I hate jeans.
I said it.
Second only to "I hate Bruce Springsteen, hot dogs, fireworks, and partisan politics," there is no statement more decidedly un-American. It's the sort of opinion that makes people look at you as though you've got a penis sticking out of your forehead: Fascination co-mingled with abject disgust. I might as well confess to being a KGB operative or, worse still -- French.
But it's true. I hate them. I hate the way they look, I hate the way they feel, I hate their ubiquity, and the lame way they pretend to still be "folksy" and "of the people." Whatever guys. Kings wear jeans.
Most of all, I hate that no matter what I do, I can't change any of those things. Jeans are here to stay. They remain, in my closet and the universe, the Kim Jong-un of the world of casual-wear. Nobody dares defies them. And also they are inexplicably fond of Dennis Rodman.