Blogging while I got the time in these hectic Netroots Nation days. The good news: We have internet at the new place and a shocking number of Very Famous Bloggers are posting using my wifi. Which is very exciting, like having rock stars fuck on your couch.

I want to apologize up front for the weird editorials that emerge from student newspapers in Texas. (Via.) I can't help but think that the reason for publishing this article was charity casework aimed at the writer, but of course right wing writers don't deserve your charity, because they're often able to ride the wingnut welfare train regurgitating the same 5 opinions about how everyone that's not a straight white guy sucks.

You know you're in trouble with this article, because the writer Brianna Becker uses the term "equity feminist", which I thought was supposed to be the self-congratulatory term that anti-feminists gave themselves, but I guess quickly morphed into a bad word that means, "Feminists who think that women are equal to men." You know, unlike those other, superior feminists who know their places.

But honestly, I'm linking this because I'm a fan of overwrought prose.

The goal of modesty should be to further the portrayal of inner virtue. Materials of modesty should draw attention not to themselves, but to an aesthetic ideal that cannot be physically represented - something higher and immaterial, like Plato's famous Forms.

Arguing with this point is pointless, but I'd just to say that reading this is better for your colon health than eating fiber bars all day long. I read that sentence over and over until I really felt what it must like to be a person who's really, really stupid but has a very self-affirming opinion of your own intelligence.

But wait, there's fashion advice! And it's not on where to buy the Platonic ideal of skinny jeans.*

Be comfortable, flattering and classically stylish, yet not distracting. As trends change, keep up and continue to be effective by prudently updating your wardrobe without changing your principles.

I am waiting and hoping one day for someone to tell me to my face to dress in a way that's stylish, yet not distracting. Because I've never really had a chance to say, "Sorry, sexy doesn't take a day off," and if I die before that opportunity presents itself, I will be one sad panda.

*Probably some boutique in NYC that charges $400 for the pleasure.