You might sometimes wonder aloud, while at a hip underground music event, "Who a

re all those people with plaid shirts and horn-rimmed eye apparel?" They surely
were not spawned by our same Earth-mother.
"Take me to your leader!" you demand of them, every time they begin collecting a
wkwardly around the stage. Yes, it has happened to the best of us, during the wo
rst of times. And every time, shamelessly ignored by the nicotene-imbued drones,
you fall into that familiar, yet uncontrollable, yearning for the blissful comf
ort of your electromagnetic wave-shielding canopy bed. After all, it is only the
re that you can truly channel the love energy of our Universe's Pleiadian light
workers, as you fall gently asleep in an ice-cream-induced coma, chocolatey droo
l serenely dripping onto your pillow case.

That being said, I awoke one morning, several years back, to the pleasant sounds
of high-pitched guitar screeches coming through my Casio-toned clock-radio. The
squeal of these six-stringed beasts was unlike that of any orphaned infant I ha
d ever had the pleasure of aurally ingesting. What cosmic force was to be held r
esponsible for the summoning of such arousing moans? The Casio product was quick
to confess. Yes, it was none other than a couple of striped Venutians, coloured
white. The one to blame, in particular, for the stringed-squawkings, was the Ja
ck.
Not two micro-seconds did pass before I found myself inspecting the Jackish stri
pe, through my harnessing of the powers made available to those who swear allegi
ance to the Church of our Lord and Saviour, the Infobahn Net. Large, informal ga
therings had taken place where, among others, the nicotene drones increased the
Jackish stripe's vibrational frequency through incessant hopping. The manner of
this pallid stripe's sermons to the crowds was termed indie in the way that it r
ocked them. But they rocked up and down, not side-to-side. And as they bowed to
their 'indie' King, the sermons became increasingly raucous. The frenzied masses
ached for even the briefest amount of eye contact with the Jack. I took it upon
myself to acquire a deep understanding of the Jackish stripe's chi-flow.
Manic gazing through a series of PVC tubes that comprised my Infobahn Net Sanctu
ary, all within the space of one hour, yielded an aeon's worth of knowledge rega
rding the Jack's spirit ancestry. Before I knew it, the source of his indigo ene
rgy-which he so masterfully conceals, using concealer-became abundantly chrystal
line. The 'indie' King's secret was but a complete rejection of all external and
technological influence past the year 1969! Coupled with his refusal to let sun
light directly touch his mediaevally-white skin, and transportation means solely
by horse and buggy, the key to the Stripe's sacred geometrical adeptness would
now be available to all those who tirelessly attended those countless sermons, i
n search of it.
Now free, the legions of nicotene-drones were eventually all herded back to thei
r respective concrete birth places in the star cluster Invariad Suburbae, conste
llation Caucasius. "Herded by what?" you ask. I don't know.