The Seventh Annual
Leisure Suit Convention
by Denise Dowling
by Denise Dowling
It does change people's personality. You can tell by the way they use their walk. When I met Tony, he was the swaggering image of John Travolta, dressed in mocha brown pants with front stitching and a comb wedged in his back pocket. I was blinded by the light of gold medallions nestled under his nest of chest hair while his polyester shirt collar threatened to take flight at any moment. But after the convention, Tony became Anthony, the boy-next-door in his baseball cap and sweatshirt. His cockiness had rubbed off and was replaced by a sensitive-man meekness.
I could feel the transformation myself. I arrive at a pre-convention party in a J.Crew sweater and Donna Karan skirt. But three Charlie's Angels-types shake their heads and whisk me upstairs, into peach melba pants. They draw a stripe of powder blue eyeshadow above my lids, and pinch my feet into open-toe heels decorated with flowers. My hair is winged, my eyelashes false, my lips a shade of Barbie pink.
In Des Moines, people have to comb thrift stores months in advance to find a leisure suit for the convention. At the local Living History Farm, thrifters had to guard their prized 23-cent suits, else someone would pluck the leisurewear out of their hands. Last year, an enterprising young man was seen scalping leisure suits in front of the convention doors.
Although they became the uniform for every contestant on "The Newlywed Game," leisure suits were first introduced for upscale consumers, according to The Encyclopedia of Bad Taste. The suits took off in the '70s, when folks were looking for a casual substitute for the business suit. "Can an executive wear at work what he wears at play? Can a lawyer meet with a client dressed like a client? Can a white collar worker work with his collar open?" So asked a Macy's television commercial in 1975, responding, "Yes - thanks to the leisure suit revolution!"
According to The Encyclopedia of Bad Taste, the "great promise of the
leisure suit revolution -- that men could be comfortable and dressed for business
at the same time -- never came to pass. Instead of becoming acceptable wear in
correct society, leisure suits turned into an emblem of the churl, the bumpkin
and the cheapskate vulgarian. Just to make sure no interloper crossed the line
into the world of good taste, in 1977 Lutece, New York's most famous four-star
French restaurant, posted a small, elegant sign on its door, reading:
