It was a dismal, sunless day when I wandered the somewhat sketchy unknowns of the Bethesda limits. I had been down on my luck – starving, scarfless, my throat a parched pit of misery. The karaoke famine had hit me hard. Sure, there was wing night, but what was the point in eating if there was no karaoke? Where were the 40-year-old part time DJs with their Ray Bans and Ed Hardy shirts? Oh, I knew…believe me…I knew…those guys, and those days, were gone. 

I had recently seen a flicker of light in the window at Tommy Joes, so without a second thought, I frantically broke down the doors, only to find…. trivia. The disappointment stayed with me for weeks. 

“How could karaoke only be a fad?” I wondered, as I dragged myself along the sidewalks, ambivalent to my eventual crossing of the Rockville border. Bethesda. What was it anyway? Why did it flicker in the minds and hearts of so many for so long, only to fade away…much like my old friend…Grohl. 

A helicopter began circling over my head… I couldn’t understand what was going on. Had I done something wrong? Were they going to tow me away to some sort of rock n’ roll purgatory? 

And then. 

As if by magic. 

A tiny figure materialized in the sky, attached to a thick cable, slowly descending through the cloudless sky. Could it be? 

No… those days were gone. The glory and the fire in our hearts had all but burned out. There would be no more pounding of the drums…no more relentless screaming into the crowds of adoring fans. No. Grohl had moved on entirely to the endless battle of fighting the Foo. I had tried to talk him out of it, but it was always there – in his goofy smile; in his floppy hair – I knew Grohl wouldn’t be my best bro forever. 

But suddenly, I understood that the gods of rock had heard my pleas – they had heard my woeful sighs as I quietly packed away my Grohlstalgia in my parents’ basement. They knew that such a duo could never truly be silenced. I swept back my unwashed hair (which, sadly, would never look remotely like Jimmy Page’s), and I held out my thin, pale arms in a gesture of hopeful welcoming. If this really was Grohl, he would never recognize me… my womens’ Size 6 jeans sagged pathetically from my hips; the glasses which I had so lovingly worn in homage to John Lennon were cracked and dirtied; my Queen t-shirt was nothing but a rag draped across my shoulders. 

As Grohl descended to the ground, I could see the light returning from the skies. The clouds parted, and I knew that only good things would come. He detached the cable from himself, and looked at me with that same sheepish grin as always – “What’s up bro? Wanna rock n’ roll?” 

I shook the disbelief from my eyes and said, “Bro…. the famine has ended.”