grohl was back, but was he really... back? had he returned, my destined friend? i still wasn't entirely sure. he looked like grohl, yes. he sounded like grohl, true. but did he rock like grohl? did he have the same unquenchable thirst for broventure, the same devil-may-care nature which so perfectly complemented my own?

was he an imposter? had he been sent by someone to infiltrate my bethesda-based karaoke ring, the most powerful in the greater washington dc metropolitan area? or was he sent by the gods of rock, returning as Grohl the White to guide me into the rock'n'roll future? these were no idle questions- this was the fate of an era, the doom of our time. was this truly grohl?

i had to test him.

i jumped to my feet, karaoke mic falling into my hands like it belonged there- like i had been born holding one. perhaps i had. i took it downtown the only way i know how to: hard and fast, sexy and awe-inspiring by turns. i probably don't need to tell you what i sang- you'd be under pressure to forget, friend.

but i was not alone in that room. grohl hadn't waste a second- not a tenth of one. he whistled, a high and clear note that resounded above the din of the crowded bethesda watering hole. to the exquisite horror of the audience a wall behind them exploded in a shower of bricks, revealing his legendary drumset. it flew right to him, the only man who could tame those mighty skins. the mightiest of them all, one upon which beats could be pounded out faster than on any other set in all of bethesda.

grohl winked. indeed, he was back.