Named after a measure of time, Fifteen Minutes—or FM as it’s more
commonly known—is the edgier and slightly retarded stepchild of the
revered Crimson, a newspaper that makes the Wall Street Journal read
like literotica.com. Thankfully, FM is not quite as boring; indeed,
it’s a bit like a similarly named magazine called FHM, minus the boobs
and stories about dudes who get blackout and make outrageous bets that
usually involve one of them getting breast implants.
Instead of reality TV stars posing in bikinis and push-up
bras, each week’s FM features a bizarre full-page spread of chronic
masturbators and generally unattractive people acting like complete
heathen lords and reenacting scenes from Gorillas in the Mist.
Sometimes they are making out, which is sort of like pornography except
that it tricks your genitals into thinking you have just gone swimming
in Maine. Also, the photographs require no consent so they’re like that
creepy—voyeur—porn that scary people buy.
Aside from weird pictures, each issue of FM is sort of like a
mishmash of student life, recipes, and one article that is too long to
read. When there is a momentous story to be broken, such as Final
Clubs, what kind of clothes a bunch of d-bags wear, what happens when
you drive around a lot, or which 15 random seniors are more
“interesting” than you, the FM staff dispatches one of its star
investigative reporters to get in New Yorker mode and produce a mad
long “Scrutiny.” Wait, there are some people talking about a fictional
women’s center that will probably never get built? Stop the presses!
For those who really like to keep their finger on the pulse of
the student body, there is an “Endpaper” at the back of each issue.
This is essentially a personal essay in which students describe how
ostensibly lame and depressing their lives are and then try to flip the
script and claim that they are perfectly content. They generally
achieve this effect through flowery prose, self-delusion, and false
claims that they “go into Boston a lot.” In other words, if you’re
thinking of killing yourself, you should read an endpaper. If these
don’t build your self-esteem and make you change your mind, we’ll help
you tie the noose.
So there you have it: Fifteen Minutes. While it’s not quite
good enough for regular postal mail, it might just make you want to
screw your doorbox back on. At the very least, FM’s relatively handsome
graphics and generous dimensions make for great wrapping paper. Now all
you have to do is remove a CD from the cover of a music magazine and
you can check “Mom” off the Christmas list.
