Editor's Note: Dead Heat

I don't know about you, but I'm not a great fan of deadlines, myself. More than 20 years ago, the Roosevelt Hospital midwives had to wrench me from my mother. That same day, in that very hospital, my cohort Anna popped out two weeks ahead of schedule. I, on the other hand, was running late.

I know it's not just me, though, `cause my papers don't care much for deadlines either. Last term, not a single one of them made it to the Barker Center on time; I knew one that meandered its way to a Lit and Arts B-10 TF approximately three weeks after it was due. And last Friday, when everyone and her roommate turned in their Let's Go applications at 5 p.m., I was still printing mine out.

I'll admit I have a problem. It's one thing to arrive at 9:20 each morning for Spanish A; it's quite another show up at 9:45, without the homework. (That comes later.) I realize it's got to stop. I didn't know it at the time, but that's why I became an FM associate editor.

The FM family loves deadlines. If you don't believe me, stop by some time. Mother Alicia made us a poster last week. "DEADLINES: THE NEW REGIME," it reads. "THESE ARE NON-NEGOTIABLE."

You see, the Scrutiny is due on Sunday. Not the Sunday before it arrives in your doorbox (if it arrives in your doorbox), but the Sunday before that. This is deadline numero uno. Deadline numero dos occurs on Thursday. That's when all the other stuff is due, all the timely For the Moments and storied In the Meantimes. Listings prove the one exception: Their deadline comes on Friday. Mind you, though, they should have been assigned the Monday before. And their content must cover not the following week, but the week after that. Confused? I'll tell you a secret: So am I.

But as Papa Aaron might say, It's all under control. Just now becoming comfortable with his "leadership capabilities," Aaron's discovered a penchant for deadline enforcement. As for JP, FM's cantankerous grand-daddy--well, he's never had a problem laying down the law.

I, the magazine's only rookie editor, do not quite understand their vigor. I do not respect deadlines for deadlines' sake. But then, I did not experience the frightening era when TJ and Drake played parents to this 24, 20 or sometimes (back in their guard) 16-page baby. I've only caught whispered hints of the family's traumatic memories, but it seems that, once upon a time, deadlines didn't exist. Edits happened on Tuesday nights, and Scrutiny concepts materialized (or not) a week before they had to appear on your doorstep (or not). Plagued with fear and guilt, the two old editors tried to leave Harvard behind.

As this weekend will surely show, parent-child interactions can be rough. Just like everyone else, I have a complex relationship with my family. Sometimes I want to run screaming out of 14 Plympton St. and back to my room, where it doesn't matter if I'm not meeting my deadlines or if other people aren't meeting theirs. But I'm stuck with this family, for better or worse. And, truth be told, the other four execs are doing a damn good job of towing me along and getting me in line. This note, in fact, came in a good eight hours before deadline.

So, many thanks for the box, TJ, but I'll take the new regime any day.