You know those cartoons where Bugs or Fred and Barney are walking and walking and the background hills and trees are unspooling behind them, and then at some point the background transforms into, say, arctic tundra or coral reef, but it takes our heroes a long beat before they realize that their environment has shifted utterly?
Well, that’s what it’s like being a tall, skinny, over-educated, forty-something black man in the Age of Obama. You go to sleep Ricardo Tubbs and you wake up Sonny Crockett. I was fifty feet under Columbus Circle, getting off the Broadway IRT, when I realized I’d arrived in the promised land.
I don’t remember the exact date, but it was sometime between the Iowa caucuses and Super Tuesday, and Obamamania was at a fever pitch.
Full story: Obama Is My Wingman: Men’s Lives: GQ