Recently, a mysterious figure known only as Commander McBragg began sending us thrilling and, he claims, true stories of his colorful life. A daring rescue by a young Hillary Clinton, late nights with Barack Obama, and, today, a little romance with a young woman named "Julia."

I remember back in 2002 when I was working as an operations research officer at the Concepts Analysis Agency at Ft. Belvoir, Virginia, and lived in a little one bedroom apartment off Ft. Myer Drive in Rosslyn near the Metro. It was early May and I was dating Julia, this chick I had met in a bar in Georgetown across the Potomac two months before. I'd always liked little brunettes and she was very outgoing and vivacious, but also seemed pretty frivolous and I had the feeling that if she graduated she would end up as a flight attendant for US Air if she was lucky, or a waitress at Bennigan's if she wasn't.

Earlier this week, a mysterious figure known only as "Commander McBragg" sent us a thrilling true account of the day Hillary Clinton's heroism saved his life. Today, a seedier tale of the underbelly of Harvard Law.

I remember back at Harvard Law in 1990 where Barack and I were putting the finishing touches on the latest Law Review up on the shabby-but-venerable second floor of Gannett House. Back in those days, you didn't need to shiver outside to have a cigarette and I could see the thin tendrils of smoke curl up around his face as he took another drag. Normally, he'd just go back to his spotless little basement apartment in Somerville after we closed up and I'd go back to my hellhole. I couldn't understand how he found the time to keep his damn place so clean. Anyway, the Review was in the can for the month, and I felt like celebrating. I pulled the little baggie from the coin pocket of my Levi's, undid the twisty-tie, and shook out enough for a couple of rails. I never touched the stuff while working, but after the day was done anything goes, especially after we'd just put the Review to bed.

An emailer recalls an epic adventure, involving a certain candidate whose heroism under fire we've all come to respect: "I remember back in 1978 when I was in Airborne School at Ft. Benning. We were on our night jump, the last before we would graduate and get our coveted wings. Once again, I was scared to death and just wanted it all to be over. I could smell the acrid sweat from the men in my stick as they waited behind me. Whatever had possessed me to volunteer for this?