The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

Noonan-in-her-cups

eggy Noonan’s old black and white Philco always had good reception if the bottle of gin was placed in the exact same spot, near the rabbit ears. She adjusted both the ears and the bottle (by taking a swig), and the fuzzy picture crisped up nicely.

Noonan looked approvingly as The West Wing came into focus, and not just because she had been hired at some point in her fabled past to be an advisor on it, but because she liked it. Noonan’s jaw dropped in disbelief at a scene in which the press secretary confronts the president and tells him off about some issue. Then she turned her back and walked out.

Noonan grabbed her yellow lined note pad and wrote a note to Aaron Sorkin, saying, “Aaron, press secretaries don’t upbraid presidents in this way, and they don’t punctuate their point by turning their backs and storming out.”

Noonan then folded up the note and tried to stick it in the floppy drive of her Windows ME machine. “I hope Aaron gets that note before the next scene,” she murmured to herself as she headed into the kitchen to prepare her late night repast.

Noonan glided into the kitchen, swan-like and glanced at the NYTimes article by Jason Horowitz. She addressed the hollow pineapple shell thusly:

“Assuming the article is factually correct, and it certainly appears to be well reported, the president of the United States phoned the majority leader of the U.S. Senate during a legislative crisis to complain that one of the senator’s staffers is a leaker. Unbeknown to the president, the staffer was listening in on the call and broke in to rebut the president’s accusation.”

A certain amount of bile began to billow, so to speak! This was unthinkable! Unheard of! Ronald Wilson Reagan, the greatest president of the last half of the last century, maybe the greatest president of all, would never do such a thing! Addressing Captain Morgan, Noonan declared, “Presidents don’t call senators to complain that someone in their office got them mad. That is below a president.”

Noonan glanced at the life-sized cut-out of Ronnie, her beloved Ronnie that was standing near the bar, and saluted him. “You wouldn’t do that, would you, Dutch?” Her eyelids may have fluttered.

“I’ve had it up to my keister with these leaks!” Remember when the NYTimes reported that I said that in 1983, and then had to explain what a keister is? Good times, Nooner!” the cardboard president replied. “I still believe that David Gergen was a prime leaker, though. That man couldn’t hold his tongue still.”

Noonan blinked. “If persistent leaks get under a president’s skin, he has one of the tough guys around him make that call.”

“Oh,” replied Ronnie, “you mean like that time Mommy leaked the stuff about Don Regan? That traitorous rat-bastard, why it worked and he resigned, you know.”

Noonan took a refreshing sip of her Mai Tai and returned to the Philco.

(Standards, Fallen, by Peggy Noonan, on her blog)

The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

Noonan-in-her-cups

eggy Noonan woke up on election day clutching a tear-stained voting stub from 1980 and an hollow pineapple shell. Looking around, she recognized that she was still in The Aviary (the clever nickname she gave her Penthouse), thank God!

Stumbling out of bed with her Lanz of Salisbury nightgown on backwards (“one wonders how and why this keeps happening?”) she made her way into the spacious kitchen where the faithful Conseula had put out the morning repast, complete with a fresh lime. Quaffing deeply, Noonan mused over what she saw as the coming debacle.

“You can get quite a conversation going in any room in Manhattan now by comparing Barack Obama to Jimmy Carter, with everyone defending Carter,” Noonan mumbled to herself. Noonan saluted the ever-present Ronal Wilson Reagan portrait over the wet bar. He was after all, the greatest president of the last half of the last century, maybe the greatest president ever.

“If the president’s party loses big on Tuesday, as appears likely,” Noonan added another splash of rum into her glass, “much of the loss will be due to 3 C’s—competence, coherence and credibility. It’s a terrible thing when a president loses his credibility.” She glanced up at Ronnie, blushed, and looked away.

Noonan recalled how Bill Clinton handled his midterm drubbing. In a news conference the next day he accepted responsibility and suggested the political meaning of the election was that the public was more conservative than he was. “That took some guts and humility,” she said to Ronnie, as she mixed some more refreshment. “Cleverness, too,” she continued. “By convincing those on his left that they had to face reality, he opened the door for his historic compromises with the Contract Congress.”

Noonan grimaced as she thought about Dubya’s press conference following his famous shellacking in which the Republicans lost 30 House seats, six Senate seats, and control of both chambers.

