OK, so if things continue at their current pace, the Steelers won't win another Super Bowl until the year ... ... 2032. That's 26 years from now, and by then, if things continue at their current pace, I'll be almost 60. (Oh, if only that were a typo.) Assuming all goes according to plan, I'll have peacefully retired to a tropical island far, far from Pittsburgh by then; a blissful, breathtaking utopia completely and blessedly isolated from all *trappings of modern civilization -- namely, property taxes, televised poker and celebrity gossip. (Note to self: Better get moving on that IRA.) That's why attendance at Tuesday morning's victory parade seemed so imperative. Besides, it's only a 10-minute walk from Trib Total Media worldwide headquarters here on the North Side over to Liberty Avenue in the Golden Triangle, worldwide headquarters of, um, Candy Rama. The corner of Fifth and Liberty seemed like as good a place as any to stand on my tiptoes for a couple of hours. Turns out 249,999 other Steelers fans recognized the fleeting nature of the situation, as well, and all of them except the 4-year-old to my right had staked out better vantage points. But at least he could sit on his dad's shoulders. No such luck here. There was so much electricity in the air that one hardly noticed the cold, windy weather. Even better, with everyone bundled up in heavy winter coats, you were that much less likely to feel things you'd rather not feel when brushing up against total strangers. Watch it, lady. We're celebrating here, not dating. The anticipation built for about 45 minutes, as those of us near the end of the parade route patiently awaited a glimpse of our heroes. Then, finally, around 11:45, flashes of black and gold could be seen bobbing up and down, and horns and drums could be heard above the screaming throng, apparently heralding the arrival of someone, anyone , affiliated with the team. Armed with a $6 disposable camera, I prepared to capture the moment. But who could it be• It was so hard to see through the mass of humanity. Was it Hines• Big Ben• Coach Cowher? No, wait a second. It looks like it's ... ... the North Allegheny marching band? Luckily, it wasn't much longer before Cowher did come through, and a human catastrophe was narrowly averted. Standing in a trailer hitched to a truck and wearing a wide smile as he whipped the crowd into a frenzy with a Terrible Towel, we saw a side of the coach we'd never seen before. Bill Cowher. Rock star. Porter, Ward, Faneca, Hampton -- all soaked up the adoration of a city drunk with love. And then there was obscure rookie Rian Wallace, who had the foresight to bring along a companion holding a handmade yellow sign: "Rian Wallace No. 54 Pottstown Pa." Always good to know your backups have their head in the game. When all was said and done, it was about as good as a lunch break can get without pizza being involved. Hopefully, the Steelers will manage to win another Super Bowl sometime before 2032 -- is next year too much to ask? But if not, it's nice to imagine sitting on a beach somewhere in the South Pacific, clinking margarita glasses in their honor with my cool island neighbor, Troy Polamalu. * Exempting margaritas.

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