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April 11, 2005 |
Madrid, Spain Gay Bagel's Hair A close-up of a hair follicle, possibly seen before in a cameo on C.S.I., that could one day potentially hold the entire run of Newsweek on its length. 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 physicis...
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." the commune news would love to see the day we can publish our latest issue on an eyelash—this website shit ain't free, you hear? Truman Prudy is unmistakably British, and we assume he prefers the smell of dusty old books—something he's wearing is giving off that dusty smell.
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 June 18, 2007
the commune Sells OutAs of this writing it's been about one week since our building burned down. You may have seen it on your local evening news, or read about it in Fire! magazine, if such a thing exists. I can't say I have many regrets about it, although I would have preferred to have been given mouth-to-mouth resuscitation by a female firefighter. So I do have regrets, I suppose. The whole "everything I own completely destroyed" comes at a pretty pivotal time in the commune history, as I was quite on the fence about whether or not to continue my fruitless Don Quixote-like pursuit of informing the public of the conspiracies around them, or to just retire and dedicate my life to hot-tubbin'. I've long begun to suspect that the Internet is nothing more than a passing fad, and short of creating a MySpace site for the commune, there is no way to distinguish one's self on the worldwide web. So to summarize, I've decided to take the commune to a quarterly pamphlet publishing routine. As the commune started as a pamphlet, some might say we've taken a step back. I prefer to think of it as walking all the way around the earth until you wind up back in the exact same spot where you once stood. It's nothing personal against our readers or our staff, although there are a few of you who will one day get what's coming to you, nothing personal, it's just that I've poured way too much of my time and money into this anonymous enterprise and I don't believe we've affected...
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As of this writing it's been about one week since our building burned down. You may have seen it on your local evening news, or read about it in Fire! magazine, if such a thing exists. I can't say I have many regrets about it, although I would have preferred to have been given mouth-to-mouth resuscitation by a female firefighter. So I do have regrets, I suppose. The whole "everything I own completely destroyed" comes at a pretty pivotal time in the commune history, as I was quite on the fence about whether or not to continue my fruitless Don Quixote-like pursuit of informing the public of the conspiracies around them, or to just retire and dedicate my life to hot-tubbin'. I've long begun to suspect that the Internet is nothing more than a passing fad, and short of creating a MySpace site for the commune, there is no way to distinguish one's self on the worldwide web. So to summarize, I've decided to take the commune to a quarterly pamphlet publishing routine. As the commune started as a pamphlet, some might say we've taken a step back. I prefer to think of it as walking all the way around the earth until you wind up back in the exact same spot where you once stood. It's nothing personal against our readers or our staff, although there are a few of you who will one day get what's coming to you, nothing personal, it's just that I've poured way too much of my time and money into this anonymous enterprise and I don't believe we've affected nearly enough readers. If only the truth were more contagious, or I could infect everyone in the world with some kind of computer-born virus. This would not cause death or pain, this theoretical virus, but spread the love and joy that humanity can overcome the darkest things about itself; and possibly cause some rectal itching, who can say with theoretical computer-born viruses? This has been my dream. But as with all dreams, it must come to an end when we wake. This is not the end of the commune—not by far. I mean, it is for you, sure, but not the end for the commune staff, myself chiefly among them. We've all become close friends, and I'm sure they will have little problem doing the exact same work we do now with no office, an unprofessional outlet for their work, and absolutely no paychecks, not even coupons or Bagelbucks. They're dedicated like that, and it's not because they're stupid, no matter what you might have overhead me saying loudly while drinking it up. If anything, our low-budget guerrilla-style reporting will bring this family closer together. Particularly Raoul Dunkin, who most definitely needs to be brought closer together with force. I've already bought the perfect van to act as our new office, and as soon as I find out for sure who survived the fire we will all make our way south to Mexico, where publishing costs for pamphlets are simply insane. It's been rough for them all, this news I have yet to tell them, but we'll take it in stride. I'm not saying we will never publish on the Internet again, and if Emile Zender, lifelong subscriber to all things commune, deems it worth his time, he's welcome to transfer our smaller publications to the website version, which he is inheriting. And basically, as our last note, I think covering Paris Hilton going to prison pretty much finalizes all the news we could ever hope to report. What's more important than wealthy people being jailed for driving felonies? The world has turned upside-down and on its ear. Which reminds me, I promised the gang we could Van Twister a few minutes ago. It's like Twister, but in a van. So enjoy this, what may be our final commune. And if Ivana Folger-Balzac asks you where everyone disappears to when she gets back from her vacation, tell her we all died in the fire. I would wink at you, but this is text. Thanks for all the fond memories and however many years of loyal readership. º Last Column: Return to the Bermuda Shorts Triangleº more columns
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|  February 17, 2003
Sister, Can You Spare a Dime?So I needed some start-up capital, right? Since they shut my lights off and won't start them back up until they get a check.
I thought about going to my parents, then I remembered they have no money and would make me do chores or something for it even if they did. I thought about asking Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley, but that dildo doesn't have access to anything at the commune, even Red Bagel's private stock of Tab is locked in the fridge and he has no combination. I thought about asking someone at the commune for the money, but they'd probably make me do chores, too, and I have an idea what kind of chores Ramon Nootles needs done.
Which left me to ask my sister. I mean, I could ask my brother, in fact I did, but he could only loan me the amount in crystals and I already tried to pay the bill with that. I needed real cash money or credit, and the only person I know is my sister. For those who need the background, my sister is the family outsider, Harvard Law grad, private law practice, does a lot of ACLU work, occasionally puts out a book or something. She's got the critics and liberals fooled, but we all know she's kind of an idiot.
