nventive sports in Madrid, Spain have made extremely trivial history by performing the tiniest writing ever done, copying the first paragraph of Cervantes' Don Quixote onto a silicon chip. The physicists, apparently fighting their own windmills in the effort, wrote the letters so small they claim the entire novel could be copied onto the tips of six human hairs, though they didn't name anyone who volunteered to do so. Whether the hair would belong to Grace Jones or David Lee Roth, they didn't offer—surely they realize hair is quite relative.

"What a fantastic feat!" exclaimed book critic and hair enthusiast Alameda Ramirez, also of Madrid. "It's an amazing step forward for people who like to copy things really small onto objects not paper."

The physicists performed the chip-writing as part of a 400th anniversary celebration of Cervantes' classic work, and those involved are very insistent no beer was involved. The group used a very expensive atomic force microscope for their frivolity. While some stuffy scientist-types were enthusiastic about the possible use of the microscope for writing more information on smaller chips and revolutionizing the computer industry, intellectual literary-types were more excited about the possibility for easier-to-store books.

"If you could fit all of Don Quixote onto six hairs, imagine how much you could write on someone's entire head?" librarian Marcos Gally thought out loud. "Assuming you didn't kill them in the process, of course. I could carry the entire annotated works of Shakespeare and all the great plays of the twentieth century, in all languages, in my hairbrush. I wouldn't necessarily be able to read them. Which is my second point—we need to get to work on microscopic bifocals right away."

His colleague, bookstacker Londo, agreed. "Yes, but sad that intellectuals like John Malkovich and Michael Stipe would get no books at all. While Pamela Anderson would have them in abundance."

Both then agreed the complete conversion from paper books to hair books should wait at least until better transplant options became available.

Most appealing about the tiny writing possibilities, according to literary historian Bernadette Fopps, is making the wealth of the world's literature available in the least expensive format ever.

"A library of every piece of printed material ever, from the Bible in Esperanto to the latest issue of Ultimate Spider-Man, could easily fit into most modern handbags. That is, if you didn't mind a purse full of hair. But of course, not everyone is going to want a copy of everything. Personally, as a fan of early twentieth century British psychological literature, I would relish the opportunity to have a complete catalogue of George Orwell's fiction on a single pubic hair. Though, maybe that's more appropriate for the work of Henry Miller—I'm not the one to make those kinds of decisions."

A few detractors weren't ready to get on board the small hair writing train just yet. Such as author Tom Clancy.

"I'm as prone to mistakes as the next guy," said the Hunt for Red October author. "If I get to page 435 and Jack Ryan is about to knock out the bad guy, and I have a few type-O's, is my editor going to be able to correct those mistakes? 'Cause I'm not going to pluck a new hair and start over. I love my craft, but there are limits, you know?"

Also reluctant to embrace the idea was Denny's waiter Christian Meams: "The last added frustration I need on my job is someone's reading a copy of the latest Michael Chabon book, they forget about it, and I get blamed for bringing them the burger with the novel in it."

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I can't get to sleep. A question's been plaguing me lo these many nights, inspiring endless head-scratching and the use of dated vernacular like "lo." All the members are alive, the audience is out there and hungry for it… who is preventing the Men At Work reunion?

Like a shooting star they burned brightly and then disappeared. For a very brief time in the 1980s, from 1982 to 1985, Men At Work were popular music. Who would you throw up against them? Pat Benatar? The Go-Go's? Pitiful imitations Men Without Hats? All were common slaves in the arena against Men At Work—the gladiators.

However, the attention of the American public changes quickly, and by 1985 the group disbanded after the poor commercial showing of their third album. At least that's what the Behind the Music guy said. My question, though, is what's stopping the reunification of the 80's greatest band?

To head off any potential arguments, the live shows played by Colin Hay and Greg Ham under the billing of Men At Work does not constitute a Men At Work reunion. Not until the original recording line-up for the albums Business As Usual and Cargo is reconstituted is Men At Work really reunited. There is no just cause to prevent this, as far as I can see.

The natural conclusions one would reach, as with any band, is that internal conflicts keep the majority of them apart. I refuse to believe this. You've seen the videos, those guys get along like aces. Digging a hole, jogging in place, juggling, they do everything like real sports. And yet now, all these years later, they're missing out on a chance to bring real happiness back to the charts, not to mention make a tidy killing back in the record business. However, something is in the way.

