I went to *four* different proms...two of my own, and two with two different younger girlfriends. By the fourth, I had given up on tuxes and purchased a black velour jacket with red and white hounds tooth checking on the lining, a ruffled front white shirt with collars big enough to lift the flying nun off of the ground, black polyester slacks and a pair of crepe soled suede platform shoes.
Thank the Gods the 70's ended (well, sort of...they've been back for awhile now, at least, for girls' styles).
My third prom was notable for the incredible amount of stupidty. On the way there, a seed exploded in the joint my date was smoking, burning a hole right between her, umm...bosoms...on the very front of her very expensive satin gown. Just minutes later, we walked into the private club (The Royals Stadium Club, actually) where the prom was being held (it was a Catholic girls school prom, BTW, and they were serving red wine. Ah, there were *some* cool things about the 70's), she turned to look back at me walking slightly behind her, collided with someone else who was not paying attention, and got a full glass of burgundy spilled down the front of her recently-smoldering dress.
She found all of this so humiliating that she proceeded to swill wine at an alarming rate for the rest of the night, and puked out my car window all the way home. I briefly considered finding a grocery cart and leaving her on her parents' front step ala' Animal House, but since she was the niece of Kansas City's then most infamous capo, Nick Civella, I decided to suck it up and escort her in the door. It was our last date.
Blessedly, I also have no pictures of this event. In fact, I'm not real sure I have *any* prom pictures.