My sister and I watch the video, which is long, a wandering cinéma vérité of teenage debauchery alternating between amusement and horror. Amusement because, as we both recall, we threw a similar party every time my mom was out of town—and she was out of town a lot during our adolescence. And horror because, among other things, there is that shot of my son dragging a couple, deep in the throes of passions, from my bed and the thought of returning from my road trip to crawl into what I think is my cozy bed of crisp clean sheets when a slew of sweaty, drunk or high teens have been having sex in there, well…eew. (As teens, on the heels of just such a party, my mom once found a condom wrapper under her bed and my sisters and I couldn't understand why she was so upset. She was grounding us forever, she yelled, unless we identified the condom owner and she would not be cajoled from her stance even when my sister joked that we'd put a classified ad in the "Lost and Found" section of the school newspaper in an effort to flush out the culprits or when I suggested—because I loved "Pollyanna" and the challenge of finding something to be glad about in every situation—that she should be glad the couple was at least using contraceptives.) And my son shuts the door to my bedroom and shouts to no one or everyone that they're not supposed to go in there—and I'm a little relieved—and then the video goes on.