The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

noonan

eggy Noonan was splayed out, face-down, at peace with the floor of her office when the phone rang at the crack of eleven AM, and caused her to open one bleary, bloodshot eye. Wondering where the phone was, she searched about frantically in case it was her employer, Rupert Murdoch.

Noonan ascertained that the phone was hidden under the sombrero of a mariachi player who was snoring peacefully nearby.

“Guuuud m’ing. Meep, be…” Noonan said to the sombrero and then grabbed the phone, cleared her throat and tried again. “Good Morning, this is Peggy.”

“Nooner,” screeched her old nemesis Nancy Reagan, “are you in or out? I have secured a quart of cat piss and some water balloons and I know where Don Regan is having lunch today, if it’s the last thing I do, I’m gonna get that motherf…” Noonan cut Nancy off.

“Nancy, I’m at work now, you know how Rupert likes to listen in on calls, call me at home tonight and let me know how it goes.” Noonan rang off, but not in time.

“G’day, Peggs,” Rupert’s voice boomed over the disconnected intercom. “Quite a boozer you had going on last night. Iced to the eyebrows. You gonna write you column on the 40th Anniversary of Watergate? Due today. Don’t be late. Sounds like the old bat’s gonna have a jolly, what? Let me know how it goes.”

The intercom went dead. “Some day,” Noonan thought to herself, “I must learn how he does that.” She steadied herself, hung up the phone, and returned the sombrero to the snoring mariachi player. “The trumpet player,” she snickered. “Blow, Gabriel, blow.”

“Watergate of course was the mother of all leaks,” Noonan mused to herself as she mixed herself an eye opener from the impromptu bar that was somehow in her office. “A culture of secrecy always finds a leak,” she thought as she took a long, deep quaff of refreshment. She stood up on her tiptoes, stretching her ample calves, and gave Ronnie a little kiss on his card board cheek, one little birdlike hand fluttered up to the pearl necklace, a gift from the great man himself. “Thank God that we had no scandals in our Administration,” she whispered to the cardboard cutout of Ronald Wilson Reagan, the greatest president of the last half of the last century, maybe the greatest president ever.

“Unlike the current occupant of the oval office,” she grimaced. “What is happening with all these breaches of our national security? Why are intelligence professionals talking so much-divulging secret and sensitive information for all the world to see, and for our adversaries to contemplate?”

Noonan took a contemplative swig of Mai Tai, so sweet, so refreshing, and continued outlining her thoughts.

“What are they thinking? That in the age of Wikileaks the White House itself should be one big Wikileak?,” Noonan thought to herself as she mixed another Mai Tai.

The sombrero rang again. She answered it.

“Peggy, hi it’s me, Cokie, and you’ll never guess what just happened at Le Circ!”

Noonan grinned as the denouement of Donald Regan was reported. “Three balloons, Peggy, can you believe it, three balloons right on the kisser, and it smelled just dreadful. Oh, gotta go, George Will’s on the other line. Wait till he hears about this! Remember, don’t tell anyone Nancy finally got him!”

“Where was I?,” Noonan mumbled to herself. “Why is this happening? In part because at our highest level in politics, government and journalism, Americans continue to act as if we are talking only to ourselves. There is something narcissistic in this: Only our dialogue counts, no one else is listening, and what can they do about it if they are? There is something childish in it: Knowing secrets is cool, and telling them is cooler.” Noonan took a thoughtful bite out of the pineapple wedge, and slurped the juice as it tricked down her chin.

The phone rang again, and Noonan picked up the sombrero, put it down and picked up the phone.

“Peggy, as I live and breath, I finally got through to you! You’ll never guess who this is!”

Noonan felt her stomach flip-flop. “Colonel North, I told you to never talk to me again.”

Who Benefits From the ‘Avalanche of Leaks’?
They seem designed to glorify President Obama and help his re-election
, by Peggy Noonan

The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

noonan

eggy Noonan stepped up to the open mic at The Chelsea Pier to tell her joke, cunning and short and cute. She had just heard it that morning as she was being frisked at her favorite Airport, her favorite because it was named after the greatest president of the last half of the last century, perhaps the greatest president ever, Ronald Wilson Reagan:

“Ten years ago, Steve Jobs was alive, Bob Hope was alive, and Johnny Cash was alive. Now we are out of jobs, out of hope and out of cash.”