Noonan couldn’t recall the name of the reporter who asked President Bush—callow youth!—the question: “With all due respect, Nancy Pelosi has called you incompetent, a liar, the emperor with no clothes and, as recently as yesterday, dangerous. How will you work with someone who has such little respect for your leadership and who is third in line to the presidency?”

Ronnie looked down on Noonan from high above the Bacardi, “CNN reporter, Suzanne Malvaeux, Peggy. Pretty much ended her career.”

Noonan turned on the garbage disposal to drown out the noise and started washing the hurricane glasses.

(How to Lose, and Win, Graciously, by Peggy Noonan)

UPDATE: Welcome Hullabaloo readers. Nice to meet you!

Peggy Noonan Goes to Wyoming and Rides a Horse

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Good lord, she’s parodying herself now.

Tenderfoot doesn’t really like to be in a place where there aren’t a lot of . . . witnesses. She’s from the city and knows the canyons of downtown, the watering holes of the theater district. She knows her Brooklyn, her Long Island, her Jersey, is a walker in the city and a lost rube in the country. She is here because she loves her friends and will go far to see them. She does have a relationship with the American West and does in fact love it, but it is the West as mediated by John Ford, Cormac McCarthy and Larry McMurtry. She doesn’t really know the real one.

She refers to herself in the third person as Tenderfoot throughout. You’ll need a drink to read the entire article.

(Hat tip: Scissorhead and MPS unindicted co-conspirator AxelGrease for the illustration)

Tengrain Presents…

Dear Diary 1

Dear Diary 2

Dear Diary 3

Dear Diary 4

Dear Diary 5

Dear Diary 6

(Peggy Noonan’s Blog)

(UPDATE: I’m putting this on the front page because it was mentioned on The Professional Left Podcast and people are looking for it. Fresher posts below. Thank you to Bluegal and Driftglass for the hat tip.)

The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

Noonan-in-her-cups

eggy Noonan placed the now-empty Mai Tai glass on the top row of the pyramid of glasses in front of her, precariously perched on her stool as precariously as the glasses were on the bar. A fresh Mai Tai magically appeared before her and her appreciative audience at her new favorite watering hole, The Chelsea Pier, applauded her skill and accuracy. She quaffed deeply, smacked her lips, and gave a gimlet eye to the task before her.

Noonan looked up at the wall-mounted TV to see Chris Christie was still the subject of discussion on all the talking head shows. To no one in particular, she murmured,

“Chris Christie’s problem isn’t that he’s a bully, it’s that he’s selfish,”

She took a thoughtful sip of her drink and declared:

“Barack Obama isn’t stupid and therefore the maker of mayhem, he’s selfish.”

“Take that back, Pegs!” screeched her competitor, the 6-foot tall Nancy Reagan female impersonator (complete with 5 o’clock shadow, “just like the real one,” Noonan once snickered). It was troubling to Noonan that even an ersatz Nancy Reagan would defend the imposter sitting in the same chair as Ronald Wilson Reagan, the greatest president of the last half of the last century, maybe the greatest president ever. Her little bird-like hand fluttered up to the pearl necklace she always wore, a gift from the great man himself.

“OK,” Noonan sighed, “he is stupid.” and she put another empty glass on the pyramid. There was a sharp inhalation of air from the gathered crowd.

“But the odd thing, the destabilizing thing as you think about it,”…

the glasses wobbled for a second,

“is that we’re in a crisis. We’ve been in it since at least 2008 and the crash, and the wars.”

Noonan was pleased with herself for the “at least” part. It was her escape clause when challenged that these unpleasant events transpired under a Republican president, the unthinkably simple Dubya. “Not Babs best work,” she said to herself.

Noonan was warmed up to her subject and sipping on the next Mai Tai (“only for the pyramid,” Noonan chuckled about the original challenge of the egyptian tombs. “I thirst for knowledge.”).

“We are in unprecedented trouble. Citizens know this. It’s why they buy guns. They see unfixable America around them, they think it’s all going to fall apart.”

One of the highball glasses Nancy Reagan placed looked to be sliding for a moment and then steadied itself on the top row. The false Nancy Reagan exhaled.

“In Washington (and New York) they huff and puff their disapproval: Those Americans with their guns, they’re causing a lot of trouble. But Americans think they’re in trouble because their leaders are too selfish to face challenges that will do us in.”