I think it goes much deeper than the band. Far-reaching forces outside have prevented a Men At Work reunion. This goes high, people, all the way to the top. The American government has a vested interest in keeping Men At Work from returning to their former glory as the hottest band from Down Under.

Why? Without getting into the complicated details of trade, tariffs, super-power standings and plenty of things I don't fully understand, let's suffice to say that what's good for Men At Work is good for Australia. And what's good for Australia is bad for American business. Our country has struck an unholy alliance to keep the roster of big super-power countries as it is. If Australia breaks through to become a super-power, it could piss off a number of countries, just for example, oh, say, France? England? Canada? That's all I need to say.

Australia has formed such a threat for quite some time, and this unholy alliance, which has existed since 1972, has been worn and weakened over time. Several times Australia verged on super-power stardom—the 2000 Olympics in Sydney, the Veggimite sandwich, the Crocodile Dundee series. The unholy alliance is under more strain than ever before to restrain Australia. And through threats and extortion they've kept Men At Work unemployed. It's a travesty.

At another time I'll tell you why Blind Melon has not reunited. To sum up, their lead singer and songwriter is dead.

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Hey Shorty, you remember that long-hair fella that we caught living out in Pete Steingel's barn all those years back, what was his name? The Unibrow? Univox? Some dang fruity-tooty made up thing not far from that. The one who'd been growin' them funny mushrooms that weren't no good for cookin' and whatnot?

You know the time. We was headin' out there to watch that barn cat that was eatin all that there lead paint that was flakin' offa Pete's barn, what was that cat's name? Snooker? Somethin' around them parts. Damn if that cat weren't more fun than a retarded stepson. Eatin all that paint and stumblin' round like Grandpa Sneb at bar time. Remember that time he fell outta that tree, into Pete's woodchucker? Well dang Shorty, I guess that's why we ain't seen that cat around lately. I'm thinkin' here he got himself woodchucked.

Anywhere, we was goin' out to have a laugh at that cat when we found that Unibrow out there livin in the barn like it was some Garden of Evan and his name was Evan. Only he didn't even get that part right, seeing as how he called himself Univ- Unicorn! Dang, Shorty, that's it! The Unicorn.

I remembert it now cause of what he always used to say, about how The Unicorn didn't need no job 'cept to live in the beauty of the Universe or some hoohash resemblin that. I remembert when Pete first heard him say that, Pete grabbed the hat offa The Unicorn's head and wiped his horse's ass with it, then told The Unicorn it was now his job to wear the Universe's shitty hat. Hee hee, dang iffn that Pete wasn't a quick one, ay Shorty? You'da thought he would have thought a switch off that woodchucker before he reached in there after that cat now, wouldn't ya? I sure miss Pete.

Anyhooch, The Unicorn musta took some kind of hint from that there hat-wipin' incident, because he was gone from the Steingel barn that night. I figgerd he must've shuffled on up a rainbow or some other such colorful way of leavin' town, so you understand why I ruined a good pair of drawers when I went down to my basement one night to set some bait for silverfish and found that unbathed lovechild livin' in the crawlspace behind my cooler. Sweet Moses, Shorty, I may have soiled your trousers and you wernt even there. And for that I apologize, Shorty, yessir for that I apologize.

Well, needless to say, Mr Unicorn received a swift education about the finer details of Kentucky ash in next to no time, and when he left town it was with a Looville Slugger logo tattooed backwards on his back door, as they're fond of sayin' over in Lewhampton. And to tell you the truth, Shorty, I didn't give a thought to him again for many a year after that, excepting the time I went down to my basement to spray for silverfish and found that mannequin that Harlon Rinkleather left in my house after he got juiced up and broke into Sears that one night. Needless to say, another pair of drawers met their maker that night, and when I flung them oft into the woods I remembered The Unicorn.

Anywaste, Shorty, the reason I bring it up is that fella was on the news the other night, or so I hear. Turns out he was a fumigate from justice, livin' over in Europe somewherest for all these years. They said he was some kinda radical somethin-other, I dunno. Maybe like a commugymnist or some such business.

Just think about it, Shorty! A real-live free-radical livin right betwixt our noses, and behind our coolers. Kinda scary, aint it? All this has got me thinkin that when I spray for silverfish this year, I might stop at that Po' Boy Market and pick up some free-radical spray while I'm at it. Never can be too careful, Shorty.

Yessir. Never can be too careful.

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