Crickets, as they say.

Back at the bar, she asked her favorite barkeep Juan-Carlos what had gone wrong. “The TSA man’s joke was as good a summation of the current moment and the public mood as I’ve heard,” she said thoughtfully as she polished off a refreshing Mai Tai, and proceeded to enjoy the pineapple wedge, so sticky, so sweet. The prize for the best joke tonight is to have your drinks tab on the house. Noonan was determined to win.

“Maybe it was the way he said it?” JC replied. Juan Carlos liked to be called JC. The other, less handsome barkeeps often bitched that “the other JC only thinks he’s the son of God.” Noonan felt uncomfortable addressing him as her Savior, though admittedly she would gladly have communion with him. “Eat for this is my body,” she murmured to herself.

Noonan considered delivery as a possibility as she enjoyed a new Mai Tai.

The television bolted to the ceiling was showing in the ticker that the president’s jobs bill had failed. Noonan smiled slyly. “It’s not that it lost, it’s that nobody noticed,” she said with smug satisfaction taking a long pull on the short straw. “It failed because he was for it.”

Noonan tried that line on JC. “No ma’am, that’s not funny either.” Noonan grimaced.

Noonan remembered that Ronnie had once told her that being President was hard, but comedy was harder. They both laughed over that line. Her hand fluttered up to her ever-present pearls, a present from the great man himself.

“Juan-Carlos, do you know who looks most surprised by the rise of Herman Cain? Herman Cain!”

JC shook his head back at her, and continued to polish empty glasses. Noonan took a thoughtful sip of Mai Tai. “Well, ” she muttered to herself, “Mr. Cain’s strength is not his charm.”

Juan-Carlos was not even pretending to listen any longer. Noonan wondered why she continued to tip him if wasn’t going to listen to her. Then he bent over to pick up something on the floor and she remembered why she tipped him. She dropped another napkin on the floor and sighed.

“Jon Huntsman is not actually a blue-blood, patrician Rockefeller Republican, he just plays one on TV!”

JC brought her a fresh Mai Tai without her even asking. She smiled and gratefully slurped. “Ah, nectar!”

“People say that Chris Christie’s endorsement of Mitt is a huge boon!” JC smiled at her and shook his head “No” again.

“The first joke was the best one, Miss Noonan, give it another try.” He indicated that the open mic line was empty. “Just say it like the man said it to you. It’s in the delivery, I guess.”

Taking a gulp of liquid courage, Noonan waddled to the stage again, and stomped up the rickety steps, her ample calves stretching and contracting on each riser.

“Ten years ago, Steve Jobs be alive, Bob Hope be alive, Johnny Cash be alive. Now we outta jobs, outta hope an’ outta cash.”

This Is No Time for Moderation
America can’t trim and tweak its way back to economic dynamism — by Peggy Noonan

The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

noonan

eggy Noonan lifted her head up off the desk at the Aviary 2, the clever name she gave to her new Penthouse in the sky (so expansive, so chic), paperclips and sticky notes adhered to her face, to see who was calling her at this ungodly hour of the morning. She hadn’t had her elevenses yet, and last night’s pineapple wedge was fetid and smashed into the carpeting around her thick ankles.

The phone displayed a picture of George Will in his navy whites playing with his fleet of remote-controlled boats re-enacting the battle of Trafalgar in his backyard pool.

Picking up the phone, she put on her best professional voice, “Admiral, good to hear from you,” but it came out “Ad marble gooby daf beer doo!”

“Jesus Peggy, I thought I’d get you before you uncorked you lunch.”

“I’m as sober as a judge, George.”

“Bork! Bork! Bork!” they both barked at each other laughing. “What can I do for you, George?”

“Peggy, have you seen Obama’s speech yet? They released it already. He profanes the good name of Ronald Reagan. As the keepers of the Reagan Legacy, we need to act!”

Noonan always giggled at the way Will inserted himself in the sacred trust. Peggy wrote the speeches, Will only played Jimmy Carter in the practice debates. Hardly the same. Her perfectly manicured hands fluttered up to the pearl necklace, a gift from the great man himself, perhaps the greatest president of the last half of the last century, maybe the greatest president ever.

