This post is really only an excuse to point out a pop culture reference opportunity gone begging over at Slate Magazine – this New Yorker really like’s Mike Huckabee…
As I said, I’m a New Yorker—and a pretty serious one. I root for the New York Mets. I can’t name a single person who lives in my apartment building. I fantasize about tripping tourists who insist on walking three-wide, arm in arm, at a glacial pace on a narrow sidewalk. I routinely have cereal and paper towels delivered, and I haven’t seen the inside of a washing machine in a decade. I’m also in my late 20s, which, coupled with my hip address, ensures that my taste is well-seasoned, appropriately edgy, and probably better than yours. I will obsess over anything Ricky Gervais does. I can name at least 10 boutique vodkas. My music interests are sufficiently sophisticated that I can condescend to most other age groups with authority. Finally, I’m also a grad student—at NYU, no less—so I’m supposed to be one of those cosmopolitan academics who have designer eyeglasses, a subscription to Artforum, and a ready collection of aphorisms to quote from the likes of Foucault, Derrida, and Sartre.
Indeed, I am guilty as charged. But as Sartre once said, “Man is not the sum of what he has already, but rather the sum of what he does not yet have, of what he could have.”
So, a guy like Mike Huckabee isn’t supposed to be in my wheel house. Girls (and boys) like me are supposed to go for Anderson Cooper types. My friends think I’m a traitor to my age, my island, and my vast (and almost fully paid for!) intellect—but I don’t care. If loving Huck is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.