22 August—The big news out of the Democrats’ convention in Chicago is that Barack Obama loves Tim Walz. The former president came out and admitted to the nation—he blurted and boasted, in fact—“I love this guy!” No further comment on that is necessary.

Equally noteworthy, however, is that Minnesota’s senior U.S. Senator, Amy Klobuchar, has christened Tim Walz “a dad in plaid.” Tim is currently her state’s governor and, while the future vice president was accoutered appropriately in business attire for the big convention, he evidently dresses, like most Minnesotans, in L.L. Bean, Carhartt, and other high-end work clothes when he’s out campaigning because the rural proletarian look is where it’s at for hopeful politicians.

Truth be told, in my short, notably unsuccessful political career I did it myself. Sort of. Back in 1980, when I ran for the Republican nomination for the old Sixth District Congressional seat. Behind the scenes I had disposed of two other candidates. That wasn’t too hard, especially since one of them liked to park his Rolls-Royce in front of factory gates when he campaigned. At least he wore a suit and tie. And a shirt.

So I had it made. You may have read the aftermath just over a year ago in Jim Buckley’s Madeleine. The point is, between the convention and primary, I made the traditional rounds, mostly to town Republican committees. Of course, I dressed appropriately. For me that always includes a jacket and, on formal occasions like pandering for votes, a tie. Usually a college tie.

A Hartford TV station—I think it was the CBS affiliate—offered primary candidates free time for a few short spots in 1980. Maybe it still does. So, having practiced my lines and gestures (like Hitler) I showed up at the studio for the taping, dressed as appropriately usual. Or as usually appropriate.

No sooner had I launched into my memorized soliloquy (because I’d never used a teleprompter) than the producer signaled a cut. “Paul,” he said, “You want your voters to take you seriously? Then you gotta look like them. You gotta take off your jacket. You gotta roll up your sleeves. You gotta loosen your tie.”

So I took off my jacket, rolled up my sleeves, loosened my tie. I also leaned over the lectern, ratiocinated energetically, and gave it my all. And I lost anyway. By only a few points, mind you, essentially as I had lost the convention. Maybe if I had removed my tie and worn a flannel shirt and baseball cap I could have won. But a loss is a loss.

Except in a presidential election. Think I’m kidding?