in defense of meaningless pleasure

She who cries without tears stands before the cameras and begs for forgiveness. I am in a generous mood, begot by boredom. Miss U.S.A. goes out drinking, blows a little coke along the way, and ends up with her tongue inside her fellow beauty queen Miss Teen U.S.A. on some dance floor in Manhattan. Moments of low inhibition and raging hedonism are allowances we make to those we celebrate, particularly one chosen to embody our blondest aesthetic ideals. We have -- well, I suppose we have not; a panel of free-agent celebrities has judged this young woman against our reproductive ideals and deemed her to be the finest in the country. It was Kansas this year, corn-fed and coal-powered, an old-fashioned gal from the Land of Tomorrow. She defines what is possible for the rest of us. If she can't let go and dance into the night, what and how much can we expect for ourselves?