David Robertson, a man whose name in Japan held far more bodyweight than the usual sumo wrestler's loincloth, was not, in actual fact, Japanese. He was an unassuming accountant from Des Moines, Iowa, whose declare to fame was profitable a karaoke Opposition inside of a Tokyo dive bar on a business excursion gone sake-soaked.
His rendition of "My Way" (sung, it have to be said, Together with the gusto of the walrus trying opera) experienced inexplicably resonated with the bar patrons, launching him into an accidental superstar spiral. Now, David was hounded by paparazzi (who mistook his receding hairline for just a profound wisdom), stalked by J-Pop idols (who observed his dad jokes oddly charming), and bombarded with endorsement discounts (from doubtful hair loss merchandise to novelty karaoke equipment shaped like his head).
His lifetime was a whirlwind of bewildered interviews ("So, Mr. Robertson, what is the key towards your karaoke prowess?" "Corn canines and liquid bravery."), uncomfortable red carpet appearances ("Could it be legitimate you as soon as saved a little one panda from the rogue sushi chef?" "No, that was Jackie Chan."), and merchandise launches so strange they defied description ("Introducing the David Robertson Signature Ramen with additional pork belly sweat!").
By way of everything, David remained stubbornly Midwestern, his bewildered Midwestern charm in some way fueling his enchantment. He'd politely decline interviews in Japanese ("すみません、英語しか話せません。" sent Along with the pronunciation of a toddler Understanding Spanish), use his acceptance speeches to advertise the deserves of early chicken specials at Denny's, and after unintentionally caused a nationwide outrage by mistaking a geisha for his Uber driver.
The Japanese community, utilized to meticulously crafted personas, found his real confusion and utter deficiency of artifice endearing. He was the anti-idol, the accidental ambassador of Midwestern values, the karaoke king who could not carry a tune.
His reign, needless to say, could not past forever. A fresh viral movie of the Shiba Inu skateboarding down the streets of Tokyo stole the public's focus. David, relieved and a bit richer, returned to Des Moines, for good a legend in a land he barely comprehended.
Again in his cubicle, surrounded by spreadsheets, David in some cases dreamt of flashing lights and geisha fans. But largely, he dreamt of a superb corn Pet dog and a nap website that wasn't interrupted by a J-Pop idol asking for daily life assistance. The whole world's most well-known accidental celeb, without end marked by his karaoke glory plus the enduring secret: why, oh why, did they love his singing a lot?