In these days when we are all forced to see the Dog deal with his inner puppy, I yearned for a little racial relief, and jumped at the chance to go to Rev. Jesse Jackson's 66th Birthday celebration at the Beverly Hilton. Chris Jackson, who works for Jackson's Rainbow Coalition, is an old pal from my Comedy Store days. He promised to get me into the private press conference.

And I can take you there....

On the podium Jesse Jackson stands among an intense and sober looking posse of men and of course the ubiquitous Gloria Allred, who seems to be as constant as the sunrise. She is wearing a snazzy set of lady slacks. (Thank God her name is not Gloria Paisley.)

Grave, with a strict seriousness that is marked by a concerned and loving mind, Jesse Jackson speaks with a distinctive Southern drawl that makes one think of Spanish moss and screen doors slammin'.

Jesse Jackson, the African American Atticus Finch, addresses the crowd. He quickly warns us, "home foreclosures are the number one priority now for Black and Latino Families. The banks are sweeping down, and thousand of families are going to be turned out into the street. We must restructure, not foreclose!" Jesse has the rhythm. . .

In regard to the WGA strike, he proclaims: "the unions may see here that diversity is lacking from television. There are no black anchors on any of the major networks."

I agree--and I go one step further. I would like to see a like to a nice Muslim girl in a burka on ET giving me my daily Kimora Lee Simmons update. The news should be delivered by a rainbow coalition.

My dinner companion is Yul Kwon, a modest Korean-American from Yale, wearing a finely cut suit. He is also the modest million-dollar winner of the CBS show Survivor. He tells me, "The only two Asians on TV are on Lost and Heroes--and neither of them can speak English." He says, "all television wants for Asians is for us to be Kung fu masters or geeks," noting that the producers of Survivor "wanted me to wear a suit and nerd glasses." His eyes glance in the direction of the stage. He whispers, "There is no Asian Jesse Jackson."

"What about Margaret Cho?" He stares at me vacantly.

Sitting there at Table #235, surrounded by Yul and what looks like the cast of an all black version of Glegarry, Glen Ross, I feel like I am in a Civil Rights Boot Camp, under some big über-macho non-gay rainbow flag. A new world order is being put in place, and despite the fact that parts of the room that have a distinct "Evening at the Apollo" quality, I feel vaguely connected to it all.

Suddenly and without warning, my eyes start to cross and my breathing becomes labored. I think I am having a stroke when I see the king of pop, Michael Jackson, walking toward me in a firestorm of camera flashbulbs.

A hush falls as all and sundry stop, forks in hand, to gaze at the gloved one himself coming in our direction. His shoulder-length bob is shiny, giving the overall effect that he has just stepped out of a Pantene commercial. It seems as if he is actually the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow coalition.

His aviator sunglasses are so dark that not only is visible light deflected, but obviously no information could get through. Nor could gamma rays.

As he comes closer, I feel his energy take notice of me at the table with my white, shiny shaved head. I think he might stop and put his gloved hand on my shoulder and whisper breathlessly, "pizza man?" But he doesn't. I think he would have really liked me. Maybe he would have seen a lot of Bubbles in me.

Jesse is on stage. Michael is on fire.

Jesse Jackson prompted Michael to slowly cross through the large crowd by saying the words "Thriller, thriller, thriller!" over and over again.

Time stopped as everyone stared in rapt fascination. And it was at this moment that I ate all the cherry tomatoes from everyone's plates unnoticed at table at #235. I love hotel cherry tomatoes. They're unique in their sameness and symmetry.

What was remarkable in this moment was the lack of judgment toward Michael Jackson. I don't know if it was because he was black, or if they were afraid he might turn himself into a thousand swans and Frida Kahlo gold dust. But there was no malice toward this man who bore a striking resemblance to the wife on Everybody Loves Raymond.

Michael joined Quincy Jones and Larry King on stage. I was in hog heaven, my eyes bulging.

Then I thought of some thing that Jesse said earlier in the press conference:

"Baseball didn't become the game America loved until EVERYBODY got to play!" He is right. Where is baseball without Jackie Robinson? Willie Mays?

And where is the Rainbow coalition without Jesse Jackson, Chris Jackson, Michael Jackson, Larry King, (and me!)