The White Peril 白禍

Oh, my. The world is such a disillusioning place. Ashlee Simpson apparently really isn't a teen combination of Chrissie Hynde, Joan Jett, and Johnette Napolitano, reborn for the 00's with a contemporary edge all her own!

But I mean, her's hair's black, so she's, like, all the opposite of her sister. Right?

I don't see why talentless but charismatic pop idols shouldn't do lipsynch acts for fans, sort of as a happy medium between a concert and a music video, as long as no one pretends they are what they aren't. Trying to hoodwink people with a prerecorded vocal that's the same as the radio edit is an insult.

Hmmm.... Getting kind of boring around here. What would liven things up some?

I know: Another typhoon! This one is set to land in Shizuoka Prefecture and to pass right over Tokyo. My luckless boyfriend, who's lived in western Kyushu through the hammering it's gotten this summer, has followed today's entrant--the strongest typhoon to hit eastern Japan in over ten years, apparently--here for the three-day weekend. Luckily, the leading edge of the storm didn't keep his plane from being able to land, though a few dozen other domestic flights have already been canceled. He just cellphone-mailed that he's on the ground and on his way here.

Also luckily, we shouldn't need to grab more than maybe a liter of milk from 7-Eleven, since I made sure everything was stocked for his arrival anyway, including another Columbo DVD. I've already watched it, it is true, but I'll gladly sit through at least one of the episodes again: Vera Miles and Vincent Price play the owners of rival cosmetics companies seeking the formula for a wrinkle-erasing miracle cream. Does it get gayer than that? Oh, and the murder from which the plot is generated involves vengeful Miles impulsively hitting a young Martin Sheen on the head with a microscope, her eyes wide and lip curled in that wonderful fury TV murderers always get right before they bash someone's skull in. I know it's anachronistic, since the show was recorded in 1971, but I see it as vicarious revenge for all of us who feel insulted by the hamhanded propaganda orgy that is The West Wing.

Anyway, in the last few days, it's become apparent that there are, in fact, at least a few people reading here from within Japan, so stay safe, everyone.

Added at 11:50: Looks like I jumped the gun. I was looking at the Nikkei site and figured that if the 9:00 a.m. post said the storm was about to make landfall, it probably had by two hours later. It hasn't.

If you are the tool of Satan who got "Right Time of the Night" stuck in my head, be warned that when I catch you, you will know my wrath. I hate that song. Smug, coy, wheedling, complacent '70's seduction crap that makes me feel as if I were back in my parents' Mustang hatchback riding to ShopRite, with "I'd Really Love to See you Tonight" next on the playlist. Blech!

I thought maybe my brain was just in the mood for smug, coy, wheedling, complacent '70's seduction crap, so maybe I could get it to latch on to a specimen I actually like. Accordingly, I put on Anne Murray and listened to "Shadows in the Moonlight" (Shut it--the melody is pretty, the lyrics are at least sophisticated enough to have a how-fleeting-is-youth tension flitting through them, and former-gym teacher Anne was big with our lesbian sisters; when you're dealing with smug, coy, et c., these distinctions matter. Furthermore, I will not listen to anyone who wants to tell me that because Jennifer Warnes did an album of Leonard Cohen covers and blah-blah, she's a Genuine Artist. Pleh) a few times, but no such luck. I was right back to cleaning the bathroom and swooning, "Aw, you 'n me, bay-beh, we could thinka someth'n to doooo" to the high-density plastic. I may even have cast my eyes down and blushed. Blushed. I'm not sure I can take much more of this.