Tuesday, October 30th, 2007 4:45 PM

I've never seen the Drexel quad look quite like this before. The best hand we're ever dealt is a couple of Jesus freaks handing out free bottles of Dasani water with little stickers on them that read "Christ on Campus." (Of all waters, they choose Dasani – a product of Coca-Cola, who, up until 1929, put cocaine in their soft drink. Water into wine, soda into narcotics – what's the difference?)

But this crowd isn't here for bottled holy water. No sir, this is Philadelphia. Why, we're just a few blocks and a couple hundred years away from the site where some rebels in wigs signed a paper and claimed an identity for us. This was once the beating heart of a nation, and thank our lucky stars, we've got a pulse once more: "The Debate at Drexel."

But the scene before me isn't the debate; it's just the quad a few hours beforehand. All we've got out here is a few people being interviewed by Chris Matthews – a small event in the big scheme of things. But what a sight to see: cameras everywhere, crowds of people lined up against the fence bordering the MSNBC stage, signs held above heads in a horizon that obscures the sunset. There's even a group of construction workers who came in a pack of twenty or so, probably in an effort to strengthen the concentration on a specific issue concerning the working class. This is America – the democracy where every vote counts, and everybody gives a damn that theirs does. We just got lost for a short while in thinking that a drop of water added to an ocean doesn't make a difference. It does. However slightly, the water rises.

And what a feeling it is to look around and see a few hundred people gathered together for the pre-game show to a political debate. It's the type of enthusiasm that a college lacking a football team seldom sees. Every vote does still count and after a long drought, Philly's political enthusiasm is back with a vengeance.

Tuesday, October 30th, 2007 5:00 PM

Five o'clock hits and the crowd erupts for all the wrong reasons. Somebody on the stage points to Chris Matthews to let him know he's live, and ten seconds later, thirty different cell phone conversations start with, "Dude, are you at home? Turn on MSNBC – I'm on TV!"

There are two main cameras on stage – one on Matthews and another on whomever he's interviewing. As the two of them alternate in dialogue, the sections of the crowd directly behind them take turns jumping up and down in an effort to catch the camera's eye.

These people aren't here for politics. In fact, anybody who is interested should be at home, because I'm ten feet from a speaker that's supposedly hooked up to the on-stage microphones, and all I hear is a faint puff whenever somebody pronounces a "B" or a "P."

One lady taps me on the shoulder and hands me a sign that says "Biden" on it. I explain that I'm not voting for him and she tells me, "That's okay, just hold it up."

What? I'm not apologizing for stepping on her foot; I'm saying I'm not voting for him. I want to ask her what "that's okay" is supposed to mean, but she walks away almost immediately, leaving me with only my confusion and her colorful piece of construction paper.

Time passes, the sun dips out of view, and the crowd dissipates until round two of the Matthews interviews, which is set to take place at seven o'clock.

Thursday, November 1st, 2007 3:30 AM

What a tease. Everybody was there because of their lust for the camera (except maybe the construction workers, one of whom told me they were only there because some student told them about the free pretzels). I doubt if there was a definitive moment where we lost our grip on it, but somewhere between Charlie Chaplin and Brad Pitt, our culture redefined the American dream as five minutes of false fame in front of a camera. Five minutes of a drunken Youtube video; five minutes of spewing profanity, throwing chairs, and flailing punches on Jerry Springer; five minutes of jumping up and down in the background of a talk show at Drexel. It no longer matters why we're seen, just that we are. We've become a nation of six-year-olds in a 7-11 who want nothing more than to turn around and wave at the security camera so our friends can see us on the monitor behind the counter. And throughout this whole thing, I've learned that if there's one social situation I'm uncomfortable with, it's being part of America's non-stop parade of narcissism.

Let me just clarify that it's not completely meaningless for people to show up with signs. While I don't personally consider holding up a paper sign stapled to a yardstick to be synonymous with political activism, I do recognize that it's better than nothing. People were there, for better or for worse. I was just upset that the motive for it all was their obsession with being on TV. If the next Presidency is to be decided by which candidate has the most citizens dedicated to holding up a sign with their name on it in the background of a talk show, we should all be prepared to hear the sound of a big loud flush fairly soon.

But somebody's got to win; this is fact. If it's Obama, South Park will have a blast when Eric Cartman finds out we have a half-Kenyan President with the middle name Hussein. If it's Hillary, Family Guy can do another episode with Bill Clinton parading around the White House naked with a half-empty martini in his hand. If it's somebody else, then we'll get a whole new genre of jokes.

I don't want a female President; I don't want a black President; I don't want a white President. I want a President – period. One who will live up to the capital "P."

I intend to add my drop to the ocean, and when I do, the moment will come and go in an instant. There will be no visible change in the water level; there will be no dramatic splash to let me know something significant just happened. There will be no reward. But someday, somewhere, some wave might come crashing onto the shore and I'll be left to wonder if that wave started with the ripples from my drop.

I can live with that.