The new face of FM gossip: stinging rumor, swollen innuendo, ink-stained navel-gazing.
In the spirit of this week’s issue, we’ve turned the spotlight on our bedeviling but beloved brick building on Plympton St., headquarters of the vast Hebrew conspiracy to take over the media. Merry Christmas!
—Michael M. “The M is for Mendel” Grynbaum and Zachary M. “The M is for Moses” Seward
OUR NEWSROOM HAS NO WINDOWS
Which incoming Crimson president stood up not one, but two sophomores who hoped to waltz into the evening with her at separate House formals last weekend? The head honcho’s British beau snatched her away mid-formal on Friday night, and she called in sick before the festivities could begin on Saturday. “I hope you’ll accept these flowers as a consolation,” she wrote in an apologetic note to the latter gentleman. Not quite a fairy tale ending, eh?
Which son of a liberal columnist and rising star at a so-called humor magazine got a Crimson executive kicked out of 14 Plympton by the Ad Board after a quarrel in the Dunster courtyard? The not-so-funny man claimed to have been roughed-up by the broadsheet’s moneyman, but the allegations appear dubious at best. An appeal was denied, but the last laugh is still pending.
THE CRIMSON SALIVA TRAIL
We believe it was John F. Kennedy ’40 who first coined the phrase, “It doesn’t count if it’s in another area code—or inside 14 ‘Pimpton’.” In that spirit, having selected three choice examples from among a bevy of interboard communication, Gadfly is proud to present a Crimcestuous primer: “Who are you hooking up with?”
If you’re headed to a job at The Washington Post, your saliva is connected by three degrees of separation to a future competitor at The Wall Street Journal. (Incidentally, if you’ve stepped inside 14 Plympton in the past decade, you’re probably somehow connected—by eight degrees, perhaps—to a reporter at The New York Times.)
If you’re about to ascend to The Head of All Content, your saliva is connected by four degrees of separation to a disgruntled outgoing editorial executive who was once considered a contender for high places.
And if you’re a snarky gossip columnist for the magazine, your saliva is connected by three degrees of separation to an outgoing Superboard member who has yet to unpack many of her belongings from last September’s move-in.
WAS IT GOOD FOR YOU?
That’s it, folks. With this week’s all-Crimson edition, the first—and, if our editors have been reading any of this shit, last—semester of Gadfly comes, like all our Friday nights, to an utterly anticlimactic end. Judging by the dearth of e-mail in our inbox (fmgadfly@yahoo.com for those of you meaning to write), you perused this column about as often as your reading for section. Clearly, being a jackass in print is about as appealing as it is anywhere else.
A short list of people who now hate us: John Gotti, The Spee, Delta Gamma, Wellesley Women for W and Cpl. Clifford W. Kitto of the U.S. Marine Corps.
To that motley crew, thanks for the memories! To Gadfly’s dad, sorry for using “shit” so often. To Jonathan Meltzer, thanks for reading—we’d be talking to ourselves without you. And to everyone else, our sincerest apologies if we failed to offend you.
Send your tips, frivolous gossip, and gratuitous rumors to fmgadfly@yahoo.com
