Mr. and Mrs. Hirose live two floors below me in Tokyo. Married 49 years. Not once in all that time has anyone seen them hold hands. This is completely normal for a Japanese couple their age. Mr. Hirose is 76. He drove trains for forty years and was never late once. He shows love the way a train shows love: by arriving on time. In September, their son, who lives in Seattle, bought them tickets to a Mariners game for their anniversary. Nobody warned them about the Kiss Cam. Bottom of the fifth. The music starts. The giant screen fills with a heart. And inside the heart, forty feet tall, with forty thousand people watching, are Mr. and Mrs. Hirose, eating garlic fries. Mr. Hirose does not know what this is. He assumes he has done something wrong. So he does what a Japanese man does when he has done something wrong in public. He stands up. And bows. A deep, formal, forty-five-degree apology. To the screen. Forty thousand people are confused. Then a man three rows back yells, "HE'S BOWING!" And the entire stadium cheers like he just hit a home run. Then they start chanting. "KISS HER! KISS HER! KISS HER!" His son told me later that his father's face went through four colors. He doesn't know the names of the last two. Mr. Hirose, a man who has never kissed his wife where a single other human being could see, panics. He turns to her. And very respectfully, with great dignity, he offers her his hand. To shake. Forty thousand people boo. Not angry boos. Loving boos. The kind of boo an entire city gives a man it has decided to help. And then the woman in the seat in front of them turns around. She is about eighty. Her name, they found out later, is Gladys. She looks at Mr. Hirose the way a grandmother looks at a boy who has buttoned his shirt wrong. "Oh, honey," she says. "Like this." And she grabs her husband, Don, eighty-three, by both cheeks and kisses him right on the mouth. Then the couple next to them does it. Then the couple behind them. Then it spreads down the whole section, row after row, until two hundred Americans are kissing their own spouses at the same time (Mr. Hirose would like me to stress: their own), all for the benefit of one retired Japanese train driver. That's when Mrs. Hirose, 73, who has waited 49 years, takes matters into her own hands. She kisses him on the cheek. The stadium explodes. Louder than the actual home run in the seventh. The organist plays "Here Comes the Bride." Don stands up and shakes Mr. Hirose's hand like he just signed with the team. Mr. Hirose sits back down, staring straight ahead, the color of a stop signal on his old line, and does not speak for two innings. At the hotel that night, his son heard his mother say something to his father in the hallway. Very quietly. In Japanese. "Forty-nine years. And tonight, strangers clapped for us." They came home six weeks ago. I see them every evening now, walking to the convenience store at the corner. Same as always. Same pace. Same silence. Except now he's holding her hand. He says it's because the sidewalk is uneven. The sidewalk has been the same for 49 years. Seattle, for forty years, Mr. Hirose was never late for anything. Anything except this. Thank you for getting him there.

Mr. Popo has been censored in French TV broadcasts of Dragon Ball Daima. The character no longer appears on screen at all, but fans can still hear his dialogue. The change was present from the first episode on Gulli, with scenes cut or reframed to keep him out of view.

Mrs. Nakano runs a twelve-bed guesthouse in an old part of Tokyo. For 19 years, travelers from 112 countries have slept under her roof. On every guest's last night, she makes tea and asks them one question. "On all your travels, who was the kindest stranger you ever met?" She types every answer into an old laptop. The file is called "Kindness." There are about 4,000 entries. Most of her guests are European. Or Korean. Or Australian. Very few are American. But Americans keep showing up in other people's answers. More than any other country. Including Japan. She checked twice, because she didn't believe it either. She let me read some. A German engineer. His rental car died in the Nevada desert. The first car that came by was a family of five. They drove him 90 miles to the next town. The kids gave him all their road-trip snacks and apologized that it was only Doritos. A Korean college student. She lost her passport in Chicago. A police officer drove her to the consulate on his lunch break, then bought her a hot dog and told her that putting ketchup on it was technically legal but morally wrong. A Swiss grandmother. She slipped on the ice in Minnesota. Three strangers picked her up. One carried her groceries. One drove her to urgent care. One dug her rental car out of a snowbank and refused her money. "Ma'am, this is just January." An Australian backpacker. Australians do not impress easily. A rancher in Montana fed him for a week, made him work cattle, paid him in cash, and, the Australian said, "cried a little when I left. Please do not tell him I said this." An Italian chef. At a barbecue in Texas, a stranger gave him his chair and the last rib on the plate. "In Italy," the chef said, "we would never give away the last of anything. I still think about that rib. Six years." A nurse from the Philippines. She worked two years in a hospital in Ohio. A patient's wife, a farmer's widow, has sent her a Christmas card every year since. Nine years. Always with a five-dollar bill inside. "For coffee." Mrs. Nakano says the Germans are precise, the Australians are funny, and the Italians are dramatic. And the stories about Americans almost always end the same way. "They wouldn't take anything." Then I asked her why she started asking. In 1987, when she was 22, Mrs. Nakano backpacked across America alone. In West Virginia, she got very sick. A high fever, alone, on a bench at a small-town train depot, no English, no plan. A woman she had never met, a retired schoolteacher, saw her, put a hand on her forehead, and took her home. Four days of soup. Clean sheets. A doctor from church who came on a Sunday. When she was well, the woman drove her to the train with a bag of sandwiches and her address written on the back of an envelope. They wrote to each other for eleven years. Then the letters stopped. Mrs. Nakano never got to pay her back. She has never stopped wondering about one thing. Was that woman one in a million? Did a scared girl from Tokyo just get lucky? So she opened a guesthouse. And for 19 years, she has asked the whole world. Four thousand answers. She wasn't one in a million. She was one of you.

