Tuesday October 30th 2007, the Day of the Democratic Presidential Debate

"I just came from there," my roommate said. "If you want to see the whole shabangabang, walk up Chestnut Street."

"Well, I guess I'll just dive right in then."

When I got to campus, the street was blocked with police directing an unhappy swarm of traffic away from the news vehicles lined up at the curb like food trucks. The regular bustle of campus was laced with ridged figures in dark suits, pacing or jogging with the press passes around their necks flying about their heads.

The broadcast tent began setting up for its second show as the crowd, now chiefly filled by student-supporters, again warmed up their voices by volleying remarkably on-cue chants for their chosen candidate. As anyone who watched the Hardball broadcast knows, many Drexel students weathered the chill air to watch its host Chris Matthews conduct live interviews. Banners advertising Clinton and Bidin were the most prevalent, and at one time a large Clinton banner was held up, inadvertently blocking the camera's view of the Drexel logo that hung from the wall of Korman.

The seven o'clock broadcast was everything one might have expected, down to the last free pretzel, save two things.

The first was the relatively small amount of visual support for Obama, who appeared to be a Drexel favorite (and would later be polled as the winner of the debate). I asked an Obama supporter who had strayed away from the herd to explain the process of getting people to stand behind the broadcast tent and hold up their signs. I hoped to unearth some sort of scandal involving paid volunteers and PR gurus, but unfortunately, he did not think this was the case. Any student was free to pick up a sign and to the best of the supporter's knowledge, they alone made up the crowd.

Secondly, I was surprised by the lack of protest at the quad, expecting a showing from an anti-Bush jam circle at the very least. I noticed a group of about two or three students holding anti-something signs covered with ambiguous messages of blood, money, and establishment. However, their overall message was not in the least bit clear, save that they were angry at something. I felt as I watched them that I was in a game of political pictionary.

Absent of protestors, or of any persons voicing one direct idea, the quad was far from buzzing. The students lounging on beach chairs or on the steps of the amphitheatre, combined with the square-shape of the quad itself, made the event more reminiscent of a picnic than of any droll Rocky allusion one could make.

The cold air was beginning to sink through my jacket, so I decided to light a cigarette and take a stroll along the side of Main Building to warm up. I tried to avoid thinking about the cost of all of this extravagance and how much of my tuition went into it and opted instead to admire the truly handsome structure. The accent lights draped the columns with majestic colors like candlelight by an altar in Ancient Greece, so much so that I began to hear the distant sound of ceremonial drums behind me.

But the drums were real, and I turned to see a giant skeleton propped up by four or so protestors approaching the building. A small tin whistle sang as the march filled the entire street and scores of painted faces screamed for welfare reform. Some banged on shovels and others held signs with defaced pictures of Clinton and Bush, while still others called for more governmental attention to AIDS— a hoard of Philadelphia's wailing undead admonishing naïve students and corrupt politicians to lend an ear to the downtrodden. The energy of the march was unbridled and raw; I could scarcely wait to see what would happen when the march got closer to Main.

But there was no line of police to prevent the marchers from storming the building; no one seemed concerned that things could get out of hand. And rightly so. The angry wave of protesters just washed upon the shore of the debate, and after a short time washed right back out into the city.

"Dead people don't vote" read some of the signs, which, while a true enough statement, seemed to hold some irony. I thought of a line from a poem I was working on: yet, we ask not for whom the grave is made.

What was truly taking place on our campus? Past the utilitarian reasons for holding the debate at Drexel, what else was there? What quality does this event hold? What on earth are all these people doing? Can this all really be as absurd as it seems?

But it was going on 11pm. I had witnessed the march and the broadcast. I had witnessed verbal scuffles between supporters of different views, both on screen and off. I had witnessed only an impassive reenactment, from which some part of the performance was missing or forgotten. I couldn't really explain what it was and didn't really care to guess. Someone else would, and someone after him, and a first-year political science major, and stopeverythingforthesakeofnothing.com would no doubt post a feature article. The Democratic, Republican, and Prohibitionist parties will have their take on everything as well. What good is witnessing anything for yourself when it can just be found later in the comfort of your own La-Z-Boy?

As I walked back to the quad, I saw a friend of mine sitting on the grass, wrestling a food container away from a miniature pug. With a good view of the screen, I sat down with them and watched Kucinich get set up for UFO jokes, Bidin explain how Rudy Giuliani constructs pathetic sentences, and Obama say he was going to go out for Halloween dressed as Mitt Romney.

And after all the political opinions were stated and processed, after I gave due thought to all that had been stated over the course of the debate, I thought to myself that maybe I'd go as Mitt Romney too.