The high school performance was like that Dead song – what a long strange trip it’s been. I sat there listening to them grind through songs from the ancient record, tunes that once had blood in them but now stiff and inanimate. The real high point was when it got so clumsy no professional comedian could have sharpened it. Missing the one. Missing the pitch. Missing the groove entirely. A full systemic collapse, happening in real time.

I started videotaping, not out of cruelty but because my brain leapt ahead, to the possibility of future use. I could already see it, an absurd advertisement for some show I haven’t even booked yet, far out of town, where context would save me. Then the ethical siren went off. Loud. You can’t exploit minors for comic relief, even when the universe hands you the material gift-wrapped. So I put the phone down, uneasy, vaguely ashamed, which is the standard emotional cocktail for moments like that.