Looking around the bar at her audience, Noonan suddenly declared,

“There’s an increasing sense in our political life that in both parties politicians call themselves public servants but act like bosses who think the voters work for them…”

Noonan noted with satisfaction that at least some of the heads in her audience with shaking with approval. She continued.

“Politicians who jerk around doctors, nurses and health systems call themselves servants, when of course they look more like little kings and queens instructing the grudging peasants in how to arrange their affairs.”

Just then there was a large crash, as the pyramid of Nancy Reagan’s highball classes crashed off of the bar, having been nudged by a shifting shoulder pad.

“It was political selfishness that blew up the American health-care system,”

Peggy Noonan exalted triumphantly, as she placed the last Mai Tai glass on the point of her pyramid.

Our Selfish ‘Public Servants’ – From the White House to the schoolhouse to the George Washington Bridge, by Peggy Noonan

The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

Noonan-in-her-cups

eggy Noonan looked quizzically at the instructions of assembly for the new bicycle she was gifting herself for Christmas, her goal being to become fit for the new year, and took a deep quaff of her libation for both strength and courage in these trying times.

“One needs a better translation from the Chinese to understand these things,” she muttered darkly as she looked for something called a Hex wrench in the piles of metal thingies scattered about the Aviary 2, her new, grand penthouse, so spacious and chic. “But at least it wasn’t translated by the strange sign-language impostor at the Mandela memorial,” she giggled to herself.

Turning to her life-sized cut out of Ronald Wilson Reagan, the greatest president of the last half of the last century, she muttered his name…

“My worries came home with a certain freshness after the Mandela memorial, where the United States Secret Service allowed the president of the United States to stand for 19 minutes next to the famous sign-language interpreter who, it was quickly revealed, was not only a fraud but a schizophrenic con man who is now said to have been involved in two deaths.”

She took a sip of refreshment and stared deep into Dutch’s eyes. He blinked back at her, or so it seemed. Her birdlike hand flew up to her ever-present pearl necklace, a gift from the great man himself.

Ronnie’s voice filled the vast spaces of the penthouse, or at least her head. “Well, Mommie, er, Peggy, you know that virtually every head of government from the world was there, so it’s not exactly that you can blame his White House for this.”

Her stare broke and she looked downward at his cordovans, and whispered:

“In fairness, the event was in another country and the Secret Service wasn’t strictly in charge.”

Noonan perked up, and took a sip of her Mai Tai and said sprightly to the cardboard cut out,

“That said, it still looks like very basic negligence, as if no one is keeping enough of an eye on the Secret Service, no one’s checking the quality of the advance or sending emails asking: “Hey, what do we know about the sign language guy — any chance he’s a mentally ill criminal?”

Noonan clambered up from the floor, steadied herself, and marched into the kitchen to replenish her refreshment, and noticed that the bacon-wrapped cocktail weenies she nuked an hour ago were still in the machine. She re-nuked them, and called out to Ronnie,

“I’m worried, finally, that lines of traditionally assumed competence are being dropped. The past few weeks I can’t shake from my head this picture: The man with the football — the military aide who carries the U.S. nuclear codes, and who travels with the president — is carrying the wrong code. He’s carrying last month’s code, or the one from December 2012.

Ronnie seemed to groan, but Noonan soldiered on. “Hear me out, Chief, she said,

“And there’s a crisis — a series of dots on a radar screen traveling toward the continental U.S. — and the president is alerted. He’s in the holding room at a fundraiser out west.”

“Fundraising is a big part of the job, Peggy,” Ronnie grinned at her.

“The man with the football is called in and he fumbles around in his briefcase and gets the code but wait, the date on the code is wrong. He scrambles, remembers there’s a file on his phone, but the phone ran out on the plane and he thought he could recharge in the holding room but there’s no electrical outlet. All eyes turn to him.

“I remember this movie!,” Reagan gleamed happily at her. “It was a rip-snorter, wasn’t it? I don’t remember my leading lady in it. Was it Nancy?”

Noonan shuddered upon hearing her idol mention her rival’s name so fondly. She continued on,

“Wait — wait. No — uh — I don’t think that’s the code we use to launch against incoming from North Korea, I think that one takes out Paris!”

“But… but, Peggy, the nuclear launch codes have been the same since Truman was in office, all zeros. Even that drunk Bush kid could remember that one…”

Incompetence, by Peggy Noonan

It’s Write Like A Noonan Day

Well, just look in the archives for inspiration, kids.

