In which our hero/Christ figure realizes with a shudder that Hello Kitty could be spending her nights stalking and anally raping Disney characters with baseball bats and no one would care as long as she still wore a wide-eyed expression of pure innocence and a cute pink dress the next morning.
It’s early morning, and the sun is only just beginning to consider poking its way above the jagged Tokyo horizon. Giant black pterodactyls scavenge for scraps from the trash bags lining the concrete outside, dwarfing the trash collectors who are doing their best to remove the millions of pounds of waste and sludge left for them the night before. And me, I’m on my bed shivering, having just woken up from a horrible, horrible early-morning dream in which I was being brutally attacked in my bed by Tare Panda, the wide-eyed, oval-faced character from the Hello Kitty School of Aggressive Cuteness who’s weaseled his way into every corner of Japanese popular culture, from advertisements to greeting cards to cell phone accessories, threatening to usurp Miss Kitty as the national mascot. It was trying to cute me to death.
Admittedly, I’m not just irked because of the panda attack. It’s that it happened to occur simultaneously with an early-morning earthquake tremor deep beneath the city. I wake to the bed shaking. Also the bureau, the television, the sliding wooden door that opens out on the kitchen, and the walls. And since Tokyoites are expecting “the big one” any day now, I quickly jump to the conclusion that that day is today and the panda in my dream was just an adorable li’l angel of death.
I sit frozen on the shaking bed for a few moments, praying for everything to stop wobbling, hoping there isn’t a bigger tremor to come. After a few minutes, I stop writing goodbye e-mails to friends and family in my head and start to calm down. I’ve experienced these tremors before, and it’s always the calm after the shaking stops that is the eeriest; it’s still within the realm of possibility that something has been jiggled loose (a nearby house, a telephone pole, Tokyo Tower), something that will soon come crashing down on my bed without warning.
I gather myself together, clamber out of bed, and slide into the chair at my desk. I figure I may as well watch television while I’m waiting to be crushed, so I switch it on and go out to the kitchen to make some tea and toast. When I return to my room, I’m greeted with a horrifying image on the television screen, one that will emblazon itself on my memory for weeks, maybe years, to come.
It’s a commercial for the Japanese language version of Annie currently running in Tokyo, complete with a freckle-faced, curly wig-wearing Japanese girl squeaking out the words to “Tomorrow” in Japanese.
I. Am. Aghast. There are many things that should never be allowed to leave America’s borders. Adam Sandler movies, for example. Fox News. The McRib Sandwich. But number one on the list, I feel sure of it, is the musical story of that nauseatingly precocious and cherubic red-haired orphan who, whenever she has a problem, is bored, or just has some time to kill, thinks it necessary to sing songs through her nose in a voice that could wilt plants, crash airplanes, and bring about worldwide famine.
“The horror…the horror,” I murmur, convinced I will never fall asleep again.
Later, on the train on my way to Shibuya to do some record shopping, I am still feeling the aftereffects of unprotected exposure to Jap-Annie. As it happens, I’m sitting across from a young office lady holding in her lap a tiny blue purse with a pastel drawing of two dancing bunnies, a chicken, a strawberry, some flowers, and the words “Something Pretty” on it. I think of Tare Panda. I think of little orphan Jap-Annie. I want to vomit.
Looking around me, I see the train is dense with commuters with their heads buried in a variety of reading material. Many read comics full of characters with glistening eyes half the size of their heads. Women read fashion magazines, like Cutie, one of the most popular. In its pages, young ladies can find useful tips on how to wear oversized bracelets, pink barrettes, fluffy scarves, tiny handbags, wacky hats, flowery shoes, pastel nail polish, futuristic headphones, bubble gum lip gloss, sparkly eye shadow, tight/bright T-shirts saying things like “Sweetheart” and “Kissypoo Sugar,” wide-eyed girl-next-door expressions, and countless other tried and tested ways to optimize their cuteness and make sure they’re never the last sweetie on their block to have that completely necessary YumYum brand, bunny rabbit-embossed makeup kit.
Considering my panda dream again, I decide that my subconscious is desperately trying to tell me something. It is this: the Japanese obsession with all things cute is becoming a little more than I can handle.
I think back to when I opened my first Japanese bank account. I had two choices of bankcard designs. The first one was a lovely drawing of a small boy on a fishing boat staring at the setting sun against a beautiful auburn sky. Elegiac and elegant. The other choice was a picture of a cartoon bunny named Miffy who looks like Hello Kitty with bunny ears and no nose. He was licensed as the bank’s mascot. The friendly bank teller told me it was the most popular choice. After a few moments of quiet reflection, I chose the fishing boat sunset one, ignoring the devil inside me screaming, “Give me that bunny!”
“Tim, really,” I lectured myself. “Calm down. You don’t need the bunny. You want the bunny, but you don’t need the bunny. Yes, he’s cute. But is that really what you need in a bank card? Choose the sunset background and walk away.”
