Apparently I am an alien. Normally this would be a preposterous statement - unfounded, ludicrous, and far beyond grandiose. During my July 2005 tour of the American West however, evidence began to build to support this statement. As more facts continued to be revealed, I found myself capping off my tour by performing in Roswell, New Mexico during the International Alien Convention.

Somehow it had been brought to the attention of the members of the "mother ship" that I was suffering from another "episode". They were concerned when they realized I had scheduled my tour to start in Bozeman, Montana, yet purchased an airline ticket to Boise, Idaho. The fact that I designed the tour to start in Montana and finish up in New Mexico via Idaho and Texas further alerted "them" to the fact that something had gone askew. I was undaunted by the prospect of driving the 500-mile trek that would take me to my first date, but my caretakers immediately began to send me subliminal positive messages that help was on the way.

At some point in the tour I became severely disoriented and could not find my performance venue. Panicked (a hobby of mine), I phoned the promoter who promptly asked, "Where are you?" This seems to be a common question for humans to ask when they realize you are lost, while not realizing that you are, uh, LOST! Fortunately my celestial buddies promptly interceded again by quickly mounting a giant blue gorilla on top of a Honda dealership to serve as my point of reference.

Concern from above was elevated to red level when it was noted in my "file" that on the front page of my web site I continue to claim I am from "Planet Richard, Population 1." They exclaimed, "How arrogant!" (although it was also noted in my file that - "Yeah, but he's a musician!"). Looking at my history of releasing a CD entitled Voluntary Solitary followed by Synapse Collapse, plus a brief acting stint as Agent Cupcake in an independent film titled Inbred Redneck Alien Abduction, the panel decided to send top agent John Escobido to facilitate my rescue.

Disguised as both Operations Manager of Ginsberg Music in Roswell and a universe-class percussionist, John came to my assistance seconds after his arrival on Earth - as he quickly adjusted to our atmosphere. During a scorching 108-degree day, his assignment was to remind me of who I was, where I was from, and what was expected of me.

My assignment, John gently reminded me, was to tour internationally and to eventually complete a book called Acoustic Fingerstyle Guitar Workshop, which would contain as many "considerations" as possible to the frequent questions of guitar players - complete with music, an instructional DVD and CD. I had been instructed to somehow convince Mel Bay Publications to release and distribute this book. If I could accomplish this project, I could continue my services here on Earth or have the option of returning home to begin a new career of tuning 12-string guitars throughout the galaxy.

Thank goodness that Mel Bay Publications released the book this spring, saving me from eternal tuning. I jumped at the chance to celebrate by inviting John to join me for a couple of tunes during my performance.

  

Satisfied that I had finally been reoriented, John sent me on my way with a reminder to check in with Headquarters in Roswell, housed in a building cleverly disguised as a museum.

Disguised as a fingerstyle guitar player, I became reacquainted with old friends - as can be seen here with one running to embrace me with a hug.

Another "floated" just outside my show as I flinch and nervously gestured, "Hey, don't make it so obvious."

I tried to book my motel at the "Alien Resistance Headquarters", thinking it said "Alien Resident Headquarters", inquiring if the place had a pool, weight room, and HBO. When I returned to my car, I glanced up and noticed out of the corner of my eye another "mother ship" member in one of the absolute worst disguises I have ever seen. Aliens have never been known to be fashion conscious!

As evening approached I knew it was best to blaze a trail out of town as the first of many of my friends began to experience the effects of the Earth's food and atmosphere.

At this point I suddenly realized why I had been chosen for this job. There was a need for a volunteer to survive as long as possible by staying out of Earth's atmosphere. At the mother ship Meeting House someone asked, "Who doesn't mind spending an exorbitant amount of time in the fuselages of airplanes, driving in rental cars, playing indoors, and inhabiting hotels around the world?" Apparently my hand shot up. They didn't realize I was just stretching and I didn't realize until I got to Roswell that I am an alien.

"We'll be watching you!"