we're at the karaoke bar when we see this big black man enter the room with a group of about seven old, white ladies in tow. the man looks like a tele-evangelist leading his wrinkly flock through an ever parting red sea. he's wearing a jacket and tie, and his smile is wide enough and bright enough to light up the entire metropolitan area. he calls himself 'the bear,' and while he looks nothing like bedtime bear or the berenstein bears or yogi bear or even yogi berra, there's something kind of cuddly, yet frighteningly mammalian about him. the old ladies are a sad group, shuffling after 'the bear' with somewhat bewildered looks marking their dried up faces. they're dressed up, too. one woman wears a big flowery dress topped off with a pink blazer.

they all order soft drinks, some of the women discreetly swallowing horse pills with their soda pops. the bear is a happy man with all these followers. "we're here to have fun," he heartily reminds them, and a few weakly clap their hands together. i turn to chris and ask, "what the hell is going on here?"

he's gotta be an evangelist; there's no other way. my eyes are locked on this group; i know it's impolite to stare, but that's what i'm doing until i get some answers. the bear goes up to sing. he works the crowd, saying, "this song is for you... and you... and you... and you... and how could i forget agnes?"

he sings manilow's "copacabana (at the copa)." he has the song looped a few times so that he can sing the verses over and over again while adding different names. chris foresees the next verse our evangelist might sing:

"her name was agnes, she had a simple life,
but now she gives me all her money
so one day she'll see her honey
up in heaven, oh up in heaven..."

and the women are dancing, and we're a table away laughing, and i keep looking for the collection plate, because, damn, this is really something.