“What do you have in mind, George?”

“We need to co-ordinate our attack in our columns this week!” he blurted. “If we both go after Obama’s speechifying from the position that he is no Reagan–and only we two can do this–we can take him down a notch or two before he hypnotizes the lemmings with his devilish oratorical powers!”

“Bloody hell!” Rupert Murdoch’s voice crackled into the phone, “Peg, that’s a fair dinky bonzer! Will, you dunny rat, fair suck of the sav, eh!”

“What the…” Will shouted into the phone.

“Pay not attention, George, Rupie retains the right to listen in on his employees now and again.” And then added, “Think of it as helping him as he has withdrawals from the recent unpleasantness in the UK.”

“Just looking for good oil, mate.”

Will hung up.

Dodgy bloke, eh Peg? His idea cracked me fat. Anyway, it’s a ripper. Jump on it, and don’t hit the turps.

“Dodgy bloke, eh Peg? His idea cracked me fat. Anyway, it’s a ripper. Jump on it, and don’t hit the turps.” and he crackled off.

***

Noonan was seated at her stool (“Miss Peggy Noonan” was engraved on the brass plaque–her prize for so many wins at Karaoke night) at The Chelsea Pier’s long bar, hitting the turps as it were. A Mai Tai, so refreshing, so sweet was nearby, as was her notebook with scribbles of thoughts, bits of phrases. “Research,” she said to herself, “that’s the key ingredient of my columns and the secret of my cunning success.” She thoughtfully slurped on the pineapple wedge in her glass.

She kept one flinty eye peeled on the TV bolted to the wall above the bar currently playing selected scenes from Will and Grace. A large Callista Gingrich impersonator sat down next to her and yelled at the bartender, “Who does a gal have to blow around here to get a drink?”

Who does a gal have to blow around here to get a drink?

Noonan grimaced at the coarse language, but wrote it down anyway.

“I’m really looking forward to hearing our President speak, aren’t you? Obama always says the right things to reassure us, doesn’t he?”

“We have to “eat our peas.” Noonan replied dryly. She waived a Benjamin over her glass and told the barkeep to give the faux Callista a refresh of whatever it was that she was drinking.

“Well, he excites me anyway,” Callista continued. “His last speech thrilled me, what about you?” she asked sipping on her (free) drink. “Thanks for drink, hon.”

“He was boring in the way that people who are essentially ideological are always boring. They bleed any realness out of their arguments. They are immersed in abstractions that get reduced to platitudes, and so they never seem to be telling it straight. And he was a joy-free zone. No matter how much the president tries to smile, and he has a lovely smile, one is always aware of his grim task: income equality, redistribution, taxes. Come, let us suffer together…”

The faux Callista turned a false eyelash to Noonan. “Say, you’re somebody famous, aren’t you? I’m sure I’ve seen you on TV, right?”

Noonan smiled shyly, extended her hand–momentarily putting down her Mai Tai–and introduced herself, listing all the pundit shows–This Week, Morning Joe, etc.– her news paper column, magazines, her books, and of course mentioned that she was Ronald Reagan’s speechwriter, “Morning in America,” and “Touching the Face of God.” Exhausted, she sat down in the warm glow of her celebrity.

“No, no, that’s not it. I know! You’re Mrs. Brady from the Brady Bunch right? You’re the one who got crabs from boinking some ex-mayor, right?”

The Power of Bad Ideas
What we’ve got here is far worse than a failure to communicate, by Peggy Noonan

But wait! There’s More!

Our good friend and Scissorhead Nonnie9999 from Hysterical Raisins presents us with this candid photo of the master grinding out a column. Thanks, Nonnie!

peggy noonan typing

The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

noonan

eggy Noonan always picks up the phone when Rupert calls.

“G’day, Mate. Look it, Nooners…”

“Rupert, I wish you wouldn’t call me that. It means something here, you know.” Lowering her voice she added, “something unsavory.”

“Don’t I know that,” he laughed into the phone, “I got the whole dossier on you and Jeff Greenfield. Lookit, don’t be a Mickey Mouse on me, I need you to be a good little jillaroo and teach the jumbucks. A few of them got ‘roos loose in the top paddock.”

