Milagros walked through the family room; her teenage daughter was watching one of the new-media videos the kids were into, the kind encoded to file corrupt a little more each viewing. "Degaussers" in the slang of last week, but who knew what they were called today. "It makes it more personal," her daughter had said, "like, your watching it changes it, and makes you part of it." Mila remembered saying the same thing to her parents vis live performance, wondered if it had seemed as absurd to them. The clip of the moment was a combination of clichéd surrealist imagery and the same three chords on the same three instruments every one of the bands used; squeals and static and digital artifacts weren't enough to mask that. Mila was about to look away when a familiar face appeared in the pink fuzz that occupied the right half of the screen, then disappeared just as quickly. Milagros froze. "Play that back, what I just saw" she said. "I can't," said her daughter, eyes rolling. "God, mom. That's the point."
