The Seventh Annual

Leisure Suit Convention

by Denise Dowling
(Page 2)

Once inside the convention, I am dressed to dance with men whose pot bellies sag over macrame-belted flares. Wherever I turn, I'm haunted by the sight of Mr. Fishbein, my sixth-grade science teacher who dressed as though he had an appointment on the golf course each day after school. There are more rugs than a Turkish bazaar.

One man's blond 'fro is so tall, it looks like he's stowed a fresh batch of Jiffy Pop popcorn underneath.


Meanwhile, the women defy gravity in cork platforms, hips girded by stretch pants. At last year's convention, devotees worshipped beneath a black velvet painting of their goddess, Farah Fawcett.

The mood is groovy and the air smells second-hand.

The evening begins with an "eyeball adjustment/social hour" followed by a business meeting. "We don't want to hear any more politicans say, 'I feel your pain' until they've worn '70s shoes," announces Van Harden, the radio personality who started the event as a joke seven years ago. "All in favor, say Polyester!" Highlights of the night include hustle lessons and a fashion show on a runway lit by lava lamps, where members of the crowd compete for the coveted title of "Most Flammable" (burn, baby, burn).

Admission to the event is free, because Harden believes it's wrong to charge someone for wearing a leisure suit. The line to get in to the Val Air ballroom snaked outside the building. The ballroom could only hold 3,000 and no one wanted to be turned away. While interviewing a group of Marines from Des Moines, I mention that people tell me men still wear leisure suits in Des Moines. "Oh no," they respond, insulted. "They wear them in Minnesota!" One of them tells me we should bring back thigh-high skirts. "Yeah, and go-go boots!" His friend adds leeringly.

"Go-go boots are sexy!"

But for some swingers like Glen Stine, who is looking for a wife, lust is secondary to love. "I'm a single single looking for a single crowd," Stine says. By midnight, pyramids of empty Buds litter tables, while the eyes of the unmatched flash "Dance with me!" The D.J. gives the platter one final spin --

it's the last dance, last chance for love.



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