David Robertson, a man whose identify in Japan held a lot more excess weight than the usual sumo wrestler's loincloth, was not, in fact, Japanese. He was an unassuming accountant from Des Moines, Iowa, whose claim to fame was profitable a karaoke Opposition in a Tokyo dive bar on a company trip long gone sake-soaked.

His rendition of "My Way" (sung, it need to be claimed, Using the gusto of the walrus attempting opera) had 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 the profound wisdom), stalked by J-Pop idols (who observed his dad jokes oddly charming), and bombarded with endorsement deals (from doubtful hair decline merchandise to novelty karaoke machines shaped like his head).

His life was a whirlwind of bewildered interviews ("So, Mr. Robertson, what's the top secret to the karaoke prowess?" "Corn dogs and liquid bravery."), uncomfortable crimson carpet appearances ("Can it be correct you when saved a toddler panda from a rogue sushi chef?" "No, that was Jackie Chan."), and product launches so bizarre they defied description ("Introducing the David Robertson Signature Ramen with excess pork belly sweat!").

By it all, David remained stubbornly Midwestern, his bewildered Midwestern attraction in some way fueling his charm. He'd politely decline interviews in Japanese ("すみません、英語しか話せません。" delivered Using the pronunciation of a toddler learning Spanish), use his acceptance speeches to market the merits of early chicken specials at Denny's, and when accidentally brought on a countrywide outrage by mistaking a geisha for his Uber driver.

The Japanese general public, accustomed to meticulously website crafted personas, located his authentic confusion and utter insufficient artifice endearing. He was the anti-idol, the accidental ambassador of Midwestern values, the karaoke king who couldn't have a tune.

His reign, needless to say, couldn't very last for good. A completely new viral video of a Shiba Inu skateboarding down the streets of Tokyo stole the general public's notice. David, relieved and a little richer, returned to Des Moines, for good a legend in a very land he hardly comprehended.

Back in his cubicle, surrounded by spreadsheets, David in some cases dreamt of flashing lights and geisha lovers. But generally, he dreamt of a superb corn Puppy along with a nap that wasn't interrupted by a J-Pop idol requesting daily life suggestions. The globe's most renowned accidental celebrity, for good marked by his karaoke glory plus the enduring thriller: why, oh why, did they adore his singing so much?