You are brilliant, all of you. Brilliant and also physically attractive: the best of both worlds, really. Everyone who answered yesterday's question gets 355 bonus points. All those who didn't answer out of apathy, disdain, or failure to be aware of this blog's existence get 354 bonus points. And now, the answer to the question of why I was wearing a green velvet dress and tiara, etc., at work. Be prepared: the answer is highly stupid, and will be preceded by a rambling story that supposedly ties in various philosophical elements, all leading to a greater understanding of yourself and the mysterious universe in which we live, minus the ex-planet Pluto, who's been revealed as a fake, and whom we may now ignore. Faker!

"Imagination is more important than knowledge," said Einstein, which makes me sadder than ever that he's not around to ring up and converse with. I have a few questions for him on the subject of imagination, especially as it relates to my ability to imagine terrible things that could occur. I would like to call him up and argue that the knowledge that the likelihood of terrible things happening is very slight, say, during a performance of a rock band of which one is a member, is more important than the ability to imagine the terrible things happening. Am I making myself clear? I'm not, am I? I knew it.

My recent foray into Imagination Horror Land was fueled by fears about an upcoming performance. To jolly myself out of it, I made a list of a dozen or so hyperbolic things that could go wrong. A friend who knows about these things wrote and told me that if any of my imagined fears came true, that would make for a great experience, but that in real life, the most likely outcome was that my band would play and go home, and that would be it. His statement did not result in what I assume was the desired effect. Instead of allaying my fears, he raised a new one, namely that my performance would be so mundane that it might not have even happened.

I contemplated my own insignificance as I shook translucent glitter onto a series of letters I�d cut out from Bristol board and sprayed with glue. I was out on my balcony, working on my team�s display for our entrance in the Great Chi1i Cook-0ff here at work. I�d been put in charge of (i.e., bullied my way into controlling) the theme and design of our booth, and was proud of the results in a certain ironic, detached way. We went with a quasi-Miss America pageant, with gowns and tiaras and all, having made the group decision to ignore the quality of the chi1i and concentrate on our presentation. Style over substance, that�s our mot-toe.

So, without dragging it out, I�ll cut to the part where my team WINS, wins, wins for style and all that. We did not win for best chi1i (which we�d poured directly from cans into the pot) but we got a blue ribbon, with a medal attached and everything, for our �spirit.� We accepted said medal to general applause, with much jumping and dramatic fake tears and hugging, and then we all went back to work. As you might imagine, it took several hours for my �rush� from all that �excitement� to settle down. I stayed in my gown, with my acceptance speech running through my head, reliving the moment when I was given the medal and got an unnecessarily friendly kiss on the lips from the local government official who�d judged the competition. Yes, these little moments are the diamonds in my crown of memories� how I �treasure� them.

When I came to work today, I wasn�t thinking about my brief tenure as Miss American Chi1i. Rather, I was preoccupied with an argument I�d had with the Keelhauler this morning as he left to go to sea. Soon, my mailbox began to fill up with messages from people who wanted to comment on yesterday�s events. Some sent pictures. I felt a sort of horror began to creep in, like the feeling you get after you�ve enjoyed yourself a little too much at a party. (Party Remorse, my friends call it.) A coworker called to ask, in a poisonous and sweet voice, whose idea the theme had been. When I admitted it was mine, she said, �Oh, really? Because it seems like something that Cookie would have dreamed up. Sooooo corny.� I discounted her snark as third runner-up bitterness, but felt unsettled that some people had failed to view our performance with the same ironic detachment we�d felt. Was obscurity really so bad? I asked myself. Why had I even taken part in this event? In this case, my imagination (i.e., that participating in the event would be amusing) was smashed to bits by the knowledge that everybody�s a critic. That wasn�t exactly news, but it did make me wonder why, if I hate criticism so much, I would open myself up to it. It�s unfortunate that my instinct for creative self-expression is paired with an intense dislike of snarky criticism.

I�m not so na�ve that I think everyone should instantly love me, but

Wait. I am exactly that na�ve.

And fuck ya if you don�t.

Star of the day. . .John Donne