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 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.”

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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.”

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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!

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(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.

The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

noonan

eggy Noonan was in her new favorite bar, the odd little place where one could sometimes find Nancy Reagan impersonators (“complete with a five o’clock shadow, just like the real thing”) hosting Karaoke night. The barkeep at The Chelsea Piers was discreet and he kept Noonan’s Hurricane glass replenished with Mai Tai, and so all was well.

“Today, of course, is a day of Miracles,” thought Noonan as she took a thoughtful sip of Mai Tai, and signaling Thor, the barkeep, to come over via the usual signal (a Benjamin waived in the air), she changed her order to the national drink of Chile, a Pisco Sour. So cool, so refreshing, so sour. Inspired and Inspiring, she noted with a satisfied pucker and smacking of the lips.

“Chile! Viva Chile! If I had your flag I would wave it today,” Noonan declared to the television mounted on the wall. “Chile needed this, but actually the world needed it, and that is why we, the world, are watching the rescue.”

“President Sebastián Piñera, in office five months when the mine caved in, saw the situation for what it was. Thirty three men in a hole in the ground, in a mine that probably shouldn’t have been open. A disaster, a nation riveted,” thought Noonan.

“Unlike our President Obama who sat by, helpless while oil spewed out of a hole in the bottom of the ocean,” Noonan grimaced. “Last summer Americans watched professionals and the government seem helpless to stop the Gulf oil spill, a disaster every bit as predictable as a mine cave-in. For months we watched on TV the spewing of the oil into the sea,” Noonan sniffed.

Thor strode back over to Noonan with a fresh Pisco. It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he said to her, gesturing to the television. “Chile can rescue those miners in the San José mines,” he continued, “while Massey Energy let about the same number of miners die in a mining disaster in West Virginia. Chile must have better regulations, or enforce them better, or something, huh?”

“The rescue of the Chilean miners is a smashing victory for free-market capitalism,” Noonan replied.

Viva Chile! They Left No Man Behind, by Peggy Noonan

Bonus! We have pictures of our favorite Coal Miner’s Daughter:

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The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

noonan

eggy Noonan adjusted her clever disguise (Over-sized Chanel sunglasses–Lunettes en Française–and Gautier silk scarf), and made her stealth entrance into the Atlantic City Casino. Glancing about to see if the paparazzi had spotted her, she made her way to the cashier to buy some tokens for the slot machines.

Noonan had seen the incessant advertisements on the television for the state lotteries, and she was going under cover to do some old-fashioned journalism about gambling, to understand the appeal.

A brief discussion with the concierge revealed that Casinos and gambling were no longer thought of as a sin as before. Give government the right to reap revenues from the public desire to gamble, and you’ll soon have government doing something your humble local bookie never had the temerity to try: convince the people that gambling is a moral good. “This,” sniffed Noonan, cannot be true.”

Noonan looked about the room at the silver-haired ladies starring slatternly into the displays from the slot machines. “I’ll start over there,” she thought, and waddled over to the bank of machines, inserted a token, and pulled the lever. The machine whirred, and blinked, flashed some lights, and a siren went off as a series of fruit displayed and suddenly the infernal machine belched out tokens, a shower of them, all different colors into her bucket. Noonan felt the color leave her face, and seemed a little dizzy for a moment. The older ladies looked at her with jealousy and rage, and Noonan stuck her tongue out at them.

And so the afternoon went, drop a token in the slot, pull a lever, and the merry tinkle of tokens filling into her bucket. Now and then a waitress showed up with a Mai Tai, on the house. “What a wonderful business model,” Noonan grinned to herself, “free drinks just for playing a game. Rather like how the Democrats keep the poor enslaved,” she grimaced.

Noonan could not help but think of Greece, corrupt and corrupting state. “Over decades the Greeks turned their government into a piñata stuffed with fantastic sums and gave as many citizens as possible a whack at it,” she sniffed to herself as she pulled the lever.

A bit bored, and iced to the eyebrows from all the free Mai Tais, Noonan glided rather majestically to the roulette table, where she spotted her old friend, Bill Bennet, the Secretary of Education under Ronald Wilson Reagan, the greatest president of the last half of the last century, maybe the greatest president ever. She sat next to him.

“Peggy, it’s good to see you. I’m here, um, doing research,” he mumbled under his breath. “Don’t tell Elayne you saw me here.”

“Me too, Bill,” Noonan replied as she showed him the bucket of tokens she had won.

Noonan spotted that no bets were on the red 80 (her lucky number, the year that Ronnie became president, so handsome, so strong), and put the bucket on it.

The croupier asked her the value of the bet, to ensure that the house could cover it, if she should win.

“Americans weren’t born to be accountants. It’s not in our DNA! We’re supposed to be building the Empire State Building,” she replied, dryly. Another Mai Tai arrived, like magic.

“Come to Momma, you sonofabitch,” Noonan squealed as the wheel spun and the ball bounced about.

It was now Morning in Atlantic City, and Noonan was seeing a thousand points of light as she was escorted out of the Casino, penniless, paparazzi snapping away.

Revolt of the Accountants, by Peggy Noonan

Bonus Tracks!

The amazing DCap was there, and managed to get some pictures of Noonan’s night of debouchery!

