Miguel-Adorn

We both have exams tomorrow. We've reached that point of stress where we can't even comprehend the stress anymore. We're numb to it. All those days sitting in the back of a 400 person lecture hall, squinting our eyes to make out the professor droning on in the front of the class. European History 1680-1820. Exactly how do they decide how to demarcate these years? Maybe I'd know if I'd studied harder. All I know is nothing interests me until about 1880, and even that's a stretch.

I stare fiercely at my notes, trying to instantaneously set to memory approximately 73,000 facts. I feel like the blockhead villain from Superman II trying to set a branch on fire with his eyes. If I just concentrate hard enough, focus enough energy straight down at the page, all this information I should have been slowly committing to memory over the past four weeks will be sucked into my brain like errant pennies into a vacuum cleaner.

I look over at Jimmy, and he looks as clueless and burnt out as I do.

"Man, we're screwed," I say, leaning over and punching him on the shoulder.

"No, YOU'RE SCREWED. I'm merely on the verge of being put on academic probation if I fail this dumb*ss class."

"That sucks. Guess it's Five Star Pizza, a two liter of Mountain Dew, and Napoleon's bloated corpse to keep us company tonight."

"Awesome..."


Five hours later, we have both consumed approximately six greasy slices of Five Star Pizza, and our triumphant belches indicate that the Mountain Dew supply has been depleted. Our greatest accomplishment, however, is not becoming experts on the Napoleonic Wars. Instead, the early morning sun shines in on an 8 X 10 foot wall of our apartment newly wallpapered with rave flyers.

Florescent planets orbit around a bubble font, announcing DJ Stylus, one of our favorites, spinning from 12-2 am at Firestone. A hippie flower font celebrates a set by Superstar DJ Keoki, sure to produce enough cacophonous house music to precipitate a migraine headache. Fisher-Price men represent breakbeat DJs, set against a kindergarten binder paper background for a reunion flyer. A picture of a kid chewing on a record proclaims a big night at Simon's with all the residents. Twenty-five flyers, meticulously taped to the wall for no other reason than to continue our epic procrastination session.

"Man, that looks pretty dope."

"Yeah."

"How many hours we got left?"

"Well, it's 6:!5 now. Class is at 10:40. I'm gonna sleep for an hour, study for two, then see what the hell happens."

"Eh. If I go to sleep I'll never wake up. I'll be out here..."

I can't for the life of me remember what we got on that test, but we tore down the wallpaper within about two weeks.

Ty Segall Band-I Bought My Eyes

My grandmother just kept repeating my last name over and over. We didn't have a language in common, so I guess that's all she could think of to say. She was in her late eighties, and as a nineteen-year-old I was meeting her for the first time since I was an infant. The hotel she lived in in Lucern was very glamorous, with impossibly high ceilings and gold stairway railings. My grandmother, though hunched-over with withered skin, was made up like a thirty-year-old. Her lipstick was a vibrant red, and her expensive-looking jewelry dangled loosely on her tiny arms.

When I walked into her room, all I saw were pictures and paintings of my mother. A Warhol-type painting of my mother's face, mostly black with outlines of pink and bright green. A soft-looking photograph where she gazed contentedly into the camera. A picture of her in a bright orange sun dress, walking a Yorkie through the streets of Paris. An abstract painting of my mother's profile, but with the distinctively soft features and short bob of red hair.

I didn't know what to make of this room. Was it a moving tribute to her deceased daughter, or a sad indication of a woman that had never been able to move on? It seemed like the room was haunted by a beautiful ghost, and although I couldn't communicate with my grandmother, I felt like I could feel her sadness permeating the air. All I could do was hug her and smile.

My grandmother passed away soon after I visited, and I can't say I felt much sadness. I didn't really know her at all, and she had seemed so old already. The sadness I felt was thinking that she might have looked at those beautiful pictures every day and not rejoiced in the memory of her daughter, but instead questioned what she could have done differently.