What a day — what a glorious day! It's such a beautiful day and I'm so happy to be riding my bike along the glistening lakefront that I'm singing a song.

"Never Can Say Goodbye," to be exact. My all-time favorite from the King of Pop.

I can't remember the words, so I keep repeating the line that goes: "Every time I think I've had enough, I started heading for the door...."

Riding thirteen miles south from Irving Park Road, I wind up at 64th and Hayes Drive. I pull off the bike trail, head into Jackson Park, stop besides a basketball court, flop under a tree, watch some kids shooting hoops and fall asleep.

I wake to the sounds of a hard-thumping bass, which I follow to the west, and stumble upon a House Music Festival. There must be five-thousand people wedged into this corner of the park, dancing, singing, re-living the old songs from their glory days....

As I wander through the crowd — piecing my way around tents and barbecue grills — I start to wonder: Where are the white people? I mean, everybody at this party is black!

OK, all right, I don't mean to get all heavy here, but, people, really, what the hell: You mean to tell me there's not one white person in this whole freakin' town of two point something million people who likes House Music? I mean, white people can send black people to the White House but they can't party with `em?

Hold it, hold it — I take it back. I see a white person — a woman with pink hair. Well, I guess one's better than none....

I stay long enough to remind myself that I didn't like House Music when it first came out and I'm not about to like it now that I'm two-hundred-and-ninety-seven, or however old I am these days. I'm winding my way out of the park when they bring on a singer who breaks into — I kid you not — "Never Can Say Goodbye."

That stops me in my tracks. I've always loved the way Michael Jackson scales this song like a rock climber climbing to the top of a cliff. Up, up, up he goes until he reaches the peak, only to fall to the ground and start the climb again in the next verse.

This singer's not as good as Michael Jackson, but he's good enough. And as he makes his climb through the verses, the words come back to me and I can't help myself. I sing it loud as I walk along: "There's a very strong vibration piercing me right to the core — it says turn around you fool, you know you love her more and more, tell me why — is it so...."

I sing that song all the way to Irving Park Road — wind up at an outdoor festival in Welles Park. There's got to be at least three thousand people in a big field, listening to Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears, this kick-ass band out of Austin, Texas with a lead singer who sounds a little like James Brown — I kid you not....

The place is jumping: Folks dancing, singing, laughing — having a great time. Milo's there — the old pussy magnet himself. He feeds me a fried chicken leg and offers me a glass of wine. Then he tells me this pretty girl in a skimpy skirt's making goo-goo eyes at me.

"Why you acting so surprised," I tell him. "Pretty girls in skimpy skirts are always making goo-goo eyes at Benny Jay...."

But here's the thing. It's the reverse of Jackson Park — everybody's white. Wait, wait — let's be accurate. I count five, maybe six, black people in the crowd, not including the lead singer, of course.

So let's put the question in a different fashion: You mean to tell me that in this whole freakin' city of two point something million, we can't find more than five or six black people who want to hear the next James Brown?

C'mon, Chicago, why you gotta be so damn up tight? Whites here, blacks there — Hispanics and Asians somewhere else. Still clinging to your tribes, still living in your caves.

Don't worry — that's enough social commentary for me. I'm gonna shut up, eat a fried chicken leg, drink a glass of red wine, go home, get in bed and go to sleep.  Just like everyone else....