This one's from 1972, when I could still walk into a church without bursting into flames (I'm not saying the occasional spark didn't cause a little discomfort here and there, but the whole "Your hair and body are engulfed in fire!" thing hadn't yet started to happen).
My First Communion; this was obviously before the painful, expensive, labor-intensive removal of that unsightly mushroom.
I'll tell you what: we really knew how to dress in 1975.
Left to right: Bride's sister, looking like I just farted in her face; groom's sister (me), looking like I might perhaps have just farted in her face; best man, looking like he just wants his damned drink so he can get back to all the babes in the forest-green hooded bridemaids' dresses.
It's too bad this picture doesn't adequately capture the level of frill that is on my dress. Wearing it in a public place was slightly mortifying for me, and when the night was over, I couldn't wait to wriggle into a pair of bluejeans and pee standing up.