As his official autobiographer, it falls to me to chronicle the life of Alex Grecian. But where to start? With the wild, month-long parties thrown at F. Scott’s and Zelda’s estate? His brief partnership with the sinister Lindbergh Baby and their plot to frame Fatty Arbuckle for a crime he did not commit? Or the weekends spent in a shimmering silver saucer, flying low over rural America. What about his magical summer in Mexico with Ambrose Bierce and the Dionne Quintuplets? His years of riding the rails, debarking in small towns just long enough to solve their problems, then moving on before they could learn his name? I look around me at the thousands upon thousands of journal pages accumulated during my travels with the illustrious Mr. Grecian and I am simply overwhelmed. Perhaps, then, I should start with the first time I laid eyes on him.

I met Alex Grecian in the autumn of 1968. Young as he was, he had hidden away from the world, claiming that society would not be ready for him until we had discovered the fabled Seventh Element which would allow us to master gravity. He lived as a recluse for the following eleven months, occasionally pressing me for news of the outside world. This was my first indication that he might soon grace us with his presence. In June of the following year, an announcement was made that Alex would shortly arrive in the States, but his admirers were kept waiting for another two months. By August, his arrival anticipated even more keenly due to his prolonged hermitage, Alex allowed himself to be seen. I was, of course, overjoyed but he greeted me with little more than an unintelligible grunt.

The ensuing years at his side served to deepen my admiration for the iconoclast, as he swiftly taught himself the rudiments of our (to him, crude) civilization and methods of communication. When he had spent barely two years in America, he could nonetheless speak English like a native. He learned, also, the names of the people closest to him and the value of walking without falling. It was my honor to see him through the months and years to come: his first attempts to dress himself, his ill-advised plan to become David Letterman, his disastrous first date and the many disastrous dates to follow.

In his 28th year, he met the lovely and accomplished Miss Christy DeSair and (despite some confusion on her part upon discovering Alex’s surprisingly advanced age) the two quickly became inseparable. Two days before Alex was to turn 32, the young Miss DeSair changed her identity and quickly left town with him, thus forever ensuring a certain blurring of the distinction between their anniversary and his birthday.

Alex is currently posing as a morally compromised artist in a small hamlet in Kansas. He is still learning to walk without falling.

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As his official autobiographer, it falls to me to chronicle the life of Alex Grecian. But where to start? With the wild, month-long parties thrown at F. Scott’s and Zelda’s estate? His brief partnership with the sinister Lindbergh Baby and their plot to frame Fatty Arbuckle for a crime he did not commit? Or the weekends spent in a shimmering silver saucer, flying low over rural America. What about his magical summer in Mexico with Ambrose Bierce and the Dionne Quintuplets? His years of riding the rails, debarking in small towns just long enough to solve their problems, then moving on before they could learn his name? I look around me at the thousands upon thousands of journal pages accumulated during my travels with the illustrious Mr. Grecian and I am simply overwhelmed. Perhaps, then, I should start with the first time I laid eyes on him.