A definitive guide to a man's sexuality...avec pants

I want pants...not just any pants, but Italian wool pants...navy blue please... J Crew...to match my two button sport jacket made of the same material. That would give me a suit. Kinda 1+1=2, I know, but I should have just grabbed the pants when I bought the jacket...I didn't, and now I'm busy trying to make sure I find the same fabric etc...

I'm telling you this because I mentioned it to someone today...a male peer, who looked at me like I was the gayest thing since Rufus Wainwright. In as kind of terms as I could muster I told him to @#$% off. I reminded him that men wear suits, they do...and that actually giving a @#$% about what kind of damn fabric the separates are made of didn't make me less masculine, it made me disinclined to look like an idiot who could barely dress himself. He mumbled something stupid and I told him to go away. I was offended on about seventeen levels.

Gentlemen...our grandfathers would roll over in their graves at the notion of us not suiting ourselves as properly as we should and when we should. When did such a thing become an emasculating enterprise? I had a shirt made for me on a trip to New York a few years ago and it was the absolute most masculine thing I've ever done. I felt as though I was standing there, side by side, with the ghost of my grandfather...the two of us getting measured up for our first American suit, just days off of Ellis Island, where our name was officially shortened by US Immigration, something like four or five less letters than it was when the boat left the docks in Marseilles. I wasn't slow dancing with another man. Someone was putting a measuring tape to my shoulders and chest for the purposes of making a shirt that actually fit me. I just don't get it.

Anyway...nobody wants to go on a rant. I just want some @#$%ing pants. It'd be awfully nice if the Red Wings won their game tonight too, you know, since I'm disclosing random wants.