Cuteness is of utmost importance in this country. It’s why the films of chipmunk-faced Meg Ryan have always been infinitely more popular than those of giant-jawed Julia Roberts. It’s why adorable Audrey Hepburn’s image is used to sell products from bottled jasmine tea to English lessons at Berlitz. It’s why Tokyo Disneyland exists, why there are giant Snoopy Stores in Tokyo and Yokohama, and it is, I will forever believe, why Cher never became a superstar in Japan. With her long narrow face, dour expression, Medusa-like tendrils of hair, and overactive serpentine tongue, she is the antithesis of cute. She’s the stuff of nightmares. The Japanese would much rather be entertained by Michael J. Fox.
At the giant RECOFAN record store in Shibuya I go to the Japanese section to see what’s on offer. No shortage of cute over here. One of the most popular pop bands in the country in the past few years is an all-girl troupe going by the name of Morning Musume, which translates, worryingly, to Morning Daughters. They are the female Japanese Menudo, an ever-changing roster of pubescent-sometimes prepubescent-young ladies brought together by a record company to help satisfy the Japanese public’s demands for endless gallons of teenage squeakpop. They sing (off-key), dance in formation (like drunk beauty pageant contestants), and wear brightly colored costumes (the kind seen in Southern American parades). They’re horrendous. They sell millions. They’re fucking everywhere. And each one is probably set to embark on an equally cute solo career during which she will tour the country dressed in a tutu, holding a fluffy pink baton and singing nursery rhyme-like songs that will provide her with a bit of cash flow before it all comes to a crashing halt when she reaches the cutoff age of twenty-five. Because twenty-five, my friends, is not a cute number.
There’s nothing like the sound of a group of Tokyo girls gathered around a store window display featuring whatever character is the It cutie of the moment and screaming their approval with a bloodcurdling “KAWAIIIIIII!” It means “cute,” but it also implies “in,” “we like,” and “that would look really good on a handbag, a T-shirt, a cell phone screen, and a pair of underwear!”
“Kawaii!!” If you hear that word directed at you, you’re in there, man, you’re hot, you’ve really got it. You are officially cuddly. I’ve not had that word directed at me.
Whereas in America the number-one preoccupation is being thin (eating french fries being a close second), in Japan, they don’t generally have to worry about the bloat factor. They do, however, have to worry about not being kawaii enough.
Recently, while on my way to work, I ran into one of my students, Ryoko, a basic-level student in her late forties who was always a joy to teach, and though she was typically insecure about her English abilities, she was never shy about giving it a try. I saw she’d gotten a haircut, and I complimented her on it.
“Oh, you’ve had a haircut,” I said, pointing to her head with one hand and mimicking a pair of scissors with the other. “It looks really nice!”
She smiled and said thank you. She looked pensive, though, as if she wasn’t ready to move on to a different topic. As if what I’d said was deficient in some way.
I started to worry that maybe I had not complimented her enough. Perhaps “nice” was too neutral an adjective.
“Thank you,” she began, “but…is it cute?” She slapped her hand over her mouth as soon as she said it, perhaps realizing the inherent ridiculousness of a woman her age asking such a question. Or maybe she was afraid of the answer. Or thought she was going to cough.
“
” I said with a big smile. “It’s really cute!”
At hearing this, she relaxed and we walked to the station together, the initial awkwardness dissolved by the magical “c” word.
I should have a very strong appreciation for that which is cute. My country invented Mickey Mouse, after all. And the Snuggle fabric softener teddy bear, which never fails to give me an ice-cream headache. And I do like cute things. My best friend when I was a kid had been my Snoopy doll, but that was less because he was cute and more because he was the only one in the neighborhood who didn’t throw things at me. As far as I’m concerned, though, when the eyes get too large, when the heads become too round, the smiles too aggressive, the voices too squeaky, and the bodies too puffy and squeezably soft, this is when it becomes a problem for me, and I struggle to turn a blind eye.
At the same time, in spite of myself, I have been won over by some of the cute ephemera around me. When McDonald’s recently sold stuffed Hello Kitty dolls dressed in pink kimono for two hundred yen with the purchase of a combo meal, I took the bait. Twice. Hello Kitty needed a friend, and who better for her to share her time with while lounging on my bedspread than Dear Daniel, her male counterpart dressed in an adorable blue yukata robe? And yes, when Mister Donut launched a campaign where customers could get miniature bed pillows with precious dog and cat faces on them with the purchase of two-dozen donuts, you bet I bought two dozen donuts and took them to work just so I could have those pillows and take them home for Kitty and Daniel to cuddle up against. Who wouldn’t? And, looking down at my phone, OK, I do have a cute little pudgy blue elephant hanging from a little chain connected to the antennae. And, well, yeah, I guess I do have on a T-shirt with a perfectly round monkey face that says “Everything Ya-Ya.” So? Oh, and I suppose you’re going to ask me about the little Miffy figurine I have on my keychain, and the Pikachu stuffed animal I bought for my nephew but then kept for myself because everyone needs a little stuffed Pikachu to help them sleep at night. And I can’t forget the Hamutaro hamster toy that has the cutest little nose and a smile to melt the heart of the devil himself and OH MY GOD WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO ME?!!
