Although I have a few suits in various hues of brown, said suits always call to mind a particular passage from the Robert Lowell poem, Memories of West Street and Lepke, about the poet's year of incarceration during WWII: Strolling, I yammered metaphysics with Abramowitz, a jaundice-yellow ("it's really tan") and fly-weight pacifist, so vegetarian, he wore rope shoes and preferred fallen fruit. He tried to convert Bioff and Brown, the Hollywood pimps, to his diet. Hairy, muscular, suburban, wearing chocolate double-breasted suits, they blew their tops and beat him black and blue. Not sure what it adds. Just thought it interesting.