This is Grant Morrison's column. It's fun.
100 degrees. 98 per cent humidity. Permanent superskin of flowing sweat covering my entire body as the weather squuezes me dry like a sponge.
Tokyo in July is a dribbling urban saunasphere oozing yellow smog, under Fuji. The whole culture appears to be suppressing gravitational depths of emotion below a distracting froth of pink technology and flashing toys. Infantilised veryone reads manga everywhere. Kids books. Kids TV. Kids shopping.
In the refrigerated stores the shopgirls are screaming like the hounds of hell hunting for bargains. To shop is to take part in a riot of screaming ghosts, where no-one gets hurt in the chill of the rushing wind. Only the ears suffer as the shrieking cries of 'SUMIMASENNNNNNNN' intensify into a crescendo. The shopgirls have megaphones and hand mikes...they scream until the air is raw with sonic welts and echoing scabs. They scream because that¹s what they¹re paid for, because they can and because screaming is goooood. They¹ve been screaming like this since Hiroshima at least. Or at least that¹s how it feels in the soaking crush and brightness.