Girl Trouble.

My son doesn't have a problem. He thinks he does, but I don't see it that way at all. The thing is this: he told me that all he thinks about is girls. He considers it a problem because he can't stop thinking about them. I'm thinking that's not a problem. Sounds like a normal twelve-year-old boy going through puberty. Or a normal 40-year-old man going through his day.

The other thing is, for some reason, he doesn't believe that he'll ever have a girlfriend. I tell him that he doesn't need a girlfriend at his age. He's only 12. At this point in his life, he needs comic books and to know when not to pick his nose. Of course, there are some people who should never have a girlfriend, but that's a different story. And when it comes right down to it, does anyone really "need" another person? Millions of songs, movies, books and such have been made about "needing" someone. But it's kind of a biological fact that all we really need is air, water and the occasional roast beef sandwich to really survive in life. Sure, having family around is nice (as long as they don't live too close), and we find ourselves wanting some kind of social interaction, even if it's with a dog or the latest episode of "Deal or No Deal." But, we can pretty much survive without ever mating, and without ever having a significant other. Just ask Richard Simmons. I didn't say we'd be happy as him, but we could get by. Hearing this hasn't stopped my son's pubescent obsession with girls.

On our recent trip to the sunny shores of Wildwood, New Jersey, he would elbow me as we walked the boardwalk, wanting me to check out girls he thought were cute. Of course, all the girls were around his age, so I felt like a creepy old man checking out adolescent girls with my son. But he would always follow it up with, "She's cute, but she wouldn't like me."

He thinks he's a nerd, which in some ways, he is. And that's something else I don't see as a bad thing. Like me, he's not into sports. He loves to draw, like me. He's got a creative mind, like me. He has his own tastes in clothing and music and doesn't care what everyone else likes...like me. He's smart...like his mother. Yet he sees all this as a detriment in winning over the opposite sex. I tell him that someday he'll meet women who don't see it as a negative. He'll be the creative, sensitive guy who isn't planted in front of the TV every time a game is on. He'll be the guy that can carry on an intelligent conversation, and has interests beyond the mainstream. And he'll attract a woman who appreciates all that. And from experience, he probably won't find her on Match.com. But now, he's still only 12 years old and forward-thinking isn't in his vocabulary. Plus, according to him, most girls his age don't get it. They still think the jerks are cool. You know, the kids with the long shorts and baseball caps on sideways, who listen to rap and call some quarterback their idol. The same kids who will be running numbers and detailing other people's cars when they grow up. So he continues to see himself as a nerdy kid with girls on the brain and no chance of finding true love.

I like to think that everyone, no matter how privileged or beautiful, has at one point in their life, been through some sort of awkward period. You know, a time when you might have thought you were too nerdy, too fat, too dumb, too smart, or just not good enough at something. I pretty much went through all those things. Just last week, in fact. I've always been self-conscious, but now, I try to wear some of those things proudly. Yes, I'm a nerd, a geek. But I find it suits me well. Just because I love movies, comic book conventions and retro toys doesn't necessarily make me a loser with the opposite sex. I'm not the creepy, sweaty, dress-up-like-a-stormtrooper for the new Star Wars movie premier type of guy. So, I like bowling shirts and standing in line to see the latest superhero flick the weekend it opens. Is that so weird? I guess to some people it is, but they are the same people who find painting your face and screaming at a football game normal.

I've learned some things about women, and I try to impose this on my son. The good ones want to know what's inside you. If they're not looking on the inside, then they're probably not worth hanging out with. I know, most guys are shallow, and only look at appearance. But, I've discovered that some women can be that way too. I am who I am, and I'm not going to change because I "need" to be in a relationship. I've also taught him that what's most important when obsessing over girls is respect. Something my dad instilled in me. I remember as a kid, my dad asking me if I looked at his Playboy magazines. I told him I had. He said that those aren't the kind of girls you marry. I was really frigging disappointed. I loved my dad, but that advice was not very good. A Playboy Bunny could see the real me and love me for who I am. All while posing naked on a fuzzy faux polar bear rug. And I could look beyond the perfectly airbrushed body and see the real woman inside. Besides, my dad would have fallen all over himself if one of his sons showed up for Thanksgiving dinner with a Playboy model. But that's beside the point.

Someone said that I should be happy knowing that at least my son's not gay. I guess it would be weird if he were elbowing me on the boardwalk checking out boys. But I would love him just the same. I just want him to be himself and never worry about what other people think of him. I'm sure the whole "no girl will ever like me" thing is just a phase. I'm sure he'll get over it and find some self-esteem. I did. Several months after running screaming from my nightmare second marriage.

They say that men think of sex every seven seconds. I don't know if they've ever done studies on that, but maybe they could start with my son, after all, he's got a lifetime of seven seconds to look forward to.

PDQ: 20 Years of Rockin' the Free World!