Peggy sat down hard. Talking to her boss, the head of Newscorp always gave her a headache, and so she reached for her First Aid Kit, the clever name she had given her silver flask from Cristofel (so small, so chic), and pulled a good sip.

“Peggy, thing is some of the blokes don’t know Bourke Street from Christmas, so teach ‘em some journo. Think of it as summer camp.”

“Punditry 101,” Noonan clarified, “you want me to teach them to be pundits?”

“I know you are no conch, Nooner, so I’ll make it worth your while. Open tab at your favorite boozer. A buck’s night, if you like.”

Noonan’s ears pricked up.

***
Fun in the Sun with Nooner

Peggy Noonan opened a bleary eye and stared at the unwashed face of a child who was just staring at her.

“Consuela! Dammit, bring a pitcher of bloodies. I think I’m hallucinating again, there’s an urchin dans ma boudoir giving me the stink eye!”

Silence. And then she recalled the phone call with Rupert.

Continue reading

The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

noonan

eggy Noonan was sipping her traditional Mai Tai (so refreshing, so sweet) at the bar at Chelsea’s Pier (her favorite new watering hole), when her arch-rival, the six-foot Nancy Reagan impersonator (“complete with 5 0’clock shadow, just like the real one”) rushed up to her, and breathlessly begged for a favor.

“Peggy, Condi Rice isn’t here, and I need a back-up go-go dancer for my act next hour.” The Condi Rice impersonator, allegedly a Jets’ linebacker and a brute with massive hands (“Just like the real Condi”) was always flaking out on his commitments. “I’ll buy you drinks for the rest of the evening.”

Noonan agreed to the terms. She knew from actual experience that in an hour’s time she could enjoy four rounds of thirst-quenching refreshment. “It’s the same number I enjoy during the State of the Union Address.”

Of course during happier times when Ronald Wilson Reagan, the greatest president of the last half of the last century, perhaps the greatest president ever, would give a riveting SOTU speech, one that she had written, he would get standing ovations. “Ronnie, dear Ronnie, he knew how to give a speech.”

Unlike that horrid, professorial man now sitting at her beloved Ronnie’s desk. “As a rule, when Mr. Obama speaks, he literally says too many words, and they’re not especially interesting words. They’re dull and bureaucratic or windy and vague, too round and soft to pierce and enter your brain,” she sniffed.

She knew from actual experience that in an hour’s time she could enjoy four rounds of thirst-quenching refreshment. “It’s the same number I enjoy during the State of the Union Address.”

“Every White House wants their guy to get more applause than the previous guy,” she peered into the rapidly emptying hurricane glass, and took a thoughtful sip of Mai Tai. “The great thing for the president is that expectations are low,” she snickered. “The sad thing,” she grimaced, is that there is no way to escape the SOTU.”

“TV and radio carry it live, and it’s hard for the average citizen to avoid seeing at least a piece of it,” she sniffed. Noonan was still scared by her last attempt to interact with an average citizen, and thus when she got the barkeep’s attention ordered another round, to sooth her jangling nerves.

***

Noonan was finishing her fourth round–as she predicted–when she was called to the stage. The MC announced that for the first time in the history of the Chelsea Piers that Nancy Reagan and Peggy Noonan were appearing jointly, and there was thunderous applause.

“Psst, Nancy. What song are we doing?,” Noonan inquired, while wobbling onto the stage.

Nancy turned to her and whispered “The Bitch is Back.”

How to Continue the Obama Upswing, by Peggy Noonan

Bonus!

We have photographic evidence that Noonington dances the Pony and knows the Frug!

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The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

noonan

eggy Noonan, sitting at the chinoiserie writing desk (so chic, so Sotheby’s) enjoyed a refreshing sip of Mai Tai, picked up the quill and dipped it into the inkwell and began her annual Christmas Letter to home.

“Dear Family,” she began, “it’s been simply ages since we last spoke, and I’m positively aching to see you soon, soon, man-in-the-moon, but not too soon. Work finds me so busy I cannot possibly make it home this year.”

Noonan paused thoughtfully, “The first lie is always the hardest,” she muttered to herself, “but a professional who knows her craft carries on in the face of adversity, regardless.” She quaffed deeply from the hurricane glass. “It’s like making a deal with the Devil,” she though to herself, “much like what the President did this week.”

