A new column in GQ on the 2012 presidential race:
There are some things you don’t know you want until you get them and some that you don’t know you don’t until they’re yours. Take perfection. Now that Republicans have found in Romney pretty much all the qualities they’ve clamored for in modern presidential candidates—an aura of personal and public decorum, a record of civic-minded accomplishment backed by a record of fierce free-market self-enrichment, all wrapped up in a senior-edition beach bod and a profile fit for a gold coin—they don’t seem as wild for them as as they once were. Sure, they’re proving willing to accept Mitt (largely on the assumption that others will like him, which is how social-climbing teens choose prom dates) but what many of them now lust for in their hearts, as do certain non-Republicans who’ve caught the fever despite themselves, is something they never imagined tolerating, let alone secretly, irresistibly craving: a primordial walking gargoyle of pre-monogamous political id. Newt Gingrich, who seems to inhabit a middle state between swamp thing and statesman, frog and prince, is an arresting specimen in his own right, but as the fascination of a party whose base holds that man was created in God’s image without any scaled or beaked transitional versions, he’s an unaccountable astonishment.
He’s also an unshakable addiction. Like a drunken traveling salesman who hits on a freaky new sexual position during a night of Motel Six carnal fumbling, Newt has managed to put his stubby finger on a collective pleasure center—some undiscovered orgasmic political ganglia—that will require quadrennial stimulation from here on out. Whether he wins even one more delegate hardly matters in the screwy new scheme of things. As a style, as an archetype, he’s already prevailed, changing forever the nature of the game and earning the love of everyone who’s felt the game becoming sclerotic recently, the way games do when the money grows enormous, the press coverage relentless, and the players remain the same. Just as JFK and Reagan accustomed Americans to a higher standard of dashing glamor in Oval Office types, Newt has habituated a numbed electorate to a new level of effervescent perversity. He’s probably unelectable, it’s true. He’s entirely unforgettable, that’s truer. He has opened a process that’s routinely disparaged as a mere horse race, shallow and routine, to a whole new animal: the bred-for-mayhem Georgia kicking mule.
