Carbon

The chemical reaction wafted the fruits of its labor high above the mingling crowd. It was the usual eclectics gathered for a birthday party on the aftermath of a seasonably frigid day in the City of Angels. It had rained hard the night before, and earlier in the day was its blustery hangover.
But just as the wind had been responsible for the bone-chilling cold it now revealed twinkling stars on a black velvet backdrop of space punctuated by the last remnants of orphaned storm clouds, which stood out like dingy and weather-beaten, three-dimensional cotton balls.
Three well-timed aspirins washed down by a cold imported beer could not have provided better relief.
Perhaps aided by alcohol, the weather had now teased away the thick coats that had once been generously applied. Then there was the warmth in the form of friendly conversation, and of course the heat from the cigarettes.
Dozens of lips pursed in huddled masses parting occasionally to respond with wine-fueled chatter. One group discussed what they had heard earlier that day on NPR Radio, while others touched on such subjects of sex, drugs and the feasibility of the city's rapid transit service.

A party in L.A., especially among artists, teachers and other vagabonds, is never complete without guests named Marlboro and Camel. They seemingly come as naturally to such gatherings as, in this particular case, Lohr and Coppola. While one tastes much better than the other, they both leave their stain.
Inside, the iPod inside shuffled in odd dissonance as the small, two-bedroom apartment choked under the weight of mingling guests attacking the kitchen in search of a buzz. From between a handle-bar mustachioed, red-haired man who looked of another century and artsy-looking women in high heel pumps discussing pop music scooted a 2-year-old girl holding in her small hands a grip of tin foil. You could just tell where it was headed.
Note to self: teeth and metal don't mix. Elsewhere around the room revelers obliviously guzzled from red plastic cups and dined on hummus and chocolate birthday cake.
I stood out like a sore thumb. In my right hand I clenched a glass goblet. I noticed several others looking at me sorely, as they seemed to say to themselves, "And exactly who do you think you are?"
But then there was the smoker's lounge outside. Smokers don't really care who you are or what you have in your hand, thought it would be a lot cooler if in that hand is perched a cigarette. This is a persecuted lot, after all, and if you're willing to brave the smoky elements if for nothing else smoky conversation then the more the merrier. Something about smoking in a social setting lends itself to certain sense of camaraderie. It's an inclusive activity from at least the angle that it gives one something to do, as if drinking weren't enough.

It's a funny thing about the brain is how very exactingly self-destructive it can be. A common phrase uttered when someone does something particularly dumb is often, "Use your head." But the human brain with its ability to reason and choose is a tricky organ. Research shows a correlation between alcohol and nicotine cravings. And smokers will congregate as if they are immigrants in a new land. They rely on each other for some odd form of moral support.
But most smokers at any party or bar are rarely real smokers. They're what my peers in 4th grade called "posers." They allow themselves to succumb to that brain chemical that, when introduced to alcohol seizes the body and tells it "I just gotta get me some." After all, my dad has smoked since he was 15, as if my attendance is validated by my genealogy.
So outside they file, either with their own packs or ready to bum a cig or two. And you can always tell the real smokers from the fake by who has a lighter, who doesn't and who instead has a matchbook.
But, still, they smoke. Who wants to live forever, anyway? Not I, as I puff away. Carbon is a main ingredient in our bodies, no? It's every where, the air we breath out, food for the trees.
This thought process of course lasts for a whole three cigarettes before my head begins to spin and I feel like I am going to vomit.
Oh the buzz.
A party is just a party, after all, incomplete without gregarious puffs from cigarettes washed down by liberal amounts of alcohol.