Mock, Paper, Scissors

Anatomy of a Column

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!

Anatomy of a Column

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

Anatomy of a Column

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:

Anatomy of a Column

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

eggy Noonan decided that the new thrift of the Great Recession of 2007 was over and it was time to move on. She sold her little penthouse that she called the Aviary (so small, so chic) and moved to the Upper East Side, to a new penthouse with three bedrooms and 1,400 square feet. “I’ll call it ‘Aviary 2′,” she told her broker, who had nodded and moved slowly away.

Signing all the copious paperwork to take possession of the new penthouse had been exhausting, and having everything checked and double-checked and checked again was boring. Her wrist, so small, hurt, and Noonan worried that she might be developing a callus gripping the pen so tightly. Certainly her nails were chipping on the fake wood surface of the conference room table.

Her attorney from a prestigious law firm handed her yet another form to sign, after checking it first. “Peggy, by incorporating yourself as an LLC, you’ll be able to write off the whole $2million purchase price as a business expense.”

“Read my lips,” Noonan smiled at him and started making twitching, incoherent gestures, “No new taxes,” and peals of laughter were heard throughout the mortgage broker’s offices.

Peggy Noonan was directing the caterers, some of her new friends from the bar down at the Chelsea Pier, where to put the Ronald Reagan ice sculpture for her house warming party when her pink princess phone rang in the bedroom. She picked up her Mai Tai and wandered off in that direction.

“Hello, this is Peggy Noonan,” she said into the phone, trying to be as professional as possible because, well, you never know who it might be. Frostily, she said into the mouthpiece, “I have no idea who would vandalize the living room of the Aviary. No Juan, I gave you all my keys. Goodbye.” The doorman at her old building never liked her and often accused her of sundry crimes and misdemeanors. “A very small tip,” she said to herself, “as a going away present.”

The phone rang again.

“Oh, I hope you can make the party tonight! George will be here, too. It will be just like being in the Green Room before the show, but with better booze.” She sipped her Mai Tai, so refreshing, so sweet.

The guests were all able to make it, now that Lindsey Graham confirmed, the last hold out. She had been worried because the last party was only in December, that perhaps no one would show up. “Too soon, too soon, man-in-the-moon,” she mumbled.

“Slap my ass, and call me biscuit, Peggy, if that wasn’t the best damn Christmas party I had ever been to,” Lindsey told her, “Especially the part with the video of you and Jeff Greenfield…”

“Lindsey, the line is breaking up,” Noonan lied, “see you tonight,” she chirped as she hung up. She suddenly recalled how somehow or other her Tribute to Ronald Wilson Reagan (the greatest president of the last half of the last century, maybe the greatest president ever), a greatest hits of sorts of the speeches she had written for him, had been inadvertently swapped with a private tape that she wished had remained private.

At 8PM promptly, the buzzer buzzed its uncouth buzz, and Noonan plugged in the drink fountain, and Ronnie began serving Mai Tais through his nozzle. “That,” grimaced Noonan, “is unfortunate. I wanted something dignified, not that wretched little Belgian.”

Conseula, her long-suffering housekeeper and confident opened the doors, the guests entered. Noonan stood up, wobbly, took a step forward, and stepped on the hem of her dress and plunged, face first, into the crowd.

MPS Exclusive! Scenes from Nooner’s Party!

The always amazing DistributorCap was there, and took some pictures!

Jello shots with Michele and Mooselini! What flavor was that?

…white and male?

Sweet Baby Jeebus! Are we saying that Mai Tais are not just for dinner? Peggington Noonington is crushing on Brown, slurring him all the way to third base, with a wink and a nod.

(Hat tip: Scissorhead WonderingWilla)

…because I just went over to DCap’s place, and I could swear I saw Peggington Noonington fly.

That’s some bad bathtub gin…

Anatomy of a Column

eggy Noonan awoke with a start at the podium of the study group she was leading at Harvard. The last thing she really remembered was a six-foot tall Nancy Reagan with a five o’clock shadow 86-ing her from the stage at a bar somewhere near the Chelsea Piers, just as she was hitting the crescendo of Memories from the Reagan-era hit musical, Cats. It was during fleet week, she recalled and she had been iced to the eyebrows.

Noonan looked around at all the shiny, happy faces, so young, so fresh, so amused by something. “Now, where was I?” she asked, pointing to a particularly nerdy girl in the front row.

“You just said, ‘I’m not a brain surgeon. You have to be a professional. I did my best and I didn’t kill anybody. I can’t remember what the point of my answer is,’ and then you went head-first into your handbag,” she replied.

“What shall we talk about today,” she asked the class, trying to change the subject. Noonan gambled that the students would have something to talk about and she could just listen while her head pounded. “What is on your mind, let’s rap about that.” She pointed to the nerdy girl who had been so rude as to quote her, verbatim. “Please introduce yourself and suggest a topic.”

Giggling, the girl walked to the mic. “I’m Craven Moorehead, and I would like to hear your thoughts about Obama winning the Nobel Peace Prize.”

The rest of the students guffawed, as Noonan felt the room swirl about her, as she quickly put her head back in her handbag and started heaving.

A Wicked and Ignorant Award — by Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Column

eggy Noonan gave the barkeep the universal signal to bring her another round: she held her empty glass up, as if toasting him, shaking it from side-to-side. If Mai Tais had ice cubes in them, it would be rattling.

He ignored her as he had done most of the night.

“Young, insolent, insouciant, man,” she thought, “doesn’t he know to be respectful to his elders, his betters, to me?” She looked at his muscular backside and sighed deeply. “Youth, raw youth, so succulent and rare, and so wasted on the young.” She put a Jackson in the glass, and suddenly she had his attention, and soon she had a refill.

Looking about her at Forum in Union Square, Noonan saw no one she knew, and no one over 30, which was exactly what she wanted in this, her research expedition to understand the youth culture surrounding the handsome, young president, that likable man, so terrible and cool, sitting, a usurper at Ronald Wilson Reagan’s desk, the greatest president of the twentieth century, maybe the greatest president ever, so handsome, so virile and strong.

The pretty young women in the crowd were looking at her in curiosity, and the young men were looking away. Noonan could not but help notice that with every drink the young men became better looking.

Obama’s people. So young, and so untried, and yet so triumphant, the world at their feet, they came from nowhere, and then here they are, fearless, glittering, sparkling, bright shiney young things. Smug. These, well, children, children of Ronnie’s gilded era, they’ve never been defeated, they’ve never learned from failure, because, so much has been given to them, they’ve never lost because they’ve never been tested. “Too easy,” she murmured, “too easy.”

From across the room, a youth, golden, so golden, so young, looked directly into her eyes, and maybe into her soul. He smiled a toothy and dazzling movie star smile and walked directly up to her, his broad shoulders barely swinging, and not blinking, never blinking, this smoldering golden youth stared into her eyes.

“Ronnie,” she whispered, as she looked down, suddenly subordinate. Becoming flush, she reached for her pearls with her little birdlike hands. She was sure it was Ronnie reborn, re-imaged, remade, made to be here, made to be reunited with her.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave, ma’am. My customers are getting creeped out by the way you are starring at them and writing in your notepad. I’ll call you a cab, but you are cut-off and outta here. Any trouble and I call the cops.”

Coruscating on Thin Ice
The Obama administration is young and out of touch. — by Peggy Noonan