VALENTINE'S DAY SUCKS

Valentine's Day sucks and everybody knows it. Just ask St. Valentine. He died, and now we gorge in his honor. What a fate.

Love sucks. Everybody knows that, too. Given that, we didn't have much to write about for this issue.

Well, that's not true. We have much to write about love, but we wanted to be cynical and wry, and we're both slap-happily involved with people right now.

We weren't able to think Dangerous Liaisonslong enough before we thought Cinderella. We couldn't muster up the appropriate amount of disgust and despair necessary to sound convincing.

Then we thought we could write some diatribe against Camille Paglia, but she's not funny and she didn't seem appropriate for a romantic holiday, even one sponsored by Godiva and Hallmark. Plus, she's from Philadelphia. And The Philadelphia Storyreminds us of romance. Ah, Katherine Hepburn. Singh.

At least the magazine seems more appropriate to the 90s mood. For the Moment sex involves computers, romance novels are not fit for the likes of Harvard Square, and our usually family-minded arts pages highlight necrophilia and S&M. But we couldn't help but take a trip to Worcester, home of first mass-produced Valentine and the smiley face.

However, we'll spare you the lectures, and the reminiscising of the first time we met our significant others.

Don't be jealous of us. Come next Monday, we won't be out on a romantic dinner for two in a snowcovered Vermont village. We'll be sitting dutifully in 14 Plympton, editting your magazine. And maybe next week we'll be writing acidic prose on the fleeting nature of love.