Noonan could not but help letting a sly grin escape, “He spent his first year losing the center, which elected him, and his second losing his base, which is supposed to provide his troops. There isn’t much left to lose! Which may explain Tuesday’s press conference.”

“The first lie is always the hardest,” she muttered to herself

The presser in which the President, that cold and unlikable man, basically called his opponents common thugs and his supporters sanctimonious, had puzzled Noonan. “Ronnie would have handled that better,” she murmured to herself. The Great Communicator, the greatest president of the last half of the last century, perhaps the greatest president ever, would never have insulted his base, and would never have burned the communication bridge to the other side. “Why should the GOP trust him ever again, name calling like that,” Noonan sputtered and reached for the pitcher of Mai Tai to replenish her glass.

“No,” thought Noonan, “that little man sitting at Ronnie’s desk, that strange professorial man, announced that he hates the deal he made, hates the people he made the deal with, and hates even more the people who’ll criticize it.” A quick sip of refreshment followed that thought.

“Amateur,” she giggled.

The truth, of course, is that all presidents are narcissists and egoists, they all hate that they need their supporters and they all hate the opposition, they have a singular vision of where they want to go and anyone standing in the way is unappreciated, unloved, unavoidably disappointed, everyone wants purity of spirit, of cause, noblesse oblige, and instead we get humans, failed and flawed.

“The president must have thought that distancing himself from left and right would make him more attractive to the center,” she mused as she looked out of the Aviary’s windows at the genteel scene of the upper east side. “The left wanted him to give them their own Morning in America, and instead he spanked them and sent them to bed without supper.”

Another thoughtful sip of her Mai Tai, so cool, so refreshing, and Noonan considered where this will lead, all of this disenchantment of the left, the confusion of the party’s professionals, has lead to increased talk of a primary challenger to Mr. Obama in 2012.

“Modern presidents are never challenged from their base,” Noonan sniffed, “always by the people who didn’t love them going in. You’re not supposed to get a serious primary challenge from the people who loved you. But that’s the talk of what may happen with Mr. Obama… but anyone who would challenge Mr. Obama from the left, would never, could never, win the 2012 general election. He’d lose badly and take the party with him.”

“Except for Hillary,” Noonan grinned.

Picking up the quill, and giving it a fresh drink of ink, and imperiously she continued the traditional Christmas newsletter.

“We hope this letter finds everyone in Brooklyn well…”

From Audacity to Animosity, by Peggy Noonan

The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

noonan

eggy Noonan put the handset back in the cradle of her pink princess phone in the boudoir of the Aviary 2 (the upper east-side Penthouse she bought for nearly $2M in the spring, so spacious, so chic). She paused for a moment before reaching for her Mai Tai and sipping thoughtfully, wondered where she was going to meet some ordinary Americans.

Mr. Murdoch’s instructions had been undeniably clear: Noonan was to write about how out of touch the President is with something he called real Americans, as if this creature existed. “Fuck it, Peggy, I’m an Australian billionaire, what the fuck do I know about your fucking little people? Obama went to goddam Indiana, so find some goddam Indians that want to talk about how much they fucking hate him.”

Noonan had tried to explain the dynamics to the Boss: “When you’re president and you go to Indiana, you take the bubble with you. Your bubble meets Indiana; your bubble witnesses Indianans. But you don’t get out of the bubble in Indiana.”

“Do I have to fucking do everything here?” was the reply before he slammed the phone on her. It was now a few Mai Tais later, and Noonan had a plan. “If you can’t take Mohammed to the Mountain, you can take some Mai Tai to Mohammed,” she noted. She was going to go to middle america and find out what they think of the President, as the boss suggested.

If you can’t take Mohammed to the Mountain, you can take some Mai Tai to Mohammed.

Calling her building’s concierge, Noonan arranged to have her driver meet her out in front of her fancy address. Noonan put on some comfortable clothes, nothing too fancy, just a sweater set from Bergdorf’s and a plain Chanel skirt. Because she was in a hurry, she didn’t bother switching bags, and picked up the Hermes, even though it did not match the Prada boots she was wearing. “A fashion don’t,” she giggled to herself.

