A L S O_ T O D A Y

Camille on Campus
By Camille Paglia
Warning! Mentorship land mine ahead!

T A B L E_ T A L K

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SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER | PAGE 1, 2
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My roommate lay down in bed, tossed around a bit, then started some serious groaning and moaning. I got up and checked her again. She was definitely an unhappy specimen. Her face was red, her pulse was racing. This was not a psychedelic new Volkswagen Beetle commercial. She was not swirling with joy.

And, in truth, by that point neither was I. While she was riding her brownie waves, my flu symptoms had come back -- with a vengeance. Pretty soon, I would be useless to both of us.

No amount of Cheech and Chong films had ever prepared me for a scenario of happy, hippie pot consumption colliding unfortunately with one of the more mundane ailments of real life. And no one else, not even the man at Poison Control, wanted to take me seriously when I started getting really worried. Two dizzy college kids, one strung out and the other wrung out, was comedy for them -- but it could have very easily veered off into tragedy.

In the midst of reviewing some more drastic options -- campus medical center, ambulance to the emergency room -- I keeled over beside my roommate's bed, dizzy and nauseated. But although my body was useless, my brain seemed bent on offering color commentary. It took time to note that my roommate was continuing to flip out in English for my benefit (I would have to thank her for that courtesy tomorrow, in the unlikely event that we both survived). My brain also noted that my roommate was getting increasingly alarmed. This might have been because her main source of support -- me -- was sprawled on the floor, belly clutched in agony.

In order to placate everyone, my roommate, my stomach and my chattering brain, I kept on talking in a stewardess-before-the-crash voice. Inevitably, though, after a few minutes, I had to excuse myself. I staggered to the bathroom to throw up in what I hoped was a calm and reassuring manner. And, as I lay on the floor, enjoying that incredible moment of clarity that always follows vomiting, my brain noted, "Well, if we have to call an ambulance, maybe we can get a two-for-one rate."

If there is a lesson to be learned from my experience, it is only this: Never get the flu when your roommate has had bad weed. It's not a romantic maxim comparable to "Make love, not war," but while the '60s generation has had its space cakes and eaten them, too, our generation has been made practical and cynical with the indigestion. For every time they have wanted to give the world a Coke, we now must remember not to take candy from strangers.

We never ended up going to the hospital, but the next morning my roommate and I were both pale. I explained to her the funny brownie and some other commonplaces of North American life. Then I swallowed aspirin with a glass of cold water -- the breakfast of champions -- and went into the cool Sunday morning thankful for small blessings.
SALON | Jan. 27, 1999

Mindy Hung is a graduate student at New York University.

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