Ballad of William Bailey

When I open my eyes the only thing certain is W. Axl Rose. That inimitable voice instantly transports me to the days of my youth, before the definitions of basic words in the English lexicon (fun, happiness, problem, life, etc.) were flipped upside-down, erased, and surreptitiously rewritten while I slept. Now I’m being whisked away to a state of temporary euphoria as Slash’s massive solo at the end of “Rocket Queen” embraces me like a warm blanket. There’s a likelihood that I’m dreaming…and I’m not ruling out the possibility that I’m dead and this is what believers in the paranormal refer to as an “out-of-body experience.” I don’t really feel anything and I can’t seem to move my extremities under my own will, though it wouldn’t surprise me if I’m simply not trying hard enough. Ideally, I’ve always fancied the idea of “November Rain” playing as my soul departs from its external shell and ascends to the afterlife, but it’s highly plausible that The Man Upstairs prefers Appetite for Destruction, a divine selection with which I’d have no qualms.
For whatever it’s worth, I owe a lot to Guns N’ Roses for who I am today. Whether or not that’s a good thing is still under debate; however, I’d rather be in my current position in the universe than a god amongst men in an alternate reality who was never exposed to GN’R. I remember the first time I saw the video for “Welcome to the Jungle” like it was yesterday. I was eight years old and it changed my life. The sight of five longhaired, tattooed rebels making beautiful noise I never before thought possible awakened me to the fact that there was much more to the innocent world in which I existed. I became aware of a counterculture that rejects the societal norms being instilled in me by my parents, teachers, priests, and various other authority figures. From that moment on, Axl was my hero. I no longer dreamed of being a policeman or the starting shortstop for the Phillies. My sole aspiration in life was to be the lead singer in a Rock and Roll band. Though that’s the polar opposite of my current career path, I still fantasize about wailing into the microphone before a packed house of screaming fans. Today, however, if I were to step on stage in front of 18 mentally challenged third-graders and sing, speak, or even stand motionless, I would be terrified beyond the realm of human comprehension. My posture and movement would be as rigid as a month-old corpse. I’d be sweating like a whore in church. My heart would be pumping out of my chest as if a handful of cherry bombs were ignited in my aorta. Mutant butterflies would be slamdancing in the pit of my stomach. My breathing would be on par with that of an 85 year-old woman with terminal lung cancer and a deviated septum who was just whacked in the jugular with a ball-peen hammer. My brain would be functioning on the level of a single-celled prehistoric amoeba. Obviously, the aforementioned 1988 music video didn’t propel me on the fast track to rock stardom, but it initiated a passionate love affair with music that still burns strong today. Throughout the journey of life I have experienced so many uptight, closed-minded people who live boring lives and work jobs they despise merely because that is what society accepts and expects them to do. Every time I encounter one of these pitiful creatures, I think, “Damn…if they had only heard ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ when they were eight…”