The dress my prom date wore had a neckline that plunged all the way to Buenos Aires. When my dad saw her, he needed heart surgery. Ann was her first name. I forget her last.

I went to the prom with my best friend Fred and his date, Judy. When Fred's car died halfway across Key Bridge, he had Judy get out and push it to the other side. It was raining. After that, Judy's hair looked like seaweed and Stephen King wrote a novel about her.

Fred and I took separate cars. Mine was brand new and I insisted on taking it, even though it had no air conditioning. Between the rain, the humidity and the open windows, Ann's $100 hairdo made Cher look bald.

"Wow,'' someone said when we got to the dance. "Medusa."

Things were somewhat tense after that.

That's why I was reluctant to offer much advice to The Kid Down the Hall, who took his girlfriend to her senior prom last night. The Kid is a junior, dating an older woman. That's my boy.

He had some unique notions about the prom. He wanted patent-leather sandals to wear with his tuxedo. "They look like dress shoes, except they're sandals," he explained.

"Yeah, and a Vega looked like a Cadillac, except it had smaller ashtrays."

"What's a Vega, Dad?"

"Who wears sandals to the prom? Jesus? Did Jesus go to the prom?"

"Sandals are more comfortable," the Kid said.

"Who said anything about comfort?" I said. "This is the prom. It's the most awkward night of your awkward teenage life. It's worse than a zit on your nose. When I went to the prom, I ordered a bottle of wine for our table. The sommelier comes over, shows me the label, then pours a little in my glass. I told him I wasn't the only one drinking. It was horrible. Then, I ... ."

"Do we have to talk about you again, Dad?" The Kid said.

"You'd have gotten a tie-dyed tux if they had one," I said.

"Cool," he said.

The Kid seemed surprised when I suggested dinner would run a little more than the drive-through at Checkers. "Eighty bucks, with tip," I figured.

"Whoa,'' he said. "I'll strongly suggest she pays the tip."

"How will you do that?" I asked.

"I'll say, 'I think it would be good if you pay the tip.' "

"Have you ever opened a car door for her?" I wondered.

"What?"

"What about dancing? Are you going to dance?"

"I don't know. They'll play all this new hip-hop and techno crap," said The Kid, whose musical tastes, bless him, run toward '60s rock. "I'm looking forward to After-Prom."

After-Prom is at the school, a post-party party that keeps kids from following their baser instincts, especially behind the wheel. It's an idea so good, I'm surprised they didn't have it when I was 18. And grateful.

"Fred, you wanna go to After-Prom and have punch and cookies in the gym? Or drive to the beach?"

Because The Kid is a good child with a sense of humor, he allowed me to offer some prom advice that he promptly ignored:

The salad fork is the little one.

Always let her go first.

Give her mother the corsage - avoid multiple stab wounds. Better yet, get one of those wrist things.

Dance. It won't kill you. Unless they play "Color My World." In that case, say, "I have a hunk of new potato lodged in my trachea!" and sprint to the head.

Don't make her push the car.

Turn on the car AC. It's the most important night of her hair's life.

It could be the only prom you'll attend, son. You can decide if that's good or bad.

Ann, my date, told me she was allowed to stay out all night, so we did.

I got her home at 8 Sunday morning, kindly escorted by a Montgomery County cop. Who wanted to arrest me for kidnapping.

Talk about your After-Proms.

E-mail pdaugherty@enquirer.com