David Robertson, a man whose name in Japan held more fat than a sumo wrestler's loincloth, wasn't, in reality, Japanese. He was an unassuming accountant from Des Moines, Iowa, whose claim to fame was successful a karaoke competition inside of a Tokyo dive bar on a company trip long gone sake-soaked.
His rendition of "My Way" (sung, it should be claimed, Using the gusto of a walrus trying opera) experienced inexplicably resonated Together with the bar patrons, launching him into an accidental celebrity spiral. Now, David was hounded by paparazzi (who mistook his receding hairline for your profound wisdom), stalked by J-Pop idols (who identified his father jokes oddly charming), and bombarded with endorsement discounts (from dubious hair decline products to novelty karaoke devices shaped like his head).
His lifetime was a whirlwind of bewildered interviews ("So, Mr. Robertson, exactly what is the solution to the karaoke prowess?" "Corn dogs and liquid bravery."), awkward purple carpet appearances ("Is it genuine you as soon as saved a newborn panda from the rogue sushi chef?" "No, that was Jackie Chan."), and product launches so weird they defied description ("Introducing the David Robertson Signature Ramen with more pork belly sweat!").
By it all, David remained stubbornly Midwestern, his bewildered Midwestern appeal someway fueling his charm. He'd politely drop interviews in Japanese ("すみません、英語しか話せません。" sent While using the pronunciation of a toddler Mastering Spanish), use his acceptance speeches to promote the deserves of early fowl specials at Denny's, and as soon as unintentionally caused a nationwide outrage by mistaking a geisha for his Uber driver.
The Japanese general public, used to meticulously crafted personas, located his legitimate confusion and utter insufficient artifice endearing. He was the anti-idol, the accidental ambassador of Midwestern values, the karaoke king who could not have a tune.
His reign, needless to say, could not last eternally. A different viral video of a Shiba Inu skateboarding down the streets of Tokyo stole the general public's attention. David, relieved and a little bit richer, returned to Des Moines, forever a legend inside of a land he scarcely recognized.
Back in his cubicle, surrounded by spreadsheets, David at times dreamt of flashing lights and geisha lovers. But typically, he dreamt of a great corn Pet as well as a nap that wasn't interrupted by a J-Pop idol asking for daily Obon life assistance. The entire world's most popular accidental movie star, without end marked by his karaoke glory plus the enduring thriller: why, oh why, did they love his singing much?