The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

Noonan-in-her-cups

eggy Noonan opened a bleary eye onto a new, cold, crisp New York day, with a dull throb in the back of her head. Instinctively her small, bird-like hand de-clutched the pearls given to her by Ronald Wilson Reagan, the greatest president of the last half of the last century, perhaps the greatest president ever, and reached on the Louis XV bedside stand for her First Aid Kit (the amusing name she gave her Christofle silver flask), only to discover—oh, horrors!—that it was empty.

“Half my kingdom for a horse,” she muttered to herself, “or at least an eye-opener.” She stumbled into the kitchen of the Aviary 2, the name she gave her new penthouse, so grand, so chic, and assembled her pitcher of breakfast (complete with a fresh wedge of pineapple, so juicy, so sweet), and the soothing relief it brought. “The good Captain never lets me down,” she nodded approvingly at her self-medication, a cup that indeed runneth-over onto the counter and momentarily on the floor. “Consuela will mop that up,” Noonan thought as relief dulled the throb in the back of her head.

Noonan thanked God for the miracle of modern science and that she did not have to go to the Park Avenue doctor for her remarkable headache, now that Obamacare was the rule of the land. “I’m not even sure if I’m insured any longer,” she thought. She considered the need for insurance, as healthcare is important to all of the rapidly aging Pundits in her cocktail circuit. “Well, I’m sure that Rupert has me covered,” she sniffed. “But what about others?,” the little people out in the heartland, which she was certain that existed on the other side of a bridge or tunnel somewhere. She had read about middle America once.

“People have seen their prices go up, their choices narrow. They have lost coverage. They have lost the comfort of keeping the doctor who knows them and knows they tend to downplay problems and not complain of pain, and so doing more tests might be in order, or tend to be hypochondriacal and probably don’t need an echocardiogram, or at least not a third one this year.”

Noonan took a thoughtful sip of her breakfast, and continued musing.

“Everyone understands in their own rough way that ObamaCare is a big mess. And that it’s not the website, it’s the law itself. They have seen systems crash. In the past 20 years they’ve seen their own computers crash. “

Noonan looked at her garage door opener as if for confirmation. She never got it to make a phone call, or listen to her music or her collection of Reagan speeches.

“They understand this new program was so big and complex and had so many moving parts and was built on so many assumptions that may or may not hold true, and that deals with so many people with so many policies—and they know they themselves have not read their own policies, for who would when the policies, like the law that now controls the policies, are written in a way that is deliberately obscure so as to give maximum flexibility to administrators in offices far away. And that’s just your policy. What about 200 million other policies? The government can’t handle that. The government can barely put up road signs.”

Noonan thought back fondly on her old insurance policies from years gone by, and the many hours she amused herself reading the small print, as she finished her breakfast. “So clear, so well-stated,” she smacked her lips as she slid off the kitchen barstool and made peace with the floor.

(Low-Information Leadership, By Peggy Noonan)

Peggington Noonington was for it before she was against it

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Bacardi Lifetime Achievement Winner Peggy Noonan is at odds with reality again:

Noonan and the civil war

By any definition, Nooners, Syria is already in a civil war.

Anyway, today’s column is another hot mess, essentially she channels her inner K-Lo and writes a mash note to the pacifist Pope, and seems to forget that in the ever-swirling, twirling mists of time (pre-happy hour? Yes.) that she was in favor of attacking it:

Mr. Assad is the first known leader to use chemical weapons since Saddam Hussein murdered his own people in the Kurdish city of Halabja in 1988. The Syrian attack violates red lines Mr. Obama personally laid down.

[snip]

Mr. Obama has strived mightily to avoid intervening in Syria, despite his repeated demands that Mr. Assad “must go.” The Administration’s U.N. gambit looks like one more way to avoid doing something it promised it would do if chemical weapons were used. Presidents who are exposed as bluffers tend to have their bluff called again and again, with ever more dangerous consequences.

The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Honest-to-Thor, there must have been a Captain Morgan two-for-one sale and the pineapple crop came in early or something, because her treatment of a Hillary BioPic is just completely unhinged:

“The dramatic template they’ll use is the life of Eleanor Roosevelt: Ugly duckling suffers much, finds her voice, leads. By the end she has become a thing of beauty, a real presence in the national life, a voice for the forgotten.”

