Song of last week

Baby, What Do You Want Me to Do. No great meaning, just had the song in my head for a few weeks, popping in and out like the filler time it serves so well in the ’68 comeback special. Finally was on a mini-vacation and had a chance to put on the album (the single disc, not the double) and it hit the spot. It reminded me of a great little music moment from Peter Guralnick’s Careless Love. After the marriage to Priscilla….

The chemistry that was evident from their first moment together on-screen was borrowed from real life. From Ann-Margret’s point of voice, music was the catalyst. “Music ignited a fiery pent-up passion inside Elvis and inside me. It was an odd, embarrassing, funny, inspiring, and wonderful sensation. We looked at each other move and saw virtual mirror images.” She was, Joe Esposito told Elvis, “a female you,” and soon she was at the house almost every night, or he was over at the apartment she shared with her parents. They drove around listening to tapes in the new Rolls-Royce limousine, they rode motorcycles together (she shared his passion for Harleys), the guys always knew enough to disappear at the right moment — or if they didn’t, Joe let them know. Everybody liked Ann — they all referred to her by the name of her character she played in the movie, Rusty, but Elvis called her Rusty Ammo. She was funny, she was sexy, she was never anything less than a good sport, she was one of the guys. One night she and Elvis were sitting around watching TV with the gang, “an average, lazy night at home,” when she and Elvis put on an impromptu show.

We snuck out of the living room. Then, without warning, he pushed open the big double glass doors. Everyone turned and looked. We were both on the ground, stretched out like cats, and in a husky growl he sang, “You got me runnin’.” I answered in a similar voice, “You got me hidin’.” … As we traded lyrics, we crawled across the carpeted room in time with the music while everyone clapped and laughed.

Between jumping into iconography and the corn that was already there, you’d be suspicious of how much you’d enjoy the moment, but you can’t sing the song if you’re not having a little fun. YouTube has the ’68 special version.

The ’89 Indy 500

The earliest moments where I can remember feeling sad about professional sports were the 1986 NFC championship game, the final weekend of the Orioles 1989 season and the ’89 Indy 500.

In the championship game, the Giants beat the Redskins 17-0. In the final weekend, Toronto ended the O’s remarkable rebound from the infamous 0-21 ’88 season and shut them out of the playoffs. In the race, Emerson Fittipaldi and my beloved Al Unser Jr. dueled for the lead in the final laps before an innocent bumping of tires sent Unser spinning into the wall.

Fortunately during this era, I also had the Dodgers’ ’88 World Series win (surely Orel is still going through the mail), the Redskins’ ’88 Super Bowl win (Sister Mary Ann, if memory serves, sent Jed Fox to the principal’s office for rooting against them, perhaps in a class-disrupting fashion; four years later, Dallas-loving John Paul Diller would apparently be more diplomatic in countering Miss Pairo’s victory-following sing-a-longs of Hail to the Redskins) and lots of Topps cards to keep me in good spirits.

But when Al Unser Jr. gets involved in a high-speed side-swiping incident — with Unser allegedly as Emo (the old school “Em-o,” not the new pronunciation), an average citizen as Unser and police claiming the drinking of more than milk — ’89 comes to mind.

‘The resulting scenario’ is my commute

The photo on the Post homepage Saturday was of Route 7, but the map showed the first real trouble as more to the north.

Chain Bridge Road and the Dulles Access Road — the lower and upper commutes to my work — are going to get it first. Even for those of us who don’t take the Beltway, the conversation of the empty land between Chain Bridge and the campus to office buildings looms pretty large. The ugliest traffic light in the neighborhood is going to get worse.

But this angle in the related story is interesting — “new toll lanes on the Beltway, which will include at least two, but more likely three, sets of new access ramps into Tysons, including one plunging into the heart of the area, onto the bridge over Route 123 that connects the two malls, Tysons Corner Center and Tysons II Galleria.” As you’re leaving the campus, the bridge comes before that traffic light. Most of that light’s troubles come from it being a funnel to the Beltway. Could it help to have a second way of accessing the ramps? The bridge is currently a two-lane thing with no light to access it, but there’s some land room around it. Sure, that land is where the office buildngs are going, but … get out your hard hats and maps, my friends.

