If The Crimson were a high school cafeteria, those who edit and write for FM would be sitting at the "cool kids table." If The Crimson were a department store, FM would be the designer display. If The Crimson were a major movie studio, FM would be the irreverent, indy subdivision.

In short, FM is a bit flashier than the daily, a bit brattier, and its staff tends to be a bit better looking. Traditionally, FM s only interaction with the rest of the newspaper has been with angry News Department proofers--proofers who have enthusiastically channeled years of social frustration into the task of eviscerating the magazine s often colorful prose. ("Hoochie" is not a racial slur.)

This past year, however, things have been slightly different. FM has attracted a small following of contributors from the more traditional content corners of the newspaper. Well, perhaps, "small" is an overstatement. Actually, it s really only been Josh and me. During the past two semesters, we have been sucked into the maelstrom of egos, brilliance, bullshit and creativity that is FM. These are just a few of our stories:

It all began last September, when J.P. and I decided to turn FM s first comp meeting into a self-gratifying gawk-fest. Charged with preparing a list of randomly selected first-years to invite to FM s annual Open House, we attacked our chore with gusto--trolling the student directory for hotties.

Admittedly, our mission was somewhat impaired by our lack of visual data. Other men might have been deterred by such an obstacle, but not us. After all, you can tell what a girl looks like by her name, right?

"Frances Tilney," I selected from the T s. "That sounds nice and WASPy. What do you think?"

"Solid," J.P. responded. "Put her on the list."

So it went, and by the end of the night, we had addressed over 100 envelopes, 86 of them to women and we were ready to do our door-drop. Unfortunately, it was raining. (In fact, every time we ve ever had to do something for FM it s been raining.) And so, we opted to delegate, tapping Crimson presidential hopeful, Joshua Hal Simon. The "Little Magician of 14 Plympton," as he was affectionately known, jumped at the chance to demonstrate his dedication.

We headed out into the torrential downpour and canvassed the Yard. Two days later we watched as scores of lovely ladies flowed into The Crimson, and evaluated our yield. All things considered, we didn t do too badly--the halter-top, go-go pant combination was a well-represented ensemble. Of course, by the end of the presentation, FM had recruited a solid crop of new writers, J.P. had scored a set of digits and Josh and I were left with nothing to show for our efforts but two nasty colds.

This pattern of exploitation continued into the winter when J.P. officially took over the reigns of FM, along with co-editor Aaron Russell Cohen, a piano prodigy from Plandome, NY, whose physician father has touched my prostate.

There are two maxims that most professional editors live by: Don t ask a four-fingered man to give you five and don t send a Vietnam Vet to cover a Third World war-zone. During their tenure, the folks at FM have violated both these precepts. If you re interested in the story of the first, ask the angry drunk out front of 7-11.

As for the second, our problems began when my girlfriend of over two years dumped me and started shacking up with a man old enough to be my older brother. Our problems were compounded when the first issue of the new guard was scheduled to appear during the week of Valentine s Day. It was decided by FM s conceptual whiz-kids that the theme of their endpaper would be "love." Unfortunately, these very same whiz-kids failed to recognize that, given my circumstances, of the six thousand undergraduates on this campus, I was the least appropriate person to expound on such a theme. Still, I was coerced, cajoled and bamboozled into ripping open my festering emotional wounds, all for the purpose of filling the back page of a magazine that most people read on the toilet.

One month later, Josh was similarly inconvenienced. Ever since he got lost in Disney s Frontier Land when he was 8, Josh has had a fear of large crowds. But, that didn t stop FM from forcing him to drive to New York, in the middle of the night, with an orthodontically adorned Asian boy, to cover MTV s "So You Want to Be A VJ Contest." It seems that FM s crack team of personnel managers couldn t find a single other person capable of operating a manually focusing camera. Josh stood in line for over seven hours, amidst hoards of dirty, scary people, in-you guessed it-the pouring rain, just so he could take a photograph of Times Square that we probably could have lifted off of any one of three dozen postcards. For those of you have been wondering who s been monopolizing all of those Wednesday afternoon appointments at UHS Mental Health, let s just say Frontier Land is a tough memory to shake.

We must confess that our association with FM has not been entirely without its perks. Last spring we did receive invitations to attend an FM Dinner Party, co-hosted by J.P. and his mate, a precocious FM comper named Frances Tilney. We gathered, along with the magazine s executive board, in a lovely Currier House common room.

Spirits--and pretension--flowed freely. Decorative candles flickered. Fine Napa Valley wine was served, as was some cranberry concoction with lots of vodka. We began our meal with a salad-tossed wild greens bathed in a house vinaigrette. Next, fresh pasta in marinara. After dining, we absconded to our reserved booth at the newly opened Temple Bar. It was an Upper East Side dream come true.

Of course, despite this auspicious beginning, the quality of our evening quickly took a nose-dive. After the aforementioned cranberry cocktail kicked in, I found myself wandering around Cambridge Commons belting out "Sweet Caroline," while Josh had to return to The Crimson where he was ultimately trampled by HUPD SWAT as they broke up a party. Meanwhile, the FMers capped off their evening sipping sherry in J.P. s newly installed terrace Jacuzzi.

Some folks within the FM establishment have referred to Josh and me as "groupies." Well, usually the groupie-rock-star relationship, if it is to last for any length of time, must be characterized by some element of mutual satisfaction. Even the strung-out Jersey girls who hang out backstage at Pearl Jam concerts, occasionally get to fuck Eddie Vedder. And sadly, kids, the only people who ve gotten fucked over the course of this past year have been Josh and me.

So, on the occasion of this, FM s final issue of the millennium, we say goodbye and good riddance. Our asses are sore.

Between his chores for FM, Noah D. Oppenheim 00 (above, left) spends time with his special friend at The Crimson, Jordana R. Lewis 02. Joshua H. Simon 00, president of The Crimson, listens to MP3s and hopes to find a girlfriend soon.