some sense of the crazier times in my life. Writing this book has made me realize just how lucky I am to have two daughters at all, and I hope that I don’t embarrass either of you with any of these stories. In fact, I hope you guys can learn a thing or two from them, and I hope that going through so