I have crossed over. I’ve never wanted cell phone accessories before, never needed daily calendars with smiley-faced mice and rabbits on my desk when I was of sounder mind. I recently bought a shoulder bag so small that the only thing I can fit into it is a paperback and my iPod. Why did I buy it? Why do you think? And, oh dear Lord, look, I’m carrying it right now. And you know, if I’m really being honest, I’m more likely to buy one bag of rice over another if there’s a dancing koala vouching for it on the label. My world has changed, and I’m just now realizing it. This has got to stop, and now.
Standing there on the Shibuya street, I see an advertisement in a store window replete with a smiley hamster, a mouse, a chicken, a duckling, and a few other small furry mammals I can’t identify. My eyes widen, and I involuntarily smile at the sight. Then the most unexpected thing happens: one by one, each jumps off the advertisement and onto my shoulder. The hamster snuggles into the nook between my neck and shoulder and starts cooing. The chicken and duckling hop onto my head and start juggling the smaller furry tufts of fluff. The mouse scurries over to my other shoulder and pecks lovingly at my neck. I stumble back, look over, and what should be approaching me from in front of the HMV but a gaggle of girls from anime movies, all bending down with their hands coyly on their knees and blowing kisses at me. There are about twenty of them, and they are coming for me. (“One of us! One of us!”) There’s a schoolgirl with long brown hair swept back and held by an ungainly green bow. She’s dressed in a sailor suit top and a short skirt that keeps billowing up à la Marilyn Monroe. There’s a white-haired sorceress in a body-hugging black gown carrying a wooden scepter that she keeps pointing at me with a wink. There’s a blue-haired cutie-pie in what appears to be a female stormtrooper uniform, and, most bonechilling of all, a girl in a blue leotard, long pink leggings, blue and white space shoes with robotic wings attached to her arms, and, swinging from those arms, a furry white mammal giggling and occasionally jumping up to her shoulder to whisper something in its mistress’s ear. All of these cloyingly cuddly cartoon hotties have eyes the size of American footballs and are fixing me with their red triangular smiles. They hop closer and closer, giggling and clucking, ready to pounce and drown me in the pools of their gigantic and horribly cute eyes. The hamster nestled in the space between my neck and shoulder has his claws dug into my skin and is purring up toward my ear. Oh my God, he’s so precious! No! Not precious! Manipulatively adorable! Get thee away!
As the cute anime sluts come nearer, I grab the hamster and toss him at them. I shake off the mouse, the duckling, the chicken, and their furry little friends and start running for my life. I run past game-center arcades with electronic images of teddy bear/bunny rabbit/kitty cat mascots dancing blissfully around the sign at the entrance; past amusement park advertisements like the one saying “Let’s Summer!” showing a cute little girlie surfing with a cherubic snowman and a toothy squirrel with a Mohawk amid lots of pastel pinks, oranges, and blues; past the Tsutaya CD and video store, on the steps of which a group of round-faced girls dressed in what look like Tiger Lily costumes are smiling, waving, and handing out promotional packets advertising the new SMAP album. As I near the Shibuya Crossing intersection in front of the station, Astro Boy, the first-ever anime character, shoots out of the sky and fires the cutest little laser beams out of his fingers toward me. I duck and dive and run across the street and am almost to the threshold of Shibuya Station when who should block my path but Hello Kitty herself, standing before me, fixing me with her static gaze, staring into my very soul.
She’s much taller than I would have thought (seven feet at least) and, I gotta say, I see a most beguiling, loveable evil in her small black eyes and li’l yellow nose. She smacks me in the face. Her open hand is sooooo soft. She smacks me again and again, alternating slaps with soft caresses of my face and, wow, honestly, it’s like being made love to by a giant feather pillow.
“Hello Kitty, I wanna be your dog!” No! No! Must…be…strong! Think of un-cute things: Evil clowns! The Cuban Missile Crisis! Ann Coulter being interviewed in a bikini on Larry King!
I click my heels together three times, open my eyes, and Hello Kitty is gone. I discover I am in absolutely everyone’s way as they push and shove me aside to enter the station. I come back to myself, look around to make sure I’m no longer being followed, and step into the station.
On the Chuo Line train home, I keel over in my seat, my hands clutching plastic CD bags. I begin to sink into sleep, ready to dream of more exquisite abuse at the hands of Miss Kitty, when my sinking eyes catch a glimpse of a familiar English word on the T-shirt of a woman sitting opposite me.
She is an elderly woman, maybe sixty-five, with a stoic and inscrutable face, sleepy eyes, and a faraway gaze. She is dressed casually in high-water slacks and a Bermuda hat. Her T-shirt says “Bitch.” I swear to God.
She looks adorable.
# of glass elevators taken in that look like space pods: 5
# of advertisements seen using English word “happy” with at least one exclamation mark after: 49