Saturday night we were the last to clear out of the theater lobby after the sweeps - we somehow are always the last ones out of venues - and were loading up in the car, about to go hang with ElmoThumm at a mythical restaurant that we never did find, when a female voice called across the parking lot, 'are you guys dancers?' Well, as fate would have it, by some odd confluence of space, time, and six-hour-old pizza, we WERE dancers at that moment, and we DANCED for them. Not much of a step outside our comfort zones, I know, but it was nearing 1:00 am, we were living it up and Glen was on the phone with his wife. I tell you, the weirdest things happen when he's talking to his wife.

Well, said voice started walking over to us, and we (Weston Chris and I) went over to chat. The voice belonged to Geena (took nearly 30 minutes to get the name) and she and her shy part-Latino friend Melissa were leaving - I kid you not - a bar mitzvah*, where they had been hired dancers. That's what they do, for at least part of their jobs, go out with a DJ company and dance for and with people at parties. I just saw a movie trailer for a movie about Jewish families that compete to have the most lavish bar mitzvah's for their sons, but I thought it was an exaggeration. Appartently, not so much. People throw these parties all the time.

Now, what you've got to know about Geena is, SASSY. She was the sassy black girl of happiness. She was FUNNY. And I guarantee we were the weirdest, whitest folks she had ever met. She had grown up I assume on the mean streets of Chicago (not that she actually told us this - I just surmised); I don't think she could quite fathom why the Universe had deposited the three archangels of non-sequiter humor in front of her, and why they were wearing red sweatsuits outdoors at 1 am. We did finally sing for her, including a stunning version of the Four Tops 'Ain't No Woman,' which I'm sure only served to confuse her further. Then we sang 'Big John's Barf Bags.' Classic.

Melissa didn't say much, though she WAS emphatic that Weston NOT obtain her phone number.

Turns out Geena is a singer, and she pumped out some Whitney Houston and was goooood.

Well, then we left, after giving them our business cards so we could come sing for them at a bar mitzvah sometime. Because hey, why not?

(*Editor's note: I now can't recall if it was a BAR or a BAT mitzvah... if you don't know the distinction, I'm probably not the one to point out the subtle differences for you.)