During this past week, FM's crack-team of Under Glass researchers, writers, and editors was sad and confused. The days wasted away as the Under Glass staff paced nervously across the floor, pulling out hair and going through fingernails like Bogart went through cigarettes.
Every day, the mail carrier would walk by our office and look in sadly, shrugging his shoulders as he rushed past the dank stench of decay that loomed ominously across our threshold.
At the end of the week, we could no longer avoid the horrible and strange truth that had reared its ugly head. Brother Fifteen Minutes received no letters from churning young minds, metaphorical mouths agape as they waited in exquisite anticipation for answers to their most disturbing questions.
And to be perfectly frank and forthright, we did despair. At times, we sobbed out loud. We tried to distract ourselves by going to fancy corporate affairs, but got kicked out for throwing croutons and shouting obscenities.
By Monday, the situation had turned ugly. Our initial team fell apart when one of our best writers suffered what we thought was a horrendous nervous breakdown; it turned out just to be a nasty case of epilepsy, but our beloved writer is still recuperating and will not be available until she returns from her stay in the Tropics.
Her replacement was, to say the least, nervous about the task that lay before him. Before he collapsed in a heap of tears (fear not, gentle readers, for he is being consoled by his trustworthy compatriots even as your eyes travel across this page) our new Under Glass correspondent trekked patiently from department to department, edifice to edifice, seeking answers to the questions that burned fiercest in his chest. Here are some of the responses:
Under Glass Correspondent: Pardon me, but would you, per chance, happen to be aware of the underlying logic that dictates Harvard's assorted libraries' borrowing and lending policies?
Widener Checker: I'm sorry?
UGC: Please.
WC: I mean, I didn't quite catch your drift?
UGC: Let's just forget the whole thing. This really is pointless. I feel so stupid.
Under Glass had no idea that this column would be so darn scary! But Mother Crimson was adamant: the column must run! The paper must come out! So Under Glass went back out on the street, with tail tucked appropriately between his legs, to try his luck again.
UGC: Pleased to meet you, sir.
Man in front of Lamont: We haven't met.
UGC Thank you. I'm the Under Glass corespondent for The Harvard Crimson, and I was wondering if you knew what the story was behind that sculpture over there.
