My smoking habit has picked up substantially as of late. A couple of nights ago, I was under the arch a Wayland smoking the air with English Aristocrats. A night later, I was puffing Marlboros with a girl so cute and intelligent, I dared not leave her side.

Her name was Chatal, thought, at the time i met her, I thought her name was Chatao and had immense trouble pronouncing it. On Friday, we had spent the better part of the witching hours talking about hopelessnes and the end of the American Republic. I was intoxicated by her brilliance. She was brash, pretentious, and all-encompassing.

She was me, and seeing her there in the midnight mirror, I wanted her more than anything else.

But there were complications. A ghost of friend, Eric, haunted her steps. He, like me, was in love with the spirit of informed youth invested in the body of Chantal. She was the flower of New Jersey, and how badly did we want her.

The saga of Chantal took the ups and downs I might attribute to Virgil, Homer or Milton. At each turn in the story, I could feel myself slipping into a classical caste. I was Dante, and Beatrice was beyond reach. I was Petrarch and Laura was havign none of me.

I was me, and Chantal was the greates thing since sliced bread. Stars dim when she sleeps in Elysian Fields. Rough waves calm when she puts her hand to the shore. Uncouth men, who have spent mornings, evenings and autumns chasing dreams, give up those ambitions to chase her.

But this is neither here nor there. Lost in a developing Smoking habit, I worried that I might never escape.

At every possible opportunity, I was smoking Cloves or Marlboros or Cohibas with the girl of my dreams.

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Saturday came on hard, like a unexpected guest that had plans for you and him, and would never excuse you for sleep. Looking for food, Evan and I found ourselves indebted to Jinaabah for the chance to eat better food at an elite minorities conference.

Chantal was there. The damn siren was dressed in a neon yellow soccer jersey with the name "CHANTI" across the back. I imagined strolling through the cocktail tables and pausing for a moment in front of her.

"Chantal, I want you more than anything."

I would kiss her in a style Clark Gable would've admired.

But this was Brown. That would be some sort of Sexual Harassment. It would not be wonderful or romantic. It would offensive and awful.

I feared the loss of the romantic in me.

So Evan and I sat through the Third World's annual 'Rapping and Dining' luncheon. It was great. I settled many of my personal squabbles with the concept of Minority support. I learned about the imperialism of Americana and the rooting out of indigenous Native cultures across the world.

Coca Cola killed the Conch Republic and other depictions of mass-marketing in the US choking out the beautiful delicate flowers of other cultures.

But this is another digression.

It was early and I was still drunk. The night before had spent drinking beers with Travis, Brendan and the assorted sophomores that I had met on a visit to the University. We walked over to New Pembroke from the soccer game, which had been remarkably well-attended. Travis was out on the corner of Thayer with a Bud Light and a long board. He guided us back to the room and we began drinking. We were watching 'White Men can't Jump.' We were all white men who couldn't jump.

At 10 past 10 I asked Travis if I could get a run to the liquor store down the street. He asked Brendan if he had his fake and if he was willing to take on the job. He said he would. I sat outside of 'Spirtus Fermenti' awaiting my 30 rack of PBR. Only at Brown would the liquour store be called 'Spirtus Fermenti'.

We drank til the end of 'White Men' then rolled back to Poland. I was carrying the 30 in my left hand down Brown Street with cops smiling at me. Did they know I was underage? Did they care?

We got into the room and did a round of Peaches. Chantal called an explained coincidentally that she was drinkign downstairs. I went downstairs and got her. I brought up the dregs of a party in Everett 106 to Poland 222. I put on music and cracked open the 30. 35 people were dancing in my room with no time to spare.

When the beer ran out the boom town started to disentegrate. Schuyler came in and asked if I had anything left. I smiled and popped open the microwave where the reserves sat warm and waiting.

The FlashDance left people with powerful buzzes walking all over the lower campus. I stuck with Chantal, the kid that followed her everywhere and a girl with a shrooms obsession. Shrooms looked a lot like Liza Menilli. It was fun. Outside, a kid named Adam was smoking a Cohiba and passing the Vanilla tobacco to whoever wanted a hit.

I took a couple in the courtyard and began discussing life and death with the group. Fast forward two hours and I was in a lounge near Archibald talking about the death of the American Republic and the flaws of a two party system. Shades of the same color. A disinterested public that had politics dictated through the media like we were in 1984. Fear and Loathing were substituted by apathy and moderation. Nothing but the fear of attack motivated the mainstream.

It was a bleak national analysis. But I had been smoking lots of cigarettes, and things were bound to get grim.