My musical career was pretty short-lived and didn't make me an international star. But it was damn fun. In fact, this past April was the 20th anniversary of the beginning of my band. We didn't put out a special two-CD set to commemorate the event or anything, so don't bother rushing to your local FYE or hunting on iTunes or Amazon to find it. In fact, we never put out a CD. I'm sure there are some bootleg videos of us around somewhere. Actually, we were just a cover band that played at weddings and such. Not that cool. And we haven't played together in over ten years. But, as I said, it was damn fun while it lasted.

The band was called PDQ. Not after the "pretty darn quick" line, or after the chocolate milk mix. It was after the names of the guys in the band. Pomeroy, DiMeo, Quatrone. Pretty clever, huh? So, my two brothers were in the band, one on drums, the other on bass, two Pomeroy brothers, both guitar, and one Quatrone who played keyboards. I sang. Oh yeah, I was the lead singer. Which meant, I got all the chicks. Actually, it would have meant that if I was really good looking and in a real band.

As I said, we performed at weddings and assorted parties at church halls and Knights of Columbus events, for people in their 50s, 60s and 70s, playing songs from the '50s, '60s and '70s. Oldies that old people could dance to. Or at least shuffle to. Sometimes we would play something that would send the seniors clamoring for their nitro pills. I'll never forget the time we threw "Expressway to Your Heart" into the mix at a Holy Name Society Valentine's Day dance. I'm sure there were a few Depends that needed changing after that. From the looks on their faces, you would have thought we were playing Ozzy Osbourne or Metallica or something. Of course, it never failed, the geezers would arrive early, as we were setting up, and even though they had the pick of the whole place for seating, they would place themselves right next to the speakers. So you do the math: old person + seat next to speaker x live music = old person complaining that the music is too loud.

At the Christmas party we played every year for the same Holy Name Society (Oh, yeah, we got the big jobs) there was one guy who always came up and requested "Jingle Bells" in Italian. I don't speak Italian. For the couple Italian songs we did, I had the lyrics written out phonetically, like "Vo-La-Ray...Wo wo. Con-Tar-Ray...wo wo wo wo..." So this old guy would get on the mike and sing "Jingle Bells" in Italian. People in the crowd began holding up their lighters and swaying. It was awesome.

Okay, maybe not.

Truth is, we didn't just play to the geriatric crowd. We actually became very popular in South Philly for our serenades. Lately, the tradition of serenades has kind of waned, but back then, we were the serenade band. We played dozens of them. What is a serenade? Well, for those of you not Italian from South Philly, a serenade takes place the night before a wedding, when the groom hires a band to play for the bride at her home. It would become a huge block party, the bride's family serving scallopine, beer and cannolis, streets getting blocked off, people getting drunk. It was a blast. We would have the guests, neighbors, and passersby dancing to "Hang on Sloopy," "Twist and Shout," and "The Mummer's Strut." We had to know that last one or we would be blackballed from ever playing in South Philadelphia again.

We had a regular playlist we would try to stick to, because it worked well. In that playlist was nestled a song called, "If you wanna be happy." If you're not familiar with it, the lyrics went something like, "If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife, so from my personal point of view, get an ugly girl to marry you." It goes on like that through the whole song. Sure, not the most PC tune to hit the airwaves, but a fun song that people generally liked and danced to. Except at this one wedding where the bride looked like a five foot bowling ball with the face of Curly from the Three Stooges. I remember singing the song and looking out over the crowd. You might have thought I was stomping on a puppy's head while singing. It was as if they all were very aware that the bride was as ugly as a donkey's ass, and we were making fun of her. It was uncomfortable, but we pressed on...singing "Don't let your friends say you have no taste, go ahead and marry her anyway..."

We didn't make a whole lot of money, but we had a great time playing. That's what music has always been for me. Fun. Even if it meant scaring a few octogenarians along the way. Hell, they needed to lighten up anyways.

I miss those days of singing with the band. It was a great outlet for my wannabe singer personae. Nowadays, I get my kicks singing out loud in the car or the occasional karaoke night. The guys from the band are all a bit older now, some in their 60s, just like the people we used to play for. But then again, so are the Rolling Stones. Paul McCartney knows what it's like when he's 64. And The Who are very far from Teenage Wasteland. Okay, I know how ridiculous it is comparing PDQ to The Who. I doubt if Pete Townsend ever windmilled in front of a bunch of blue hairs in a church basement. Or Mick ever pursed his lips in front of the home of a human wrecking ball the night before her wedding. But a reunion would be most welcome. I know my brothers would be into it. I haven't talked to the other guys, but who knows. You may soon be reading about a PDQ jam session, I hope.

In the mean time, those old people will just have to complain about something other than "Runaround Sue" being too loud while trying to gum their baked rigatoni at the St. Patty's Day Social.

Rock on, PDQ, wherever they are now.