All the good parking places in life are taken right before you turn the corner and see them. In more historic terms, bandwidth used to be the height of the elastic in your Sansabelt slacks. When you were connected back then, you knew or were related to someone with pull. Now you can put yourself right in someone's bedroom by touching the Send button on your smartphone. This morning I was in Lillie Langtry's boudoir then I realized I meant to be sent to the bathroom but there's no way to Unsend so I had to act like I was a valet and walk backwards out of the room. Luckily, I still had enough time to make it to the bathroom without, how does one say it? soiling. On my remote control there's a button next to the one that puts pic-on-pic that if you press it twice, pause then once more, nothing happens. What's up with that? Now why would they put that button on there if it does nothing? UPDATE: re-checked and it actually was my garage door opener and now I can get the door to close. I saw a movie once where this guy relocated the bar from his opener and the girl who used to be on Ivory Flakes boxes found a new career. My only career change happened when I used my last day at work to get a headstart on Pittsburgh. The things we do for love. After the prom, I was never a free-spirit again but free spirits were girls shoes with low heels that you could play basketball in. Like those tampons that take you horseback riding and volleyball playing - they never invented anything like that for men except for maybe boner pills and you can get them from just reading your emails. What would have made more sense would have been an unboner pill so that you could walk around from the time you wake up with a chubby and you take the unboner pill when you want to relax the back. I'm pretty sure Mildred Pierce didn't look like Kate Winslet because Wendy Schaal was already under contract for the Ricardo Montalban story last week. In my autobiography I'm going to include a chapter about pansies because they are the friendliest flower in the garden. They smile even when gray skies bring Mister Torment on the meranda. I'm going to ask the guy who wrote Stupak's story to write my autobiography. The auto isn't anything to do with auto-erotic asphyxiation, just in case you thought that's what I meant. I stop at all school crossings just not the ones that are burning. Hey, it's not as tasteless as Larry David doing girl scout menstruation humor. I think I'll read The Carpetbaggers again before I die as an homage to 49 years ago.

Bye the bye: the Keith story turns out to have a semi-bogus ending - they never ended up back at Chris' place. They went from Smokey Joe's to a place called Dickens near Front St. where he essentially bored her with stories (my take) and eventually dropped her off at her place, no bow-chicka-bow-wow.