This past weekend, Jon Stewart, patron saint of the politically lazy college student who wants to involve themselves with society, but without the lack of entertainment that research entails, did his only stand up of the year at the UCSB Thunderdome (imagine your high school's gym on steroids, or Pauley Pavilion after getting out of a really cold pool). Jon Stewart stand up… it is like a dream come true. Perhaps it is because stand up comedians have an air about them that conveys approachability, or because their status as the clowns of society makes the audience feel almost superior to their entertainers… either way, that evening Jon felt as though he could be touched. He was there, down to earth, in the flesh, on par with all of us, interacting with us rather than explaining politics to us though a box. It was a feeling that I couldn't even fathom: looking down at my hero and knowing that I could hypothetically make him hear my voice. 

This was the opportunity that I seized. After the show, we rumbled down the bleachers and diffused into the cool night. Apparently, and based on the screams and the rush out the door, Stewart had escaped unseen and people were following desperately. I was, of course, one of them, as I am not one to let opportunities slip through fingers. As we dashed about in a panic outside, CSOs shouted, "He's already gone. Go home! Nothin' to see here, folks!" Based on certain Tasergate occurrences lately, I made a conscious decisions to not believe a word they said and stick around. I spied a roadie-like figure, cigarette protruding apathetically from his jaw, and knew I found my in. To the elderly man, I whispered, "So, uh… what's the deal? Is he in there?" He chuckled paternally and assured me, "He'll come out… he always does. See that black car over there? Stick to it." I nodded, and were I wearing a hat, I would have tipped it to him subtly. I proceeded over to the CIA-worthy SUV, complete with fully tinted windows and a driver with an earpiece. 

After about a half an hour of elated milling about, everything happened at once. The driver, as though someone had switched him on, lept into the vehicle and backed it out of the driveway assertively. I followed. He rounded a corner and descended another driveway. I followed. At the top of the drive stood another cursed CSO, and he advised against me going any further. I observed a path off to the right that paralleled the driveway, and I asked of the enemy, "Hey, is there a goon over by that walkway that is going to stop me from running down there?" He replied, "To be honest, I don't know," and against my better judgment, I believed him. Over to the path I scampered and followed it down to right alongside the vehicle. The driver stood anxiously, and there were about 6 other giddy fools anticipating the moment to come. in a moment of clarity, I looked him in the eye and requested earnestly, "Please don't let anything happen to him… I don't know what we would do." He smirked awkwardly, and whispered something into his mic piece. It was go time. In a flurry of action, a wash of people emerged from the building, and there he was: 5 feet from me, Jon Stewart stood. 

What I said was inconsequential and mediocre, and I know he will not remember me to save his life. However, that exhausted night in Santa Barbara, I got to thank my hero. I got to tell someone that changed my life that he did so, and he heard me. How often can one say that in their life? 

Try it sometime… don't believe anyone, and employ a little gumption. I assure you, it is worth it.

-Christina Gubala