“And Eleanor,” Noonan sniffed dismissively, “was also rumored to have had Sapphic desires.”

“She is an awkward teenager, can’t seem to get right what the other girls get so easily—the right headband, how to flirt. Scene: suburban basement party, 1963. The other girls dance to the Shirelles. Hillary, in a sad little flowered cotton dress, sits on a folding chair to the side. Next to her is a shy boy with a shirt-pocket pen protector. They silently watch, then talk about homework.”

“I wonder how I get across to the viewer that Hillary smelled funny, too?,” Noonan mused.

“She attempts to win her Republican father’s approval, becomes a Goldwater girl. It doesn’t work. He still criticizes her almost-perfect report cards. “Don’t they give A-pluses at your school?””

“And then Hillary practiced her Vince Foster kill shot on her dad.” Noonan poured another Mai Tai from the pitcher and resumed pecking at the keyboard of her trusty typewriter.

“She leaves home, goes to Wellesley, begins to study politics more seriously. Reading great texts, taking notes. Scene: Hillary in flared jeans, book in hand, running breathlessly down a dormitory corridor. She comes upon another student. “Listen to this, listen,” she says. “The working poor, especially those who are members of minority groups, are discriminated during the mortgage loan process at banks—especially women, who can’t even get a loan unless a man co-signs for it.” “

“Wanna go back to my room, sweetie?,” Noonan giggled as the words appeared, as if by magic on the 20-weight paper. “The writing takes care of itself,” Noonan murmured as she watched words, lovely words, fill up the sheet.

“Hillary insists, “We’ve got to do something about it!” and marches on. Another student pokes her head from a room, makes eye contact with towel girl, and they start to laugh. Rodham comes on a little strong.”

“Nuke all the men’s clubs,” Noonan’s typewriter slurred. “…and bayonet the survivors!”

“Moment of triumph: senior class address on graduation day. Hillary challenges the establishment, the entrenched powers. “We need more ecstatic modes of being.” It doesn’t make complete sense, but it’s the ’60s and nothing has to.

“This would be a great place,” Noonan mused, “for a 60s musical medley and perhaps some vintage footage of Ronald Wilson Reagan–the greatest president of the last half of the last century, maybe the greatest president ever–calling out the National Guard at Berkeley back when he was governor.” Noonan took a big swig, smacked her lips, and then wiped them on the sleeve of her Lanz of Salisbury nightgown.

“In the audience, a mortified U.S. senator who’d come to speak at commencement. Hillary sees him squirm. We see on her face this thought: This thing I’m part of has power. The young have more power than we know.”

“I must ensure,” Noonan wrote in the margins with a fluid stroke of her fountain pen, “more hippie punching.”

“Yale Law school, long nights in the library. She meets Bill—charistmatic [sic], friendly, ambitious. This one knows how to dance the mashed potato and the Loco-Motion too.”

Noonan found her feet tapping out rhythms. “The Watusi,” Noonan shrieked, “the Pony!,” Noonan ran to the closet to find her vintage go-go boots, but they did not fit and the zipper hurt when they pinched her ample calves.

“Dates, movies, love. His mother, Virgina [sic] Kelley—antic, Southern white working class—doesn’t like her a bit. “She isn’t good enough, not your type—she doesn’t even wear mascara.” Bill holds firm: She is the partner I need for my journey.”

“Mascara,” Noonan burbled. “More mascara jokes!,” she looped in the margins.

“Marriage. Elections. First lady of Arkansas. Awkward. What is the line between feminist seriousness and movement priggishness? Where is the line between getting power and staying human? She wants to be serious and she wants, as always, to fit in. Intermittent mascara use.”

Noonan squealed, “Mascara!” Self-satisfied, she refreshed her Mai Tai and slurped on the pineapple wedge, so refreshing, so soothing.

Comic scene: Virginia gives her makeup lessons. Hillary walks out looking like a whore. But she’s learned something from their recently begun conversations: it’s a mistake to think you have nothing to learn from the Virginia Kelleys of the world. They know things they don’t teach in the Ivy League.”

“Note to self,” Noonan wrote in the margins, her handwriting getting cramped and tired, “Mascara jokes are golden.”

