Deep Thoughts, by Peggy Noonan
(As usual, I am in black, Peggy is in maroon, and the authentic "Deep Thoughts" by Jack Handey are in blue.)
This week Peggy tries to pretend that she too is a noble yeoman blogger, and therefore one of the chosen few fated to restore civilization after the apocalypse ... you know, after those other guys turn the electricity back on.
Fortunately, she has James Taranto to edit her work and make it seem profound and wise, instead of like some thoughts she had while on her second bottle of gin. This week, an homage de blog. Or would that be homage du blog? James Taranto will know.
As we were driving, we saw a sign that said "Watch for Rocks." Marta said it should read "Watch for Pretty Rocks." I told her she should write in her suggestion to the highway department, but she started saying it was a joke - just to get out of writing a simple letter! And I thought I was lazy!
Peggy informs us that while her column this time may seem like a random collection of unrelated banalities (much like blogging), she really has a theme. However, it's a tippity-top secret one, so you'll have to discern it for yourself. Today I post thoughts blog-style. There is, however, a theme. Find it.
If you want to be the popular one at a party, here's a good thing to do: Go up to some people who are talking and laughing and say, "Well, technically that's illegal." It might fit in with what somebody just said. And even if it doesn't, so what, I hate this stupid party.
Just what is Peggy's theme? Perhaps "people in the news." Or maybe "people who think they're better than Peggy, but they're really not." Or how about "people who have never saved small boys from drowning, unlike certain God-directed dolphins"? Or it could be that the theme is simply "inanity."
I don't really know, so let's move on.
Peggy's first item is about the death of Hunter Thompson, and how Tom Wolfe is wrong about Thompson being so great. See, Peggy knew Mark Twain; Mark Twain was a friend of hers. And Thompson, sir, was no Mark Twain.
Besides, Thompson must of been scared of writing, because otherwise he wouldn't have abused alcohol (being scared of writing is the only reason somebody would drink, after all -- not that Peggy would know anything about that). In time Thompson's swashbuckling came to seem joyless, aggressive and half dead. What he thought fed his gift (drugs, alcohol) killed it. He must have been very scared to get tanked like that to write.
Somebody told me how frightening it was how much topsoil we are losing each year, but I told that story around the campfire and nobody got scared.
But hey, we're all scared, and WE don't get to be gonzo journalists. No, WE have to live quiet lives of desperation, and write sappy columns for the Wall Street Journal. But does anybody make movies about US, or call us the greatest comic writer of the 20th century. Well, DO THEY?
And that's what's wrong with Thompson. The empty page, the blank screen, is scary. But so is a mortgage. So is the stillness of a courtroom before you make the closing argument. And so is a broken leg that needs fixing fast. We all have jobs.
Despair is like a cable that is buried just under the surface of the ground. You pull it up and pull it up, but that cable just keeps right on going, clear across a field, until you come to a bunch of guys who are burying the cable. Then just walk up to them and go, "Hey, have you seen Fred?" And they'll say, "Fred who?" And you say, "Fred of snakes?" Then cover your ears, because big laughs are coming.
Next, Peggy talks about poor, persecuted Larry Summers, who angered the Left by speaking out against its core belief that every single person in the world is exactly the same as every other person. When really, you see, it's all about God. The left thinks if we're all equal we're all alike. Others say we're all equal but God made us different, too, and maybe he did that to keep things interesting, and maybe he did it because each human group is meant to reflect an aspect of his nature. Our differentness is meant to teach us his infinite variety and complexity. It's all about God.
"I'll take that little one, way in the back," I said.
"That little collie mix?" said the animal shelter guy.
"No," I said, "the one behind him."
"The gray terrier?" he said.
"He's gray," I said,"but way in the back, in the corner."
"You mean the water faucet?" he said.
I realized then it was a water faucet, but I didn't want to look like a jerk, so I said,"Yeah, that's the one I want."
It ended up costing me almost five hundred dollars to get that faucet removed. But you know, I've still got that faucet, and I wouldn't trade it for any dog in the world.
But what the Summers story really teaches us is that universities are like Medieval cloisters (albeit cloisters of godlessness), in that, um, both universities and cloisters have halls, and people walk in those halls and stuff. Oh, and they both have excommunicated Larry Summers, probably. Old monks of leftism walk their hallowed halls in hooded robes, chanting to themselves. Young nuns of leftist deconstructionism, pale as orchids, walk along wringing their hands, listening to their gloomy music.
These monks and nuns are the worst of both worlds, frightened and so ferocious, antique and so aggressive. Will they exorcise Summers from their midst? Stay tuned. What started out to be a nice pleasant drive in the country turned into the "Afternoon from Hell."
First of all, when Marta and I were leaving, the cats looked at us like, "Where are you going?"
Then, when we were driving, we had to stop and get gas. So right there that's time taken away from looking at the scenery.
Then, when we get home, guess what the cats are doing? Sleeping! Man, what next?
Next, Peggy informs us that Hillary Clinton finally admitted that she is running for president in 2008. Yup, somebody asked Mrs. Clinton if she was running, and she said, "I have more than I can say grace over right now." And it's obvious that the only reason Hillary would say that is so she can become president -- it's part of her evil plan to outlaw cookies, and ban Christianity! But her words came across as pious and smarmy, like Tammy Faye with a law degree. Maybe she still thinks in stereotypes; maybe she thinks that's what little Christian ladies talk like while they stay home baking cookies. Whatever, it was almost as good as her saying, "I'm running, is this not obvious to even the slowest of you?"
When we were kids, I used to make fun of my friend Kevin whenever he had to go to his piano lesson. But look where he is now and look where I am. Actually, I don't know where he is now. But look where I am, that's my point.
Peggy then tells us how, in all those photo ops, globe-trotting Condi has been smiling at the journalists instead of at the foreign leaders she's purportedly there to charm. And it's a good plan -- because, let's face it, we hate those foreign leaders, and when we bomb their countries in a couple of years, we don't want any imcriminating photos of Condi smiling at them laying about. I don't think this is an accident. I suspect it is the administration's way of finally fighting back against 50 years of embarrassing and compromising pictures of American leaders meeting with leaders such as this, thisand this. The Bush White House doesn't want those pictures. They may be inconvenient down the road.
It's funny, but when you look at an old man, then you look at a photo of him when he was a young man, then you look at the old man, then the photo, back and forth, pretty soon you'll do whatever anybody tells you to do.
Peggy's last item is about St. Joseph Cupertino. He was an idiot, and thought he could fly. But since the mainstream media of the time hated him after he disproved the Book of Revelation through the use of kerning, Peggy thinks he should be the patron saint of the Internet. Why is St. Joseph Cupertino the obvious patron saint of the Internet? Because he flew through the air, lifted by truth. Because no establishment could keep him down. Because he empowered common people. Because they in fact saw his power before the elites of the time did. And because it could not be an accident that the center of the invention of the Internet, ground zero of Silicon Valley, is Cupertino, Calif., named for the saint centuries ago.
Basically, there are three ways the skunk and I are a lot alike. The first is, we both like to spread our "stink" around. The second is we both get hit by cars a lot. The third is stripes.
Tune in next week, when Peggy will explain why Mel Gibson should be the patron saint of vibrators, why those damned Pulitzer Prize winners aren't all they're cracked up to be, and the reason that Hillary Clinton's greeting ("Hello") to a reporter is a sign that she plans to assume the presidency so that she can eat the stem cells of innocent babies.
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