By the time the encore arrived after a very convincing fake-out on the part of ol' Al there, I felt as if I'd been watching a movie of my life. And, in a way (I nod knowingly at a three-quarter angle and squint into the distance here), hadn't I? I'd just sat through the involuntary soundtrack to my existence in meta-parodies of pop music milestones, all of it orchestrated by a dancing guru of double-meaning, triple entendres, and (I contend this is a real thing) Quadruple Parody, parodies so stupid and brilliant they fold in on themselves, improving or supplanting the original version. And while I don't know all the lyrics to 'The Saga Begins' because my Weird Era of Origin is 'Another One Rides the Bus' and possibly I'm stuck there emotionally, no problem, it's fine, because the four dudes hugging each other over there and reaching toward the stage know all the words, and so do the 4-year-old boy and the 6-year-old girl. But the best part, the absolutely most adorable and gut-wrenching moment in two solid hours of pitch-perfect singing, crisp harmonies, unflubbed raps, and tightly choreographed Spike Jones-worthy stage maneuvers like tea-sipping, robe-putting-on, and inhaler-sucking? The best part was when the band left the stage and, on his way out with the rest of them, Weird Al tripped. After completing a bombastic and crowd-frothing Star Wars encore replete with 501st Legion Imperial Stormtroopers and druidic Kurzweil synthesizer solos, Weird Al tripped because he was looking at us and not at the drum riser. Every aspect of the show had been created and rehearsed someplace else, and in that little moment he was our own loving klutz. Oh no! Did he injure himself? Not that we can tell from here! He kept moving! He stumbled and then laughed and we laughed and he disappeared, like some fantastic unexpected fake Santa.