Jerusalem, I say quietly. Jerusalem.
The alter of evening starting to spread its black cloth
In the eastern apse of things
The soul that desires to return home
Desires its own destruction.
We know, which never stopped anyone,
The fear of it and the dread of it on every inch of earth,
Though light’s still lovely in the west,
Billowing, purple, and scarlet-white.

—Charles Wright, “Appalachia”

Sometimes when I drive, I smoke Marlboro Ultra Lights and pretend they are Marlboro Reds.

Then I pretend I am in a gritty, independent film wearing a lot of eyeliner and greasy hair. I picture myself as an emaciated drug addict, but a pitiable and gorgeous one. I’m driving slow motion towards my doom in one of those iconic nightscapes, neon lights reflected off my windshield. In the background, there’s a dirty bass line and a scattered drumbeat that highlight my eddying spiral towards a heart-breaking and beautiful collapse.

Now, I know there’s nothing sexy about drug addiction. As there is also nothing sexy about the rank tobacco odor on my fingers hours after I smoke. Or lung cancer.

But after fifteen years of driving, I’ve collected quite a “heroin chic” soundtrack alongside my regular dose of what one of my brothers has affectionately named “Kelly’s Sad Bastard Tunes.”

“Fascination Street” by the Cure is a perennial favorite on my dark sexy play list. “Add it Up” by the Violent Femmes is another. Odelay by Beck. Yes by Morphine. Boxer by the National. That great section of “The Bends” when Thom Yorke sort of raps: “I wish it was the sixties. I wish I could be happy. I wish. I wish. I wish that something would happen.” Nirvana Unplugged. All great songs for driving. And I love to drive.

But the ultimate album for celebrating and then exorcising any bit of evil I’ve got left in me is one I bootlegged off a friend in 1988 (unbeknownst at the time to my parents—guess they can’t ground me now that I’m 31—hey Mom and Dad), the first year I was allowed to listen to “secular” music: Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction.

Perhaps it’s contradictory for a young woman who’s spent the better portion of her twenties studying feminism to count among her favorite albums as misogynist of bit of cock rock as ever was perpetrated on American airwaves. I have no wish to argue that it’s not. It is. There’s an absolutely deplorable depiction of women, of sex, of alcohol and drug abuse, of all humanity, for Pete’s sake (just listen to “It’s So Easy,” there’s no redeeming that).

However, I still love Appetite. I’m a bit horrified to admit this, but I may even love it because of those things.

For four years of my adolescent evangelicalism, I gave up the album in a quest to listen only to that which was “true, lovely, and righteous.” But every now and again, I’d let myself listen to that deliciously terrifying opening of “Welcome to the Jungle” with Axl Rose’s unearthly whispery howl and I’d get chills.

I don’t know if my quest for truth and beauty has broadened its parameters over the years or if I have simply gotten better at letting myself have fun. But several years ago, I was standing next to a $5 bin in a Wal-Mart electronics section and I re-purchased Appetite.

I’m so glad I did.

When I had an awful day in Boston, I’d put it in my portable CD player and begin to walk with that serpentine swagger only Axl Rose could elicit (by the way, when I’m alone in my room, I can do an excellent Axl impression). After I got to “Night-train,” I’d feel stronger and a bit easier. By the time I got to Steven Adler’s hard drumline on “Paradise City,” a song oddly reminiscent of the best of Skynyrd, I felt downright powerful.

Because Appetite has such a potent cathartic effect (I would imagine it’s similar to many of the mind-altering substances they celebrate), I try to use it sparingly. I don’t want it to lose its efficacy.

I pull it out only when I am in sorest need.

Twice last year, provoked by what I perceived at the time to be the betrayal of a former boyfriend, I took a pack of cigarettes and Appetite and headed into the Sierras. The second time, I stayed gone for six hours. When I returned to my apartment smelling like smoke and with a terrible taste in my mouth, I felt buzzed and a bit deflated, but I was finally calm.

One line from “Welcome to the Jungle” provides a particular insight into why I keep this album around 21 years after its release: “You can have anything you want, but you better not take it from me.”

Perhaps it’s immoral or at best, disingenuous, for a woman who feels victimized to attempt to siphon power from an album that depicts the victimization of women so graphically. I’m honestly not sure, and I’m not really trying to argue that point here.

What I do know is, in some small way, Appetite feels MINE and prevents my erosion like trees planted on some muddy hill in me. It may take me places I’d rather not go, but so does life. And if I have any choice in the matter, I’d like to go to those places ready to spit back, ready to slither, to dance anyway.