The lead speaker at one well-attended session was Toufic Haddad, who raged against "the Zionist imperialists." When his microphone did not work for a moment, he grumped about "a Zionist mike." Other speakers -- Ahmad, Ahmed, Salim and Mostafa, as well as those with names of English derivation -- also assaulted Israel.

At 10 p.m. one evening, organizers tried to drive conference attendees into Jam for Justice, a mix of music and angry poems that was the main entertainment for the night. Two cash bars in the room did little business, and the designated poet soon sounded desperate, because few were listening. Socialists had come not to be entertained but to reach out and touch other socialists, and maybe hook up.

I felt a bit like Bruce Willis in The Kid, where he meets his younger self, a fat, unattractive child. Most of the socialists seemed to be political philosophy nerds, choosing to stay inside convention spaces instead of going to baseball games or other activities that the Ferris Buellers of the world prefer. Some with radical parents are merely carrying on the family business.

But the general news is this: Many have proclaimed that Marxism is dead, but judging by the enthusiasm and intensity of the folks I mingled with, Marxism is alive. It's particularly strong among alienated professors and graduate students who hope to replicate the 1965-1974 golden age of unrest. It's too early to celebrate Marxism's demise.