"Hey, wait a minute!" I thought, "I could hop on eBay, bid on an inoperable brain tumor or twelve, and phone the Make a Wish Foundation!" But then I started worrying about auction snipers, overnight shipping and the hassles of dealing with PayPal. I quickly acquiesced to defeat. I swerved to avoid missing a cross-walking hobo when a magic mind-missile struck me right between the eyes: "I host a cable television show!" I shouted at the hungry, bearded, screaming old man pressed against my windshield. "There’s got to be a way I can exploit the network and get them to make my childlike fantasy a reality!"

I went into work the following day, looked up some Coheed tour dates, wrote up a half-baked pitch about "using Rock Band to teach you how to play the drums" and fired it off into the void. I expected that nothing would come of it, despite hearing word that G4 was trying to license the song for air; there were just no way it was going to happen. Cue a random elevator ride on an unassuming Friday in March, when Laurie from G4’s talent department casually mentioned my "drumming thing" was "probably going to happen... in a few days."

The sound of my jaw slamming against the floor was masked by the ding of the elevator. The doors open, I walked out, and a few drops of urine squeaked out onto my designer jeans. (Reminder, send apology post-it to the wardrobe department.) Fear gripped me. I hadn’t touched a drum kit in ages! The little hamster on the wheel in my head began racing as I actively searched for excuses to bow out. I would be rusty, at best. My January delusions of rock-grandeur were completely shattered as blindingly painful self-doubt surged through every square inch of my body. I wanted call the whole thing off right then and there, but I sheepishly slipped on some wolf’s clothing, thanked Laurie, and trembled back to my cubicle. I was going to have to fake my way through this one... I "confidently" shot my arms into the air and announced to the office I would be performing with Coheed and Cambria. I needed practice. I wanted to vomit.

I was going out of town that weekend, and thanks to a scheduling issues, I would only have Monday night to dust off any remaining percussive abilities. I booked a small rehearsal studio, plugged my iPhone into a mixer and literally drummed my hands into a nightmarish mess of sweat and blood. On the way home, I thought my phone was busted when I firmly mashed it against my ear, yet was unable to hear anything from the speaker. It was then I took a deep breath and realized I had just spent an hour, using two splintery wooden sticks, to pound tinnitus right into my temporal lobe. I was damn near deaf. And thankful that my television had closed captioning that evening.

The next day I awoke to the faint whisper of an alarm, fighting valiantly against the ringing in my ears to rise me for work. I hosted Attack, unable to hear the cues in my earpiece. I went home. I didn’t sleep. At all. The noise-and-nerves cocktail that was my head simply rejected the notion of rest.

Hours later, I found myself on the stage of the Pontiac Garage behind the Jimmy Kimmel theatre. Before I knew what hit me, the cameras were rolling and I was trying to antiquate myself to an unfamiliar drum kit. I felt like like a cartoon octopus at a control panel, my arms sloppily flailed out of control. I attempted some double bass, but came up with a left-foot full of hi-hat. I mustered the confidence to attack the cymbal-bell, but my sticks amateurishly collided with the wing nuts holding the cymbal on the stand. My mind sputtered out of control. I immediately sank into a deep depression. My breathing intensified. Frustration consumed me.

A lifetime of seconds passed, and I peered over the drum kit and surveyed the landscape before me. To my left, two gorgeously black-clad backup singers were expertly crooning. To my right, Travis Stever was tapping his foot and crunching out guitar chords. And right in front of me Claudio Sanchez was swaying manically, belting out the chorus to "Welcome Home", with the most gentle and reassuring smile I have ever been blessed to witness. I was playing the drums with Coheed and Cambria. No, wait... I WAS FUCKING PLAYING THE DRUMS WITH COHEED AND CAMBRIA!

Dream achieved. I smiled.

I know I’m supposed to wait until I’m holding a tiny golden statue, but that’s never going to happen. So, with that said: Many, MANY thanks to everyone at for making this silly idea a reality. The countless folks at G4 -- Mike, Laurie, John, Gavin, Neal, Anne, Mike and Joesh. Thanks to The Jimmy Kimmel show and crew for being so gracious and accommodating. And of course, to Coheed and Cambria, for being the best of sports and truly inspirational artists. Thank you, all.