She rolled down the glass partition. “Take me to middle America, James, and don’t spare the horses,” Noonan chirped pleasantly to the driver.

“Alfonso. My name is Alfonso. Where’s middle America, Ms. Noonan?”

Noonan paused, slurped some refreshment (so soothing, so sweet) from her “First Aid Kit” (the clever name she had given her Christofle flask, so smart, so cunning) and said she thought it was somewhere around Midtown. She locked her door just thinking about it.

Noonan paused to consider The Bubble that the President–that unlikable man, that man sitting in her beloved Ronnie’s chair, his cheap Florsheim shoes on the Great Desk itself–finds himself in. “You cannot shake the bubble. Wherever you go, there it is,” Noonan murmured to herself in the back of the Town Car. Ronald Wilson Reagan, the greatest President of the last half of the last century, maybe the greatest President ever, was a man of the people, “at least until the people tried to kill him, and then he was trapped in the Bubble,” she grimaced, her little bird-like hands fluttered up to the ever-present pearl necklace, a gift from the great man himself.

You cannot shake the bubble. Wherever you go, there it is.

“And the worst part is that the army of staff, security and aides that exists to be a barrier between a president and danger, or a president and inconvenience, winds up being a barrier between a president and reality.” Noonan noted to herself as she watched some bums picking through the garbage near the Park.

“James, stop the car! We found a real American!” She rolled down the window, waived a Benjamin at one of the men and asked him for his name. She didn’t understand his reply, so she called him Willie, which seemed like the name a man of his class might have.

“I think we all agree Mr. Obama badly needs, is an assistant whose sole job it is to explain and interpret the American people to him. Someone to translate the views of the people, and explain how they think. An advocate for the average, a representative for the normal, to the extent America does normal.”

The man starred at Noonan, and started walking towards the Benjamin. Noonan tried to engage him again.

“Do you think the anti-TSA uprising was genuine, Willie? Are you worried about getting groped when you fly?” The man made a rude gesture to Noonan, who screamed at Alfonso to gun it.

“The Special Assistant for Reality
Obama needs to hear a voice from outside the presidential bubble,” by Peggy Noonan

MPS Exclusive!

Our intrepid photojournalist, DCap, caught Noonan trying to infiltrate the workings of the common person, which was her Plan B after Plan A failed.

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The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

noonan

eggy Noonan completed watching the “Death Valley Days” marathon on her old black and white Philco television set in the back bedroom at the Aviary 2, the name she christened the new Penthouse (so large, so chic), when she buzzed the concierge.

“A horse, a horse, half my kingdom for a horse,” she whispered into the phone. They quickly made arrangements for a riding lesson in The Park. Watching her beloved Ronnie in the greatest western television series ever inspired Noonan to give horseback riding another try, her previous attempt had ended in failure at the Reagan Ranch in the hills above Santa Barbara, and of course 30 years of mocking from her nemesis, Nancy Reagan.

Noonan shuddered thinking about Nancy’s scratchy voice bellowing over the hills, “Hey Ronnie look! A horse with two asses!”

“This time,” Noonan sniffed, “things will be different.”

Just like for the GOP, she mused. “Whatever word means the opposite of snakebit, that is what the Republican Party is right now.” Noonan took a thoughtful sip of her Mai Tai as she changed into her riding togs, red coat, and black boots, funny cap, and just as quickly changed her mind. “Western saddle, that’s what Ronnie would want.”

Changing into denim jeans, and a plaid flannel blouse, Noonan mused further on the luck of the GOP. “One reason they are feeling hope is that they have received two big and unexpected gifts from President Obama,” she grinned to herself, “The first, of course, was his political implosion—his quick descent and speedy fall into unpopularity, which shaped the outcome of the 2010 elections.” She cursed under her breath while struggling with the skinny jeans that seemed to stop at her ample calves. “Fuckin’ cleaners must have shrunk them,” she snarled as she took a deep quaff of Mai Tai, and tried to peel off the jeans. She worried that she might look like a turtle that rolled onto its back as she struggled to pull them off, writhing on the floor.

