I have no fashion sense.  

Essentially for the last two years I’ve worn a black t-shirt and blue jeans everyday, everywhere a la Hank Moody, and I’m quite happy about it. Whenever I try to cultivate some sort of advanced aesthetic in terms of my clothes I always fail miserably. Case in point: I was at a wedding in D.C this weekend with my fiancée, Jess. As the ceremony approached I got ready, putting together what I thought to be a nice little outfit only to have the following conversation:

“How do I look?” I asked Jess.

“What the hell are you wearing?” she responded with what can only be described as utter contempt for what stood in front of her.

“WHAT? I think I look fine!”

“Why are you wearing white pants? When did you buy these white pants? Why did you ever think you should buy white pants?"

“Are you serious? It’s before Labor Day [ed. -- this was Sunday]; I’m entitled. Besides, these pants are badass. I look like Tony Montana. I’m a Cuban gangster.”

“You look like Ryan Seacrest. Burn those pants, now.”

And so it went. I was explained -- or rather viciously reminded -- that my fashion sense is that of a blind nudist. Lucky for me, I write for Epitonic and Jess does not. So, in the spirit of never letting your significant other win an argument, I shall have the last word with my “Labor Day Pains” playlist.

Can I adorn white after Labor Day, or for that matter whenever I want? Sure, why the fuck not.