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.