Saturday Night Live alumnus Victoria Jackson runs a true family show.

Standing in her dressing room of the Comix Cafe with her two kids before the show, Jackson doesn't seem like a comedian about to perform for a full room. Kelly Moran is out on stage warming up the crowd. Jackson is making plans for her kids' stage debut, straightening out the schedule and taking care of last minute details, ever the worried mom.

Then, as Moran sinks back to his place behind the piano, Jackson comes out to sing her first song, a sort of comic torch song called "Hold me." She is completely straight-faced, acting out the lyrics with grand gestures and doing her Celine Dion impression, slapping her chest and grimacing as if it were the last time she would ever sing for her lover. When the song is over, she smiles and says "thank you," and Victoria Jackson, the unassuming person I saw backstage, is back.

Jackson goes on to read a poem she wrote when she was five entitled, "A Moustache," and how they look silly "on your lip, right above the place where you sip." Cute stuff, but probably not what your average nightclub audience is expecting. Then her material turns to an unprintable comparison of Moran's goatee, which Jackson herself was too embarrassed to complete. She doesn't need to - the audience gets it.

Then reality starts to surface. Jackson talks about being trapped in Miami with her husband and kids. According to Jackson, there are three kinds of people in Miami - Cuban, retired, and naked - and she doesn't really fit into any of those categories. She thought it would help to paint her living room purple, and then got stuck watching Barney.

"Some of you were worried when I started singing. I saw that."

That's the biggest trick of Jackson's show. She reads her poetry, sings her songs, and plays her ukulele, until you're lulled into thinking she's lost in her own little world, unaware of what's going on around her. That seems just fine with her, because eventually, she'll teach you otherwise if you're paying attention. She tells blonde jokes, smirking at herself, if you catch it. She makes fun of being famous, which is underscored by the fact that People Magazine is at the show catching up with her career. She'll even talk about Satan, her first husband, who was a fire-eater. Eventually, she gets to a subject that'd not supposed to affect the sunshine girl she shows onstage.

One song, entitled, "A Nice Ukulele," seems harmless enough on the surface. "You can't but talent in a guitar shop, but you can find a nice ukulele." Then the lyrics turn to what seems to be theme in her life recently - friends dying. Phil Hartman, Chris Farley. Take your pick. Granted, the lyrics don't mention anyone by name, and you might not have made the immediate connection without an introduction, but it's enough to make the crowd stop for a moment when she's done before that start applauding.

Quickly enough, Jackson gets the crowd laughing again with her Jewel impression, a song called "They Were Made for Me." Take your first guess at what that's about, and you're probably right. Then, because she misses her husband, she gets a man onstage to sing "The Man I Love" in a husky, lounge-singer voice. She skewers models, donning a long blonde wig and revealing "Victoria's Secrets."

Then, as Jackson's time onstage ends, she announces the surprise promised to the crowd earlier in the show. Her two kids, ages three and eleven, are making their debut in front of a live audience. Jackson ushers her kids to the stage and then stands aside, the proud mom. The music starts, and the kids go into their dance routine. Again, not your normal night club act, but the crowd doesn't seem to notice. They clap to the beat and cheer on the youngsters until the music is over. It's not often that a comedian ends a show by hugging both her kids on stage, but this wasn't your usual show.

Maybe her own little world isn't such a bad place to be, after all.