“Obama’s second gift, of course, is how he reacted to the election’s outcome in a way that suggested he’s still in his own world, still seeing a reality no one else is seeing,” Noonan huffed, out of breath. Noonan giggled at the thought of the very smart and unlikable man sitting at her beloved Ronnie’s desk not being aware he was not political enough, too serious, too substantive, and no one could see the size of his achievements.

Grimacing, Noonan thought about how the media was going to treat the incoming GOP freshman class, “The mainstream media this January will be looking for the nuts,” she thought as she slurped the pineapple wedge. She had seen this before when the new Republican Congress came in in 1994. The spirited Helen Chenoweth, freshman from Idaho, talked a little too much about “black helicopters.” She was portrayed as paranoid and eccentric. Bob Livingston, from New Orleans, went to his first meeting of the Appropriations Committee wielding a machete. The new speaker, Newt Gingrich, was full of pronouncements and provocations; he was a one-man drama machine.

***

Iced to the eyebrows, Noonan poured herself out of the cab at the stables in The Park and asked the driver to stick around for the return trip home.

“Howdy, Ma’am. What do you want to do today,” the friendly instructor asked her.

“As Mrs. Patrick Campbell once said, I don’t really care what people do as long as they don’t do it in the street and frighten the horses,” Noonan said as she slipped off her coat, and Lady Godiva-like, mounted her steed.

Obama’s Gifts to the GOP, by Peggy Noonan

World Exclusive Photos!

Our intrepid photojournalist, DistributorcapNYC was there!

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The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

noonan

eggy Noonan was greeting her guests at her combined Halloween and Election Eve party. “Happy Halloween,” Noonan said as she opened the door to her Aviary II (so large, so chic, the new penthouse was).

“Trick or Treat,” her guests squealed as Peggy handed them their treats, airline-sized bottles of booze.

The costumes, Noonan noted, were not the traditional Ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties, nor things that go bump in the night, and she was sad for the lack of tradition.

Mostly Noonan’s guests seemed to prefer dressing as Democrat effigies (Pelosi clones, she noted with distaste, were scattered throughout the place), or as the more buffoonish Tea Partiers. “The O’Donnell witches with sex toys was funny the first time,” she sniffed. A little more creativity would be a welcome relief. Noonan of course was cunningly disguised as the most frightening thing she could think of: Nancy Reagan.

“Ah, Ronnie,” thought Noonan as her little bird-like hands fluttered up to her ever-present pearls, a gift from the great man himself, Ronald Wilson Reagan, the greatest president of the last half of the last century, maybe the greatest president ever. She took another thoughtful sip of her festive halloween Mai Tai.

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“Unlike the current President, this wet blanket, this occupier of the least interesting corner of the faculty lounge, this joy-free zone, this inert gas,” Noonan grimaced. “The worst thing you can say about a president: He won’t even make a good former president.” and for some reason that made her smile benevolently at a parade lead by Ann Coulter dressed as a tampon dancing a conga line through the Aviary.

The television was tuned to Fox so that guests could watch the election returns, and the merriment engendered by the good, conservative results helped the party kick up a notch, as that appalling television chef says, “Bam.”

“Ah, Ronnie,” murmured Noonan to herself. “Conservatives talked a lot about Ronald Reagan this year, but they have to take him more to heart, because his example here is a guide.” She grabbed another Mai Tai off the tray from the cater-waiters she had hired from her new favorite bar, The Chelsea Pier, where she liked to sing karaoke.

“The point,” Noonan said to her potted palm, “is that Reagan’s career is a guide, not only for the tea party but for all in politics… He wasn’t in search of a life when he ran for office, and he wasn’t in search of fame; he’d already lived a life, he was already well known, he’d accomplished things in the world.”

Hall - Cantor

Working up a head of steam on her topic, she grabbed Eric Cantor by his tiger tail and said, “You have to earn your way into politics.” Spotting Michele Malkin nearby, she grabbed her by the red-checked kerchief, and declared to her, “Ronald Reagan was an artist who willed himself into leadership as president of a major American labor union (Screen Actors Guild, seven terms, 1947-59.) “

The room seemed to go into a frenzy with the music and the news, the crowd was spinning every which way, and Peggy Noonan was frantically hurling herself into the swirling maelstrom of it all, spilling facts about her beloved Ronnie, and spilling her beloved Mai Tai to anyone who would listen.

