Several weeks ago, at the first-ever live taping of the Coast-to-Coast radio program in Vancouver, BC, I met Whitley Strieber and George Noory. And I have to say, I am still processing the experience.

Days before the event I was giddy with excitement. What would I say? How would I act? Perhaps Whitley Strieber, a writer I have admired for many years, would think I was some kind of alien obsessed groupie? It could happen. Would George Noory find me strangely neurotic or, even worse, boring? Even though I had always signed my emails to George with a jaunty 'Intrepid Coastie', I was terrible nervous. And for good reason: these folks were impressive, kind, outspoken, compassionate and profoundly informative. I, on the other hand, was soon to become a gibbering idiot. A totally pathetic, gibbering idiot.

The event took place in a large theatre at the River Rock Casino. Before the live taping occurred there was a book signing and, for those of us that purchased a special ticket, an hour long 'meet and greet' with George and Whitley. At the book signing is where, unknowingly, I made my biggest mistake: I assumed I had something to say.

At a large table and surrounded by a gaggle of media types and booksellers, sat George Noory and Whitley and Anne Strieber. Before them stretched a long line of gently smiling fans: all clutching books, all eager to talk. As I waited for my turn, I caught glimpses of the front table and chatted with my fellow Coasties.

"What did you think of Whitley's The Master of the Key?" asked a mildly scruffy but intelligent looking man. "Do you think the Master was an alien?"

"Well, no actually," I responded importantly, "my impression was that he was a trickster, or a demon from another dimension."

"Interesting," said the man and then launched into a detailed esoteric discussion about aliens, demons and secret government agents; during which time my only thought was 'Oh look…George Noory has amazingly dark hair'.

Next, I spoke to a pleasant older woman from somewhere in Seattle. She was holding a place in line for her son, who had gone in search of Whitley books. "Have you read 2012 yet? My son wants that one; it's about the end of the world and how aliens can rip our souls out of our bodies…"

'Oh look…George is so tall. And a tailored dark suit and …wow…really nice shoes'

"Did you read Worker in the Light?" said a slim woman wearing a large green medallion and far too many rings, "It's fantastic. I'm a healer and the workbook is so wonderful, you know…"

'Oh my…look…there is Whitley Strieber.'

The medallion lady rattled on as I watched Whitley interact with his slow parade of book owners. He was so distant. As a psychic, I immediately recognized that familiar mix of hopeful vulnerability and world-weary doubt. Intuitively, I could see that he was far away, learning on some other level and, in his own way, 'communing with the others'. He was the real deal.

Immediately the small lump near my elbow, which I had always suspected of being an implant, began to shoot quick pains up my arm. 'Lovely,' I thought. 'Now I won't be able to carry all these books'.

By the time I reached the front of the line, I was flustered. 'George is so friendly' I thought, ' and his hair and moustache are so very dark and…wow…that is one massive aura'.

I plunked down my stack of books and said, stupidly, "Here's the mother load".

He grabbed them, asked me to spell my name and began signing. I, of course, stammered out all sorts of jumbled thoughts; one of which must have been something about my spouse waiting to take a picture. George jumped to his feet, wrapped a big, avuncular arm around me and waited for the flash. His grip was firm and warm and he emitted a genuine feeling of safety. He was so totally George Noory.

Whitley Strieber listened patiently to my silly comments and my young writer's pledge of admiration. He dutifully signed my books. Pictures were snapped, smiles were presented and business cards were exchanged. Overwhelmingly, however, I had the feeling that he was not there but, like a true writer and a true mystic, he was off somewhere on another dimension; like a shaman, only returning to respond to direct questions. He was quite remarkable.

Anne Strieber was cheerful and bright and altogether present. And certainly I could sense her devotion for her husband. We had a brief conversation about the color green and about publishing mishaps and about odd co-incidences in my life. They were a lovely couple.

At the 'meet and greet' while clutches of intellectuals milled around eating sushi and nibbling at tiny bits of skewered chicken, I meandered in circles. It took me quite some time to work up the courage to approach either George or Whitley. Eventually though, I blurted out a few choice words. On the first pass all I could manage was 'Hi George'. Sad, really. On my glorious second attempt, which was altogether silly, I squeaked out 'Hello Mr. Strieber I just love your writing.'

Pathetic. Just totally pathetic. My worst fears were realized: George and Whitley had every right to think of me as a neurotic, alien obsessed groupie…because it was true. I stood back and watched as the rightfully confident and truly worthy Coasties worked the room. And, after a long, lonely hour all I had to show for myself was an aching elbow, a napkin full of half-eaten sushi and a deep feeling of stupidity. If there had been a potted palm, I would have gladly hid behind it.

Intrepid Coastie indeed.