THE CUTE THAT HAS NO NAME

None of the great philosophers has ever directly addressed the cute; cuteness has never been the subject of virulent debate. Historically, discussions of cuteness have largely been confined to bubble-gum chewers and teen magazines, which fact has by default exposed modern Japanese society to infection by a pathogenic cuteness of such malignance as to put at risk all that is truly beautiful.

This terminal cuteness, even now eating at the vitals of the country, sapping its very lifeblood, is nothing like the vacant western cuteness of anguished clowns painted on velvet, or weeping ragamuffins with stylized cowlicks and eyes as big as dinner plates; it is even more relentless than the corrosively kitschy cuteness that is burying mad collectors in matching salt and pepper shakers; it supersedes the Disney cuteness of sexless animals yearning for their mothers, it is cute with a big C, a big U, a big T, a big E, in bold and throbbing hi-glo pink neon-ribboned letters underlined in red and gold, with heart-shaped fireworks going off behind it and a background medley of the cutest melodies of the decade...

It is The Cute that Has No Name; it is the neocute, the hypercute, the manic cute, the pathocute, the cute beyond belief and without cessation, the cute that knows no limits, it is everywhere and spreading; soon it will be coming for you, it is in this region now; in this very neighborhood, is there no defense, is there no escape as it comes bouncing smarmily up the stairs, oozing through the keyhole, treacling across the floor toward me; it is occupying my body, changing my shoes, my clothes, my hairstyle, my taste, my mind! And I believe: yes! It's happened! Now I'm cute too!