The revelers suddenly hushed as Sarah Palin appeared on the screen. She was defending her form of political celebrity—reality show, “Dancing With the Stars,” etc. “Wasn’t Ronald Reagan an actor? Wasn’t he in ‘Bedtime for Bonzo,’ Bozo, something? Ronald Reagan was an actor.”

Hall - Lieberman, Perry, Johnston, Graham

All eyes turned slowly to Noonan. “He was a great man and you are a nincompoop,” Noonan wailed at the TV, before flinging herself into a line of Madonna-Wannabees, lead by Lindsey Graham.

Americans Vote for Maturity, by Peggy Noonan

Everyone was there!

Our intrepid investigative photographer, DistributorCapNY was there!

Hall - Bachmann

Hall - Bush & Noonan

Hall - Fiorina

Hall - Malkin

Hall - Mehlman

Hall - Nancy, Beck, Laura, DeMint

Hall - Odonnell

Hall - Reagan & Palin

Hall - Rove & Ailes

Hall - Boner

(Hat tip: Batocchio alerted me that Nooner had gone nuts by Mooselini’s apostasy.)

The World According to Peggington Noonington

Today, Nooner gives us a a sober look at the Teabaggers, and she rightfully sees that they are an effort to rehabilitate the Republicans. This much of her thesis is true.

Chimpy McStagger really did screw the pooch and destroyed the brand. At the end of his term the GOP was tattered and torn, on its knees and wondering what happened. They couldn’t get a war hero elected to the oval office, and they foisted a world-class grifter on the public stage. There was not a single thing that they could point to for their decade-long, power-drunk reign of terror to be proud of. They had bankrupted the country, lost two wars, and created a monster of unbridled executive power and overreach.

The Teabaggers changed that, according to Peggers.

Suddenly the GOP had new purpose and meaning, the Teabaggers breathed life into the party, and they shook off the remaining spiderwebs from Blam-blam and Chimpy’s Great Adventure and started fresh, new-born, as it were.

And so far as it goes, I can agree with Peggington. Then, she takes a big gulp from her Mai Tai, and the handfuls of Xanax, and suddenly she goes down the rabbit hole (so cunning, so chic) into her strange and dipsomaniacal world where truth and reality have no bearing:

In a practical sense, the tea party saved the Republican Party in this cycle by not going third-party. It could have. The broadly based, locally autonomous movement seems to have made a rolling decision, group by group, to take part in Republican primaries and back Republican hopefuls. (According to the Center for the Study of the American Electorate, four million more Republicans voted in primaries this year than Democrats, the GOP’s highest such turnout since 1970. I wonder who those people were?)

Because of this, because they did not go third-party, Nov. 2 is not going to be a disaster for the Republicans, but a triumph.

Well, where to start… even though the Pegster lives in her little fantasy world, even with a vestigial sense of being a journalist, she must know that the Teabaggers are anything but a genuine movement, autonomous or otherwise. There is a Dick Army, Newt Gingrich, Karl Rove, there is a host of the GOP establishment that is directing and pulling strings, making their little puppet-monster dance. She knows it, but she also knows that if she wants to remain on the cocktail party circuit in the Village (and Nooner does, oh, she really does), she has to get on board, too.

And so the rest of her column is some sort of sing-along, off-key hymn praising the Teabaggers, something that only just a few months ago Peggers wouldn’t do.

But here’s a quick give away. Read the following paragraph from her essay:

The first: the tea party is not a “threat” to the Republican Party, the tea party saved the Republican Party. In a broad sense, the tea party rescued it from being the fat, unhappy, querulous creature it had become, a party that didn’t remember anymore why it existed, or what its historical purpose was. The tea party, with its energy and earnestness, restored the GOP to itself.

Now, substitute Noonan for the GOP, and it all becomes clear:

The first: the tea party is not a “threat” to Peggy Noonan, the tea party saved Peggy Noonan. In a broad sense, the tea party rescued Noonan from being the fat, unhappy, querulous creature she had become, someone who didn’t remember anymore why she existed, or what her historical purpose was. The tea party, with its energy and earnestness, restored Noonan to herself.

And that’s all you need to know about today’s screed from Mai Tai-ville.