I went to see her at her office and it was worse than I thought—all this big talk of success was just a sham, the place is a real dump. Her law office is all the way up on the 30th floor and she shares it with a bunch of other lawyers, though her name is first, good deal there, I'm really impressed. It's...
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So I needed some start-up capital, right? Since they shut my lights off and won't start them back up until they get a check.
I thought about going to my parents, then I remembered they have no money and would make me do chores or something for it even if they did. I thought about asking Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley, but that dildo doesn't have access to anything at the commune, even Red Bagel's private stock of Tab is locked in the fridge and he has no combination. I thought about asking someone at the commune for the money, but they'd probably make me do chores, too, and I have an idea what kind of chores Ramon Nootles needs done.
Which left me to ask my sister. I mean, I could ask my brother, in fact I did, but he could only loan me the amount in crystals and I already tried to pay the bill with that. I needed real cash money or credit, and the only person I know is my sister. For those who need the background, my sister is the family outsider, Harvard Law grad, private law practice, does a lot of ACLU work, occasionally puts out a book or something. She's got the critics and liberals fooled, but we all know she's kind of an idiot.
I went to see her at her office and it was worse than I thought—all this big talk of success was just a sham, the place is a real dump. Her law office is all the way up on the 30th floor and she shares it with a bunch of other lawyers, though her name is first, good deal there, I'm really impressed. It's so embarrassing I felt bad for her, no one will even share an office with her. She's in this huge place all by herself, even her secretary must have weaseled a place outside to avoid it. I can't blame her, we shared a room when I was a kid and I know she snores—it would be impossible to catch an afternoon nap with someone who sounds like a motorboat.
She was happy to see me, she asked if I needed work again, but everything was cool since I have the new sitcom in pre-production. She can be cool at times—back when she was doing better and I was on hard times she gave me a job playing Lady MacBeth in her backyard. There were no other actors to act with, and no stage and I had to make the costume, but I got paid pretty well and it was a sweet gig. Sure, I didn't know anything about MacBeth or his Lady, but I substituted the dialogue from a Facts of Life episode and she couldn't tell the difference. She was on the phone most of the time anyway during the show, which I usually hate.
Soon enough I got to the part about asking for money and Addie just nodded and wrote me a check from her big fat checkbook. I told her I'd pay her back, and she said I could pay her back whenever I could. Well, of course, then I said I might not be able to pay it back and she said that was no big deal. I told her I could work it off, but she said she's already seen MacBeth. So we're still kind of in negotiations, I might do some Antony and Cleopatra stuff maybe, if I can get that Who's the Boss? script.
Then, before she took me to lunch, she said, "You know, Clarissa, I was so jealous of you growing up. Mom and dad used to dote over you all the time and say they wished I was as pretty as you and had a job in TV. But then when the acting work dried up and you found it hard to get a job, and I had all my college and developed my skills and everything worked out for me, I realized I was lucky, in the long term. I had the better deal from it all."
Sure, whatever. I nodded and smiled and pretended to think it was not funny, but mostly I was just thinking we should eat some place with ribs. I hope now she doesn't want the money back since I basically worked it off being all like her psychiatrist and stuff. º Last Column: I Have a Lazy E-Mailmanº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Upon being stopped by the Customs Officer during my trip to America, he asked: 'Have you anything to declare?' I burst forward, telling him, 'Only my genius!' I was promptly beaten to a piteous pulp and subjected to a humiliating search. Needless to say, they found my weed.”
-Wildman Oscar DaviesFortune 500 CookieBy next week you will not believe what passes for a blowjob these days. Guess how many quarters I have in my left pocket and I will be quite surprised. I said don't cauliflower last week? I did? That doesn't sound like something I'd say. Remember, trust no one. Including me. If you believe that, you're a fool.
Try again later.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Vito Wants His Money Back Yesterday | | 2. | Trust: 10 Lies to Get It | | 3. | Donate Money to Help Us Burn Sugar Ray's Guitar | | 4. | Underwear Your Dog Can Wear | | 5. | Uncle Macho's Harbor-Fresh Ice | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Violet Tiara 11/7/2005 SentenceGonads like nomads of the lowlands in snowpants eat Rolaids with barmaids, says no man to snowman and icicles ride bicycles as rice pickles sing Don Rickles and yellow bellows forth from the fourth porch painted by Enid and Crosby and Mick who, sick in the dick let his boiling brain simmer and slimmer and dimmer than bromides of Apartheid the Easter beast parted ways with the started phase with the carted maize with the Injuns and minions of the party of artists who smarting from the start is Teddy and Betty and Anus and Morgan
and Cajuns of rice paper paging the nice pauper from a box on his hip and the locks on the tip of his hair in the...
Gonads like nomads of the lowlands in snowpants eat Rolaids with barmaids, says no man to snowman and icicles ride bicycles as rice pickles sing Don Rickles and yellow bellows forth from the fourth porch painted by Enid and Crosby and Mick who, sick in the dick let his boiling brain simmer and slimmer and dimmer than bromides of Apartheid the Easter beast parted ways with the started phase with the carted maize with the Injuns and minions of the party of artists who smarting from the start is Teddy and Betty and Anus and Morgan and Cajuns of rice paper paging the nice pauper from a box on his hip and the locks on the tip of his hair in the air was a sound like forgotten dreams packed in cotton and the angels stung like jellyfish and I wish I could wrap them in plastic and rings like elastic would stretch as my fingers grew and shrink when I think of you and I personally internationally knew the few faces worth facing first basting piles of pinwheels and miles of tin seals barked parking instructions and levers with suction pulled the devil's dead function as I grazed on glass castings of feet that in passing looked neat and long-lasting until gas made me fast sleep.   |