Mr. Whale inside @unusual_whales has turned into a lot more than just an AI chat. My updated walkthrough covers: • Mr. Whale Chat • Trade Finder • Automations • Options Flow searches • Open interest • Gamma signals • Earnings research • Watchlist monitoring • Deep dive reports • Scheduled reports • Source links I also test Trade Finder with multiple signals and build a full $NVDA research report. There is a lot you can do with it once you get past just asking basic questions. Full walkthrough: Save 10% on your @unusual_whales monthly or annual subscription here:

Mr. Whale inside @unusual_whales is a lot more than just an AI chat now. My updated walkthrough covers: • Mr. Whale Chat • Trade Finder • Automations • Options Flow searches • Open interest • Gamma signals • Earnings research • Watchlist monitoring • Deep dive reports • Scheduled reports • Source links I also test Trade Finder using multiple signals and build a full $NVDA research report. There is a lot you can do with it once you get past just typing basic questions into the chat. Full walkthrough: Save 10% on your @unusual_whales monthly or annual subscription here:

Mr. Whale inside @unusual_whales has turned into a lot more than just asking an AI questions. My updated walkthrough goes through how I actually use the different parts of it. That includes: • Mr. Whale Chat • Trade Finder • Automations • Options Flow searches • Open interest • Gamma signals • Earnings research • Watchlist monitoring • Deep dive reports • Scheduled reports • Source links I also run Trade Finder using multiple signals and build out a full $NVDA research report. There is a lot you can do with this tool once you get past just using the basic chat. Full walkthrough: If you want to try Mr. Whale alongside Flow, Gamma Heat Zones, Market Tide, Periscope and more, save 10% on your @unusual_whales monthly or annual subscription here:

Mrs. Kato is 78. She guards the trash station on our street. She knows exactly two English phrases. "Good morning." And "Roll Tide." Ashley, who moved here from Alabama, taught her the second one. Mrs. Kato doesn't know what it means. She just knows it makes Ashley happy. So she uses it for everything. Perfectly sorted plastic? "Roll Tide." Bottles rinsed and labels removed? "Roll Tide." The mailman? "Roll Tide." Then, in September, another family moved in. Also from Alabama. Auburn fans. On his first morning, the husband walked his trash down at 6 a.m. Mrs. Kato inspected the bag, nodded, and said, warmly: "Roll Tide." He stopped walking. I have since learned that in Alabama, this is not a sports question. It's which side of the family you're on. He smiled very carefully and said, "War Eagle, ma'am." Mrs. Kato thought this was a greeting. The next morning, she said it to Ashley. Ashley dropped her trash. That weekend, both families came to Mrs. Kato's house separately to "explain." She served each of them tea. She listened to each of them for forty minutes. She understood nothing. She nodded at all the right moments. Then she solved it the way only a Japanese grandmother could. Burnable trash days: "Roll Tide." Recycling days: "War Eagle." Both families have accepted this. Ashley calls it the first peace treaty in Alabama history. They still won't sit together on game day. But every Tuesday at 6 a.m., an Alabama fan and an Auburn fan carry a 78-year-old Japanese woman's trash bags down the street. Together. In silence. And Mrs. Kato thanks them both the same way. "Roll Eagle."