Dan "Bjorn Turoque" Crane, a 32-year-old Bruce Springsteen lookalike, sports a bandana, a slim, gray leather tie and gaudy black-and-white checked shirt. He's all confidence and rock-star bravura: "I know I have a chance, I just have 'quois' as the French say, hard to explain, but I have it." Bjorn plays guitar and cites Bob Mould and Pete Townsend as his actual guitar heroes, but when he picks an air guitar hero, he strays out of the genre entirely, selecting tennis player Bjorn Borg, his namesake. "He has real grace on the court, great moves," he explains, "and that is what this is all about, grace, style and power."

And now we're ushered to the stage. Everyone hurries for just one more can of beer or fortifying shot. (So much for Cedric's advice about inebriation.) I head to the strip club bathroom to practice a few high kicks and tough-girl sneers, and am gratified when the strippers murmur approval.

Minutes later, all 18 of us line up by the side of the stage, hearts palpitating, fingers stretching, getting introduced to the three judges and the scoring system. Our fate lies in the hands of three judges, Adam Crystal, a classically trained musician in the band Dopo Yume, Ulton Guilfoyle, curator of film at the Guggenheim Museum and a Live Aid concert producer, and Gavin McInnes, co-founder and publisher of Vice magazine. A tough bunch. Each performer has 60 seconds to wow them. The judges score on a 4.0 to 6.0 point scale based on originality, charisma, feeling, technical ability, artistic merit, and "airness." Cedric defines the elusive "airness" as "the extent to which you are watching a performance that is not an imitation of playing the guitar but rather a form of art unto itself."

It's on. Some contestants sensually caress their air guitars, others thrash around with it like it was a hot potato. Almost everyone pays homage to the classic moves: the windmill, the high kick, or the passionate, down-on-one-knee guitar solo. Some keep their eyes open, others close them rapturously. A few contestants seem to forget about their air guitar entirely, throwing in snaps, claps and wild hip gyrations. Snatchface performs dozens of kicks and jumps, and her act ends up costarring her purple underwear. C. Diddy, red-faced, tongue out in concentration, attempts a behind-the-back air guitar solo.

The crowd is tipsy, capricious and loud as my turn approaches. They don't want correct chords and fingering, they want showmanship, pyrotechnics, air guitar heroes.

I've chosen Joan Jett's "Bad Reputation." I flail, I thrash, I shake, my glasses fall down my nose, my hair plasters itself to my sweaty forehead. I look like I am manhandling a bag of invisible eels.

I am, well, awful.

But somehow, after I finish, there's loud applause, flash photographs and cheers. I feel somewhere between truly exhilarated and awfully nauseated.

My performance is deemed "horrible" by Gavin and "terrible" by Adam. At least, they say, "you were better than the other press chick." (The press chick in question performed a rather tentative rendition of Avril Lavigne's "Skater Boi," which was met with tepid applause and some loud boos. The host scolded the booers, saying, "That is not the spirit of air guitar!")

Not surprisingly, I do not advance to the second round. But C. Diddy, Bjorn Turoque, Super Julie, The Shred, and Rufus Sewer, a dapper performer in a long, white silk scarf who describes his style as "Midwestern sexuality," all do. This time around, contestants all have to perform to the same surprise song: The Smashing Pumpkins' "Rat in a Cage." Each brings his or her unique stylings to the proceedings; sweat flies, fists pump, shirts are removed. But in the end, to wild cheers of "the chink is going to go all the way," C. Diddy emerges victorious, with Bjorn Turoque taking second place.

The evening ends with a dazzling duet performance of Led Zepplin's "Good Times, Bad Times" by C. Diddy and Bjorn Turoque. Of course, audience members wave air lighters.

The lights come up and I slink back to the bar while cameras swarm over the newly crowned winner. An hour later, I'm still flushed and flooded with congratulations, thumbs-up signs and post-performance beers from a forgiving crowd. It's been a glorious night -- the couch potato's version of the American dream, a brief taste of rock stardom without any of the laborious studio time, nail-biting demo shopping, or, you know, having to practice playing the guitar.

Or, as Cedric puts it, "Air guitar is attainable by everybody. Not unlike falling in love, it could happen to anyone -- and everyone can do it."

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