From Rags to Rags

By Tony Kornheiser

Sunday, January 5 1997; Page F01

The Washington Post

I don't know what others are wearing to the inaugural gala, but I know what my 14-year-old

daughter would wear: big clunky shoes. Bell-bottom jeans with a daisy sewn on her behoola.

A shiny polyester top. And to really dress up the outfit, a mood ring.

I know what you're thinking: That's so cute -- she's wearing clothing made to look like the

'70s.

Nope. She's wearing clothing made in the '70s.

All of a sudden I'm living with Marcia Brady.

It could be worse, Tony. It could be Grace Slick.

This is apparently the latest fashion rage for teenage girls -- old rags their parents once wore,

and now wouldn't be caught dead in. (Actually, these clothes are so old, some of their parents

may have been caught dead in them.)

You should see this junk. She's wearing clothes I thought had been shipped to Mexico under

the NAFTA agreement.

The other day my daughter, whom I love dearly, came home in a pair of royal blue polyester

bell-bottoms with a huge, exposed railroad track of a zipper in the front and belt loops the

size of the Panama Canal. I hadn't seen anything like that in 25 years. I expected Marianne

Faithfull to knock on our door and ask for her pants back. They were Bobbi Brooks pants.

Bobbi Brooks was a hip label that has since disappeared -- like Studebaker and Wayne

Fontana and the Mindbenders. (For good reason, I might add. One can only hope the ax will

soon fall on baked, fat-free Tostitos.) The notion that Bobbi Brooks could be hip again must

be knocking 'em dead at the low-impact step class.

Now I know God has a sense of humor -- because I used to wear clothes like this and it

drove my parents nuts. I remember coming home from college in the late '60s, wearing a pair

of bib overalls, a silk top hat and a full-length cape; I looked like a cross between a regular

on "Hee Haw" and the Phantom of the Opera. This was when I still had hair, and I hadn't

gotten it cut in five months. My head resembled a nuclear Brillo pad. My father stood in the

doorway like George Wallace and wouldn't let me in. At those moments my mother used to

mutter in a low, Gypsy voice, "Just you wait until you have children." I trust she's pleased.

My friend Nancy recalled a favorite miniskirt that was the approximate size of a diaper. And

her mother would look at her and say, "Are you going out of the house in that rig?"

My daughter and her pals shop at stores that specialize in "vintage" clothing -- which has a

better ring than "old, used dreck that had been tossed in a dumpster." I love the concept of

"vintage" clothing, just as I love the concept of "previously owned" cars. I eagerly await

restaurants that will offer "vintage" or "previously chewed" food.

There are a few of these vintage shops in town, and teenage girls flit from one to another like

hummingbirds. (The shops also sell nail polish. One of the hot brands is Urban Decay. Some

of the colors are "bruise," "shattered," "roach" and "frostbite." I told my daughter to ask about

"mold." Or "storm drain crud.") One of the stores keeps a book of photographs of the clothes

as they were worn by their previous owners -- the girls tend to recycle this stuff.

"Ooh, Ashley just bought Emma's shirt."

"And Pia's sweater."

"Oh, my God, I almost bought my mother's pants!"

A few weeks ago one of my daughter's friends showed off her "vintage" corduroy pants that

had obviously been repaired -- excuse me, "renewed," as the stores say. (I love the concept

of "renewed," too. " `Hair plugs?' Don't be crude. I've had my follicles renewed.") There were

stitches in both knees, and on the back there were some bleach spots. I looked at the pants

and thought: I wouldn't use those to clean a barbecue grill.

"How much were they?" I asked.

"Twenty-five dollars," she said proudly, like she just snagged JFK's golf clubs.

How stupid am I? I could have held on to my clothes and made a fortune, selling my fringe

vests and puka shell necklaces out of the trunk of my car. I could be the Tommy Hilfiger of

schlock. If that's not redundant.

It's hard to believe that teenagers would happily wear what their parents wore 25 years ago.

Isn't that a terrible faux pas -- admitting that your parents had actually been cool at one time?

Does this mean our kids will start buying bottles of Lancers and melting candles where the

corks were?

My guess is that our kids are mocking us with these horrible fashions we once wore, that it's

another way of showing their contempt for our obsession with cholesterol counts, sun block

and Martha Stewart. They know they'll never have good jobs like us. They'll never have our

mutual funds. Social Security will go belly up before they can ever use it; they'll get their

medical care from witch doctors out of the back of a mobile van. So this is their way of

getting back at us -- by wearing Edwardian high collars and leisure suits. This isn't fashion; it's

irony.

You want real irony? Sonny Bono is in Washington now. He's a congressman. (Yeah, more

proof that God has a sense of humor.) This is the stuff he made famous; he and Cher wore

this before she started getting all that facial renewal. What's he thinking when he sees kids

wearing these clothes? I guess the beat goes on and on and on.

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