ed by Henry Winkler in jail, charged with transforming the city morgue into a whorehouse (it's a Ron Howard comedy, believe it or not, and a good one). His job, his engagement, his life, all in tatters. Moments after his fiancee shows up at the cell door . . . to spit on him . . . he sits forlornly on a holding cell bench, head in hands, and concludes aloud, 'This is it. Rock bottom. My life can not possibly get any worse than this.'At that moment, he looks to his side, where another prisoner, displaying a daisy chain of hearts fashioned from a napkin, blows a kiss to him.
"OK, I was wrong," he sighs.
If this report of Theresa Smith's comments concerning the recently ramrodded appointments to city boards
"I know what my community wants," countered Ms. Smith. "They have elected a mayor of the city of Pittsburgh, overwhelmingly," and mayors pick board members,
is accurate, I know precisely how Chuck Lumley felt on that holding cell bench.
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