“The resulting scenario sounds like the cruel fantasy of an angry god,” the Post says. The whole thing makes me miss taking the Metro, and yet that’s the point of the whole thing. In the meantime, I’m going to continue to look for my pedestrian tunnel through the hills and under the Beltway.

It’s okay to blog about shoelaces

Marc Fisher blogged Friday about how hard it was to find replacement shoelaces anymore. Most of his commenters suggested places that still sell the things, but a significant portion slammed him for writing about something to trivial. They hit him hard, and I bet these people never liked Seinfeld. Yet many of the shoelace haters also suggested places he could try.

You can be sure I read the entry. I find myself needing to buy replacement laces every few years — my subconscious must care deeply about a firm fit — and it always takes a couple stops to find them. When they turn up, I wonder if I’m buying the last brown pair and if they’ll ever be stocked again. Can a supermarket order just six pairs of shoelaces at a time? Or do you have to buy them in bulk with combs, shoehorns and polish?

Fisher has an interesting theory on the scarcity. While the stories last year about watches dropping off was no surprise, he guesses at a trend I wouldn’t have expected, “that laces are perhaps on their way to becoming a technology of the past. Check out the footwear on teens and folks in their 20s: We’re talking flipflops, slip-ons and, among little kids, the always-annoying Velcro.”

Maybe I don’t spend enough time looking at people’s feet, but I feel like I don’t hear Velcro very often. The slip-ons make appearances sometimes — they’re noticeable, saying something about the wearer — but I still see lots of laces. And maybe those people are like me. And maybe their shoes are like Ross, replacer of Fred. Both my shoelaces have been snapped in half for a while now, maybe a year, so I’ve reset each to run halfway up the eyeholes.

It’s very easy to write a full post about shoelaces.

Folo on the Chicago high-rise fire

“Only those who lived on the building’s 26th floor and three to four floors above and below were evacuated by firefighters, but many other residents scrambled from their homes. At least 10 people ran up to the building’s roof and were spotted by a Fire Department helicopter, Orozco said.”

That’s what the Sun-Times reported Saturday after a fire ignited on the 26th floor of a Chicago high-rise Friday night. The fire left two people dead and several other hurt and got a breaking news headline on most of the major Chicago news sites. Jess and I were ordering Thai food at the time — try Sawatdee’s Kao-Pad-Pu, stir-fried rice with crabmeat and egg that’s never been unsatisfying — and Karen was on the roof.

Tracy called while I was out of the room, left a concerned message about calling Karen to find her saying something between static about a roof and a fire, and wondered if I’d heard anything on the news. The breaking news heds quickly confirmed there was a fire in a high-rise in Karen’s neighborhood, and I called Tracy back.

Me: “What’s her address? There’s definitely something in her area.”
Tracy: “Yeah, I think her building’s on fire.”

From the news, it sounded like the fire was contained. From Tracy’s call, it sounded like Karen was fine on the roof. We figured we’d get the full story later.

The story turned out to be that, an hour earlier, minutes after getting off the phone with me — I was giving the pitch to sign up for Facebook and Karen was counting on a quiet night in — she heard commotion from the hallway. She opened the door to find smoke and her 29th-floor neighbors evacuating.

They went down the stairs, Karen said, until running into firefighters on the 27th who said the fire was just beneath them and to head upward. The neighbors suggested the roof, and the firefighters thought that was a good idea. So they hustled to the 42nd floor and vented stairway smoke into the cold evening. In the midst of the evacuation, a friend down the street called Karen to let her know her building was on fire. It was a funny call to take in the middle of fleeing the smoke, Karen said, but two minutes earlier it would’ve been news to her.

As the group of a dozen waited on the roof, they watched all sorts of helicopters above their heads. The friend down the street text-messaged that the fire was out, and the group cheered. The firefighters eventually took them down in the elevator. Despite living on one of the close floors evacuated, Karen had no apartment damage. But the entrenched smoke smell has booted her out for a little while.