“Thrown out of office, back in office, baby Chelsea, inexorable rise. Rumors about Bill and women, works through it. Growing friendships with Democratic activists, movers and shakers, moneymen, pollsters. A new interest in children’s issues. Lucrative board memberships. She will fight the power from the inside. The shoulders of her power suit get bigger.”

Noonan ran back to her closet and pulled out a Reagan-era business suit with shoulder pads like linebackers. The chintz skirt, so flowing and feminine was not fitting right, needed to be let out just a smidgen, and the jacket was fitted with a peplum, very Alexis Carrington. She couldn’t breath.

“Bumps along the way in the primary: a woman, a tape. Hillary: I’m trying to be serious about policy here, I don’t bake cookies! The blows keep coming. She toughs it out. Her husband’s enemies are worse than he is. She loves him, and she didn’t come this far to let some personal nonsense take them out.”

“I wonder,” Noonan mused, “could cookies be the new mascara?” Noonan’s marginalia was starting to look a little shaky.

“Defeat, retreat, mascara. Triangulation: Is this good? Does it mean we’ve become what we hated? Or does it mean we’ve become practical? The point is power. Preserve it at all costs. Lincoln bedroom good place to park donors. You have to compromise to win.”

Noonan approved, “Reintroduce mascara,” she thought. “Power, that’s the new mascara…” the words were harder to write now, the typewriter was slower.

“Triumph. Economy good. Rope-a-dope Newt and the Contract With America nuts. Good legislation. Finally, everything good. The future all sunrise.”

“Meep, derp, mgnig,” Noonan sobbed into her typewriter.

“Then: Monica. Tears, “How could you ruin what we’ve built?” Scandal, horror, rage, slap.”

“Tear,” Noonan paused, “but no running mascara. Genius!”

“Repair. Reading. Eleanor Roosevelt biographies. Scene: Hillary is alone, looking out the window of the residence. In the background, Bill’s televised deposition. She stares at the tourists at the fence. They want in. She wants out. They’re freer than she is, locked up in this cage, locked in by her choices.”

“Note to self,” by now even Noonan’s handwriting was slurring, “reintroduce Sapphic regret.”

“She’s with girlfriends late at night in the residence. They’re telling stories, commiserating, drinking wine. “When Joe and I had our hard time we decided to stay in it, work it through. We had a life, a commitment, kids, a reasonable amount of love and a big sloppy dog. Looking back we did all right.” Another, a tough talking New Yorker: “Look, fall in love with a guy who can dance the Shirelles, ya gotta expect he’ll dance with a few shirelles!” Hillary laughs, hugs her.”

“Wine, soft lights, some lady friends…” Noonan spine shivered. “Need to talk to Lynn Cheney about Sapphic keywords,” Noonan scrawled.

“U.S. Senator. On her own. Major book contract, bestselling memoir. Rich. A house so big it has a name: Whitehaven. Only she appreciates the resonance.”

Noonan typed, “Vast spaces for entertaining,” but then X’ed it out.

“She runs for president and is done in by her staff, who make poor decisions. They let her down as much as Bill did. But there was that one moment in New Hampshire—”I’ve found my voice”—and there was at least that victory, before the end.”

Noonan took a thoughtful sip of her Mai Tai. “There must be more I can say about how Bill let her down.”

“Obama is president. Future? Phone call. Secretary of State? Yes.”

“Hillary is still dependent upon men,” Noonan sneered. “Where did I leave Lynn’s cell phone number?”

“Scene: A walk-on by a glamorous, willowy, exotic aid. At night, on the plane: “What do you really want, Huma?” “All I want is to be just like you.”

“Maybe I don’t need Lynn after all,” Noonan chuckled and blushed. “Another woman let down by another man obsessed with his willy,” Noonan started sketching out a love scene, but then got back on track. Noonan took a satisfying sip.

“Scene: a meeting with old campaign aides, veterans of previous political wars. One brings a surprise: a poll. “You’ll not just win if you run, you’re going to be elected by a group that’s made a journey very much like your own. You’re going to be elected by Republican women.”

“Where the hell did that come from,” Noonan wondered as she stared at the words on the page. “Fingers, do not betray me.” Noonan stood up to stretch and saw herself in the mirror: go-go boots, chintz skirt, ’80s power suit jacket, and mascara all over her face, and bits of pineapple pulp stuck to everything. “I don’t understand how these things happen to me.”

(Peggy Noonan’s Blog, Hillary: The Docudrama)