We came into the Crimson the other afternoon, only to find the magazine office mysteriously deserted. The only clues we had to the whereabouts of James and Natasha were tattered clippings from the final Scrutiny, on McLean Hospital. Perhaps Jeremy should have left out the "country club" comparison.

Still, the mag must go on. We have taken it upon ourselves to aid you in your quest for truth, knowledge and concert listings.

"What IS the worst haus in Boston?" you ask.

"Who IS Noam Elkies?" you wonder.

"Belly-button fixation--what's UP with that?" you demand.

Read on, read on. The cat's curiosity killed it, but yours will soon be satisfied.

We must confess, though, that we are a bit nervous. In the dual interest of fulfilling your expectations and keeping up with contemporary campaign policy, we would like to propose a contract.

1. We shall write stories, which you will read.

2. We shall print it on paper, which you will recycle.

3. We shall write it in English, which, owing to the diversity of Harvard college and the spirit of democracy, you may translate into the language of your choice.

4. No more than 50% of our material will be debaucherous.

5. We shall try our best to refrain from repugnant punning.

6. We shall be nicer than Amanda, but not quite as nice as Matt, although we shall have more stories.

7. We shall hire an opthomologist to prescribe you a halogen lamp

8. No salary caps.