This week and next week, a little bit earlier than most of us wanted to think about it, the Class of 1999 was called in to pose for yearbook pictures. One could wax eloquent about how funny we all looked trying on caps and gowns, but there was something much more amusing going on at the Yearbook Office. Each student being photographed was told to check off items on a list of activities, showing those they had participated in during college and indicating any offices they might have held in those activities.

A seemingly innocuous exercise, right? But there was a problem. Fresh from drafting resumes and graduate school applications, plenty of students in the Class of 1999 were less than conservative in checking things off. Lines like the following floated around the Yearbook Office: "So I was never actually onthe Undergraduate Council, but I did run for office a few years ago, even though I lost." "Okay, so I never actually wentto a Model U.N. meeting after Orientation Week, but I've been getting their e-mails for the past three years." "Well, I never actually didanything for House Committee, but my roommate is the chair, and I think I once got her a Coke while she was photocopying posters." "I went to a Gilbert and Sullivan show once." "I think my ex-girlfriend was in a Gilbert and Sullivan show once." And, of course, one would be hard-pressed to find a senior who is not an editor of the Crimson.

Most seniors just don't seem to realize who the Yearbook's audience is. Employers are not going to be looking at the yearbook. Graduate schools are not going to be looking at the yearbook. In fact, there are only four categories of people or institutions who might, at some future date, actually look at the yearbook. And the first three are not going to care what you wrote.

1. Planet Hollywood. Congratulations: it is fifteen years after graduation, and you've finally hit the big time. In fact, you're so famous that the moguls of the entertainment world have determined that your yearbook photo is worthy of being featured on paper placemats and splattered with ketchup by fourth-graders attending birthday parties across the nation. Your face will be prominently featured next to "Demi Moore: Chess Club (Vice-President)." Dreams do come true. Trouble is, since a bachelor's degree is no prerequisite for stardom, they'll probably be using your high school mug shot instead--making your last-ditch effort to join Model U.N. a bit useless.

2. CNN. Congratulations: it is fifteen years after graduation, and you've finally hit the big time. In fact, you're so famous that you're wanted for high crimes in thirty-two states. Or better yet, maybe you've already been caught, and now people want to know more. Who is this mysterious criminal? What drove this monster to such madness? And, inevitably, someone will pull out the yearbook. There you'll be: "Theodore Kazynski: Chess Club (Vice-President)." If you're going down, Model U.N. might as well come down with you.

3. Your children. Congratulations: it is fifteen years after graduation, and you've finally hit the big time: two boys and one girl. Your daughter just got her elementary school "yearbook" and suddenly wants to see yours. "Wow, Mom," she says, "you did so much stuff in college! What's Model U.N.?" And you say, "Um, uh, I'm not sure." "But it says here you were Vice-President!" You clear your throat and say, "Well, it was a long time ago." This is just too depressing to think about.

And then there is the only category that matters: 4. Your classmates. Congratulations: it's fifteen days before graduation, and you've finally hit the big time. You're about to receive your bachelors degree, maybe even a masters to boot. Classes and exams are over at last, and you have two weeks left to spend with your classmates before they are scattered to the winds. Yearbooks are distributed, and everyone rushes to look at the pictures of themselves and all their friends. And the real vice-president opens the book and says, "Who are all these losers pretending to be in Model U.N.?"