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The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

noonan

eggy Noonan hung up the phone on room service and waited for the bell hop to bring her the bottle of Bacardi and other essential supplies she ordered. “Desperate times,” she said to no one there, “calls for desperate measures.” She took a swig from her fast-emptying First Aid Kit, the amusing name she had given for her Cristofle hip flask (so cunning, so chic).

The little notice on the desk in her suite warned of tornadic activity, and so Noonan was laying in supplies, just in case. “Being forewarned is forearmed,” she muttered to herself after tipping the bellhop a whole dollar, and proceeded to the mini bar to mix a make-shift Mai Tai.

“Tornadoes are tearing up the polical landscape, too” grimly thought Noonan as she took a contemplative sip of the sub-par beverage in a hard-water stained tumbler. “And the president, this president, this likable man who speaks so well at saying nothing, this man seems to be the eye of the hurricane.” Noonan giggled at her own mixed metaphor.

“Presidents do not speak to Rolling Stone,” she muttered with disapproval, but where else could he go to do some hippie punching as Jane Hamsher called it. “Hippie punching, such an amusing term, as if the Democrats could ever set up a narrative now for someone to take the blame after the midterms,” Noonan sipped thoughtfully.

“Everyone is distancing themselves from this president,” Noonan sniffed, “Unlike when Ronnie was president. Ronald Wilson Reagan, the greatest president of the last half of the last century, maybe the greatest president ever, was also unpopular at this point in his presidency,” her little bird-like hands had fluttered up to her ever-present pearl necklace, a gift from the great man himself. “But he didn’t do any elephant punching, and if he were a Democrat, there would be no donkey punches,” she declared.

Refreshing her Mai Tai, Noonan glanced at USA Today on the coffee table, the sad numbers of unemployed blazoned across the front page.

In an interview David Axlerod, the advisor to the President, said abortion will “certainly be an issue,” for Democrats. It will be raised “across the country.” At this point in history, with America teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, negative advertising is even more destructive, more actually wicked, than it was in the past. Noonan mocked him for that one, when the issue was so obvious.

Sirens were going off outside, and Noonan stumbled to the balcony door to see what was happening. Just then, the bellhop rushed into the room to evacuate her. Grabbing her hand as she was about the fling open the balcony door, he yelled “What the hell are you thinking, lady!”

“The issue this year is the size, role, weight and demands of government,” Noonan slurred at him as he lead her to the safety of the basement.

The Twister of 2010 — by Peggy Noonan

The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan – an UPDATE!

Anatomy of a Column

noonan

eggy Noonan walked off the stage at The Chelsea Piers (her favorite new watering hole) to thunderous applause after she finished singing the venerable smash hit of the Reagan era, Xanadu. She even wore her roller skates on stage, and did a little pirouette as her big finish. “This time, I will beat Nancy Reagan,” she thought to herself, triumphantly. Her nemesis, a Nancy Reagan impersonator — “complete with five-o’clock shadow, just like the real one” — would take to the Karaoke stage later in the program, so there was time to sit down and enjoy some refreshment that an admirer had sent to her.

“Ah, nectar!” she said as she took the first sip of the Mai Tai, so sweet, so refreshing, like a little vacation in your mouth.

“Unlike the vacation that The President is taking in Martha’s Vineyard,” she grimaced to herself. All presidents take vacations, and all are criticized for it, the wrong place, the wrong time. She noted to herself that Bill Clinton also went to the Vineyard, “Clinton even had it poll-tested before he went,” she smirked.

“But we knew Clinton, we got him: Southern Governor. Good old boy, drawlin’, flirtin’ bad boy. And we got Dubya, Texan, black sheep from a good family. And Ronald Wilson Reagan, we got Ronnie, Midwesterner, serious, humorous, patriotic, the greatest president of the last half of the last century, maybe the greatest president ever.” Her little bird-like hands fluttered up to the ever-present pearl necklace, a gift from the great man himself.

“But,” she sighed, “we don’t get this man, this horrible little man, this wretched , sleek, cerebral, detached academic from Chicago by way of Hawaii and Indonesia. We don’t know that guy.” Noonan took a thoughtful sip of the Mai Tai, and the waiter brought her a refill, another gift from the admirer. Noonan smiled shyly and accepted the fresh drink.

“Obama doesn’t fit any categories, people think he is a Muslim, and this leads to criticism of his leadership. We want him to be a guy we know, be someone we get,” she thought. “And,” she sneered, “he doesn’t get us. He is focused on what individually interests him. He relies most on his own thinking. He focused on health care, seeing the higher logic. The people focused on something else.”

Noonan noted dryly that the Nancy Reagan impersonator was singing Afternoon Delight off-key, and realized that victory was in her grasp. “Take THAT, Nancy,” she muttered as she gulped down the rest of the Mai Tai.

The judges always ask the contestants to stand and they listen to the applause from the audience to judge who wins, and so when her name was called, Noonan dutifully stood up, the roller skates slid out from under her and she crashed into a nearby table before skidding to a stop on her ample derrière and passed out.

The Nancy Reagan impersonator took the prize from the judges hands, and the waiter brought her the bill for the Mai Tais. “I get you, Noonan. I completely get you.”

We Just Don’t Understand, by Peggy Noonan

UPDATE: DistributorCap has discovered an important video of an earlier performance of Peggington Noonington’s: