Lifestyle
To make sure grandmas like his don't get conned, he scams the scammers
Kitboga, a popular “scam baiter” who hides behind characters to waste the time of scammers, has a combined Twitch and YouTube following of more than million subscribers. His aviator sunglasses — a signature look — recall a comically disguised CIA agent.
Kitboga on Twitch/Screenshot by NPR
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Kitboga on Twitch/Screenshot by NPR
Kitboga, a popular “scam baiter” who hides behind characters to waste the time of scammers, has a combined Twitch and YouTube following of more than million subscribers. His aviator sunglasses — a signature look — recall a comically disguised CIA agent.
Kitboga on Twitch/Screenshot by NPR
The gentle voice of an elderly woman named Edna is heard over the phone.
“I’m going to call Ticketmaster and see if we can get us some tickets to a Taylor Swift concert, OK?” she says. “Will you call them with me?”
She’s speaking to a scammer from Nigeria on the other end of the line who is after her money. For months, he’s spent a rough total of 20 hours on the phone with her, professing his love as he tries to get her to invest her millions in a house on the Moon. But the rambling Edna has been testing his patience with her absurd questions and tangents.
When the scammer insists they marry in Nigeria, a place he says he’s never been, Kitboga drops the act.
“Interesting, ’cause all of your IP addresses are there,” Kitboga says on a livestream, his voice now deeper, after switching off a voice changer. The naïve Edna character is one of the many disguises devised by Kitboga, the alias of a computer software engineer-turned-Twitch streamer, to lure scammers into his traps.
Americans lost a record $12.5 billion to internet crimes last year
Kitboga, also called Kit, is a millennial with a knack for improvisation. He’s among the most popular of so-called scam baiters, a term used to describe those who aim to waste scammers’ time otherwise spent ripping off innocent victims. It’s a lucrative gig for some of the biggest creators in the genre who, like Kit, have quit their jobs to scam bait full-time, often broadcasting their humorous schemes on YouTube and Twitch. As internet scams spike, with victims losing more money than ever, scam baiters like Kitboga are trying to get more than just laughs.
Americans lost a record $12.5 billion to internet crimes last year, according to the FBI’s latest annual report, marking a 22% jump from 2022. The bureau says that number is likely higher because so many crimes go unreported. Law enforcement agencies lack the resources to investigate the majority of internet-based fraud, and few victims see their money returned.
But, like others in the world of scam baiting, Kitboga figures that the longer he can keep fraudsters on the line, the fewer victims fall prey to these scams.
Kitboga reveals the ridiculous lengths scammers will go to steal from the vulnerable. The episodes lend themselves to teaching moments for the viewers tuned into his streams. He breaks down the latest scams he encounters, from his own investigations or tips from his subscribers, sometimes learning as he goes. To his 1.2 million Twitch followers — a count he’s doubled on YouTube — he’s shed light on some of the most rampant and costliest cyber threats, from tech support and gift card fraud, to pig butchering scams. Pig butchering is a combination of a romance and an investment scam, usually involving cryptocurrency, in which the scammer slowly works to gain the trust of their victim before convincing them to invest money they’ll never get back.
“Getting emails from someone saying, ‘I knew that this was a scam because of your video,’ ends up being a really cool mission-accomplished type feeling,” Kitboga said.
It wasn’t so long ago that Kitboga himself was ignorant of the types of scams he now encounters daily.
Kit was further inspired to start scam baiting because scammers had been taking advantage of his grandmother
He was inspired to start scambaiting in 2017, after coming across a YouTube clip of “Lenny,” a beloved chatbot designed to trick telemarketers into thinking they are talking to a live person. The bot was an early scam baiter: Lenny wastes the time of spammers and scammers as the recorded voice of a forgetful old man spits out lines prompted by pauses on the other end.
It was then that Kit realized that tech support scams were a thing. He thought of his grandmother, whose dementia made her a more vulnerable target, and his grandfather with Alzheimer’s.
“I work on computers all day. If I don’t know this exists, my grandparents definitely don’t know,” he said. “And there was just this spark of maybe I could do something about it.”
Scammers had been taking advantage of his grandmother, he learned. She was paying for multiple cable and internet packages. He said “sketchy” people were showing up at her house on her dime, doing unnecessary tasks.
But as Edna, a character modeled after his grandma, he realized he could manipulate the scammers.
“The initial drive or mission was, if I spent 10 minutes on the phone, then that was 10 minutes that that scammer wasn’t talking to my grandma or your grandma,” he said.
Friends encouraged him to stream his calls with scammers on Twitch. Since then, he said he’s helped several victims escape the hold of scammers and disrupted large fraud operations.
Getting back stolen money is rare. But reporting scams to authorities increases your chances
On a good day, Kitboga gathers enough intel from the scammer that he then reports to the authorities. Scammers, seeing him as an unsuspecting victim, will occasionally give up bank account details, cryptocurrency wallet addresses and other identifying information that he said he shares in his reports to banking authorities, in complaints to the FBI, and in direct communications with law enforcement.
“If they think you’re falling for their scams, they end up giving way too much information sometimes,” he said.
The FBI and the Secret Service did not confirm to NPR whether it has agents working with Kitboga or any other scam bait streamers, saying it doesn’t comment on specific activities. The bureau encourages victims to promptly report online scams to its Internet Crime Complaint Center, iC3.gov. The FBI uses those complaints to build cases against cybercriminals. Of the small percentage of overall crimes it does look into, the bureau has a relatively high success rate of stopping scams. Last year, the FBI’s recovery unit was able to freeze roughly 71% of the $758 million stolen in fraud crimes it investigated.
As to how to fight fraud, strategies differ among scam baiters. The ethics of how far to take the trolling are debated in online forums. Some have questioned the murky practices of Pierogi, the alias of another popular streamer in the scambaiting world, who is known for having more of a vigilante streak. Another has faced legal repercussions for his tactics. Thomas Dorsher, who ran the YouTube channel ScammerBlaster to document his efforts in punishing illegal robocallers, was fined by the FCC for running his own illegal robocalling scheme.
Among scam baiters, Kitboga is known for toeing the line: “I kind of treat it like, well, if it’s illegal for me I shouldn’t do it,” he said.
Even so, Jerri Williams, a retired FBI agent, advises scam baiters to be cautious. As a veteran fraud investigator who has worked major telemarketing cases, she said, “I wouldn’t recommend this at all.”
Scam baiters should be cautious as some scammers may do more than defraud people
You don’t always know who’s on the other side of the phone. Although streamers largely target call center scammers who have rudimentary hacking skills, there’s a chance it could be a con artist capable of doxing the scam baiter, Williams said. Some scammers, she added, are not willingly defrauding people, but are victims of human trafficking operations.
“When you’re playing around with people whose job it is to be a criminal, you need to really think about what are you attempting to do,” she said. “If it’s truly just to entertain followers then, no, I don’t think it’s the right thing to do at all.”
For many people who watch Kit’s content, the amusement factor was the Trojan Horse to real information they say helps them stay alert to scams.
Dylon Cai, 40, said he’s a lot wiser to the various scams out there after coming across Kitboga’s channel. Years ago, he was ensnared in a tech support scam that caused him to lose all of his college work on his laptop.
“It was frustrating,” he said. “At that time, YouTube was just starting out. I really wish that somebody was actually able to share this kind of content to me. That would have prevented that experience I had.”
Cindy, who doesn’t want to use her last name due to the threat of scams, said scammers hounded her late parents’ phone line after she became the executor of their estates. A search for answers took her to Kitboga’s Twitch stream.
“I started off trying to find solutions but then I began to love the entertainment portion of it,” she said. “He’s just very addictive to watch and I get a little schadenfreude from seeing [scammers] get their comeuppance.”
Cindy, who at 64 is on the older side of the scam baiter’s predominately millennial viewership, has since joined Kit’s team of volunteers, helping promote his content and keep track of his anti-scam sagas. She said her husband, who doesn’t watch Kit’s content, now looks to her when he’s confronted with suspicious activity online.
“He comes to me, he’s like, ‘What’s this?’ And I’m like, ‘Oh, that’s a scam,’ ” she said. “I feel empowered, you know.”
Kit has taken a more proactive approach in his latest schemes, which have allowed him to thwart scammers even while he’s sleeping. He’s set up a “honeypot” trap, created with artificial intelligence, that sends scammers through a series of unending verification steps in search of non-existent stolen Bitcoin accounts.
Recently, he also released anti-scam software. “I’ve seen how devastating they [scams] can be,” Kitboga said, “but also learned — going back to my grandma — how I could stop someone from ever getting on her computer in the first place.”
When John Lantigua, a retired journalist in Miami Beach, checked his email one recent morning, he was glad to see an invitation.
“It was like, ‘Come and share an evening with me. Click here for details,’” Mr. Lantigua said.
It appeared to be a Paperless Post invitation from someone he once worked with at The Palm Beach Post, a man who had left Florida for Mississippi and liked to arrange dinners when he was back in town.
Mr. Lantigua, 78, clicked the link. It didn’t open.
He clicked a second time. Still nothing.
He didn’t realize what was going on until a mutual friend who had received the same email told him it wasn’t an invitation at all. It was a scam.
Phishing scams have long tried to frighten people into clicking on links with emails claiming that their bank accounts have been hacked, or that they owe thousands of dollars in fines, or that their pornography viewing habits have been tracked.
The invitation scam is a little more subtle: It preys on the all-too-human desire to be included in social gatherings.
The phishy invitations mimic emails from Paperless Post, Evite and Punchbowl. What appears to be a friendly overture from someone you know is really a digital Trojan horse that gives scammers access to your personal information.
“I thought it was diabolical that they would choose somebody who has sent me a legitimate invitation before,” Mr. Lantigua said. “He’s a friend of mine. If he’s coming to town, I want to see him.”
Rachel Tobac, the chief executive of SocialProof Security, a cybersecurity firm, said she noticed the scam last holiday season.
“Phishing emails are not a new thing,” Ms. Tobac said, “but every six months, we get a new lure that hijacks our amygdala in new ways. There’s such a desire for folks to get together that this lure is interesting to people. They want to go to a party.”
Phishing scams involve “two distinct paths,” Ms. Tobac added. In one, the recipient is served a link that turns out to be dead, or so it seems. A click activates malware that runs silently as it gleans passwords and other bits of personal information. In all likelihood, this is what happened when Mr. Lantigua clicked on the ersatz invitation link.
Another scam offers a working link. Potential victims who click on it are asked to provide a password. Those who take that next step are a boon to hackers.
“They have complete control of your email and, in turn, your entire digital life,” Ms. Tobac said. “They can reset your password for your dog’s Instagram account. They can take over your bank account. Change your health insurance.”
Digital invitation platforms are trying to combat the scam by publishing guides on how to spot fake invitations. Paperless Post has also set up an email account — phishing@paperlesspost.com — for users to submit messages for verification. The company sends suspicious links to the Anti-Phishing Working Group, a nonprofit that maintains a database monitored by cybersecurity firms. Flagged links are rendered ineffective.
The scammers’ new strategy of exploiting the desire for connection is infuriating, said Alexa Hirschfeld, a founder of Paperless Post. “Life can be isolating,” Ms. Hirschfeld said. “When it looks like you’re getting an invitation from someone you know, your first instinct is excitement, not skepticism.”
Olivia Pollock, the vice president of brand for Evite, said that fake invitations tended to be generic, promising a birthday party or a celebration of life. Most invitations these days tend to have a specific focus — mahjong gatherings or book club talks, for instance. “The devil is in the details,” Ms. Pollock said.
Because scammers don’t know how close you are with the people in your contact list, fake invitations may also seem random. “They could be from your business school roommate you haven’t spoken to in 10 years,” Ms. Hirschfeld said.
Alyssa Williamson, who works in public relations in New York, was leaving a yoga class recently when she checked her phone and saw an invitation from a college classmate.
“I assumed it was an alumni event,” Ms. Williamson, 30, said. “I clicked on it, and it was like, ‘Enter your email.’ I didn’t even think about it.”
Later that day, she received texts from friends asking her about the party invitation she had just sent out. Her response: What party?
“The thing is, I host a lot of events,” she said. “Some knew it was fake. Others were like, ‘What’s this? I can’t open it.’”
Andrew Smith, a graduate student in finance who lives in Manhattan, received what looked like a Punchbowl invitation to “a memory making celebration.” It appeared to have come from a woman he had dated in college. He received it when he was having drinks at a bar on a Friday night — “a pretty insidious piece of timing,” he said.
“The choice of sender was super clever,” Mr. Smith, 29, noted. “This was somebody that would probably get a reaction from me.”
Mr. Smith seized on the phrase “memory making celebration” and filled in the blanks. He imagined that someone in his ex-girlfriend’s immediate family had died. Perhaps she wanted to restart contact at this difficult moment.
Something saved him when he clicked a link and tried to tap out his personal information — his inability to remember the password to his email account. The next day, he reached out to his ex, who confirmed that the invitation was fake.
“It didn’t trigger any alarm bells,” Mr. Smith said. “I went right for the click. I went completely animal brain.”
The new scam comes with an unfortunate side effect, a suspicion of invitations altogether. It’s enough to make a person antisocial.
“Don’t invite me to anything,” Mr. Lantigua, the retired journalist, said, only half-joking. “I’m not coming.”
You want to know where men’s fashion is heading? Follow the geeks.
These are the obsessives, fixated, with a NASA technician’s precision, on how their pants fit or on which pair of Paraboot shoes is the correct pair. These are the obsessives who in the aughts were early to selvage denim (now available at a Uniqlo near you!) and soft-shouldered Italian tailoring in the mode that, eventually, trickled down to your local J. Crew.
And where has the attention of this cohort landed now? On a vanguard of newish-to-the-West labels from Japan, like A.Presse, Comoli, Auralee and T.T.
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A.Presse is probably the most hyped of this cohort. What other label is worn by the French soccer player Pierre Kalulu and the actor Cooper Hoffman and has men paying a premium for a hoodie on the resale market? Kazuma Shigematsu, the founder, is not into attention. When we spoke, he wouldn’t allow me to record the conversation. Notes only.
“You mean a better-fitting denim jacket that’s based on an old Levi’s thing? Yeah, OK, sold,” said Jeremy Kirkland, host of the “Blamo!” podcast and the textbook definition of a latter-day Japanese men’s wear guy. Mr. Kirkland, once someone who would allocate his budget to Italian suits, admitted that, recently, over the course of two weeks, he bought four (yes, four) jackets from A.Presse1.
“I’m not really experimenting with my style anymore,” Mr. Kirkland said. “I’m just wanting really good, basic stuff.”
Basic though these clothes appear, their hook is that they’re opulent to the touch, elevated in their fabrication.
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Over the years, the designer Ryota Iwai has told me repeatedly that he is inspired by nothing more than the people he sees on his commute to the Auralee offices in Tokyo. When asked recently if he collected anything, he said nothing — just his bicycle.
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The true somber tale of this wave. The brand’s founder, Taiga Takahashi, died of an arrhythmia in 2022 at 27. The label has continued to plumb history for inspiration. The latest collection had pieces that drew on bygone American postal-worker uniforms.
An Auralee2 bomber looks pedestrian until you touch it and realize its silk. Labels like T.T3 make clothes that echo the specs of a vintage relic yet come factory fresh, notched up, made … well, better. They bestow upon the wearer a certain in-the-know authority.
And so there is a hobbyist giddiness present on Discord channels where 30- and 40-something men trade tips on how to size moleskin trousers by the Japanese label Comoli; at boutiques like Neighbour in Vancouver, British Columbia, where items like a $628 dusty pink trucker jacket from Yoko Sakamoto and an $820 T.T sweater sell out soon after hitting the sales floor.
What’s notable is how swiftly these geeky preferences have wiggled into the broader fashion community. While I was in Paris for the men’s fashion shows a year ago January, all anyone wanted to talk about were things with a “Made in Japan” tag. I would speak with editors who were carving out room in their suitcases for Auralee’s $3,000 leather jackets.
But these were clothes being shown away from the fashion week hordes. The A.Presse showroom was on a Marais side street in a space about as long as a bowling lane and scarcely wider that was crammed with racks of canvas, silk and denim jackets with Pollock-like paint splatters. There were leather jackets as plush as Roche Bobois sofas and hoodies based on sweatshirts made in America a half-century ago.
I got the hype. After 10 days of puzzling over newfangled stuff on the runways, the display of simple, understandable shapes we’ve known our whole lives, but redone with extra care, couldn’t have felt more welcome.
Kazuma Shigematsu, the A.Presse designer, said he had collected a trove of vintage pieces that he housed in a separate space to plumb for inspiration. He made new clothes based on old clothes that benefited from a century of small design tweaks.
By this January, A.Presse had upgraded to a regal maison facing the Place des Vosges, with giant windows and even more reverent hoodies, even more tender leathers. Back in America, I asked an online department store executive what his favorite thing from Paris was. He took out his phone to show me photos of himself trying on a zip-up leather jacket in A.Presse’s high-ceilinged showroom.
On Their Own Terms
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“We never think about trendiness or popular design details,” Ms. Sakamoto said through a translator. “It’s more like functionality, everyday use.” The label has a thing for natural dyes: pants stained with persimmon tannin, yellow ochre and sumi ink, shirts colored with mugwort and adzuki beans.
The sudden popularity of these labels outside Japan can make it feel as if they are new. Yet each label has built a respectable business within Japan, some for more than a decade. Auralee was founded in 2015. A year later, Yoko Sakamoto4 started its line. A.Presse is the relative baby of this cohort at five years old.
“A couple years ago, we would have to buy off the line sheet or go to Japan and see everything,” said Saager Dilawri, the owner of Neighbour, who has an instinct for what spendy, creative types lust after. “Now I think everyone from Japan is trying to go to Paris to get into the international market.”
This movement’s “Beatles on Ed Sullivan” moment occurred in 2018, when Auralee won the Fashion Prize of Tokyo, granting the designer, Ryota Iwai, financial support. Soon after, Auralee was given a slot on the Paris Fashion Week calendar.
“I had never seen a show before, never thought to do it,” Mr. Iwai said through a translator in February, days after his latest runway show. He has now done five.
As we talked, buyers speaking different languages entered his storefront showroom and ventured upstairs to scrutinize items like a trench coat that looked as if it was made of corduroy but was actually made from cashmere and wool and an MA-1 bomber jacket with a feathery merino wool lining peeking out along the placket.
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The Cale designer Yuki Sato travels throughout Japan to find textiles. Unusually, the company manufactures everything, including leather and denim, in one factory.
At Cale’s5 display off Place Vendôme, the designer Yuki Sato described denim trousers and pocketed work jackets as “modest, but perfectionist.” On the other side of the city, at Soshi Otsuki, whose 11-year-old label Soshiotsuki has gained attention for its warped vision of salary-man suits, I encountered buyers from Kith, a New York streetwear emporium better known for selling logoed hoodies and sell-out sneakers than for tailoring.
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Nearly a decade into its existence, Soshiotsuki has hit a hot streak. Soshi Otsuki won the LVMH Prize in 2025, and he already has a Zara collaboration under his belt. An Asics collaboration is set to arrive in stores soon.
Talking through translators with these designers, I began to worry that it might be unfair to group them together simply because they were all from Japan. Auralee simmers with colors as lush as a Matisse canvas, while Comoli’s brightest shade is brown. Soshiotsuki6 has mastered tailoring, while Orslow is known for its faded-at-the-knee jeans channeling decades-old Levi’s.
Rather, as with the Antwerp Six design clique that sprung out of Belgium in the early 1980s, it is these labels’ origin stories that thread them together.
“They’re being encountered on their own terms and respected on their own account, and they happen to be Japanese,” said W. David Marx, the author of “Ametora: How Japan Saved American Style” and a cultural critic who has lived in Tokyo for more than two decades.
“It is a new era of Japanese fashion on the global stage,” Mr. Marx said.
A Love Affair With Japan
Western shoppers have a history of falling hard for clothes from Japan. In 1981, when Rei Kawakubo of Comme des Garçons and Yohji Yamamoto crashed onto the Paris fashion scene, buyers swooned for their brainy, body-shrouding creations.
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Recently reintroduced as Number(N)ine by Takahiro Miyashita.
Years later, Number(N)ine7 and A Bathing Ape synthesized trends we would call American — grunge, streetwear and hip-hop — polished them up and sold them back to the West.
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Years before American men were trawling the internet for A.Presse, they would scour forums for deals on Visvim’s jeans and sneakers. Today, Visvim has stores in Santa Fe, N.M.; Carmel, Calif.; and Los Angeles.
Into the 2000s, clothing geeks were swapping tips on forums like Superfuture and Hypebeast about how to use a Japanese proxy service to buy Visvim’s8 seven-eyelet leather work boots or SugarCane’s brick-thick jeans.
Along the way, “Made in Japan” became a shorthand for “made well.” This was more than fetishization. As America’s clothing factories became empty carcasses pockmarking the heartland, Japan’s apparel industry grew steroidal.
“Japan still has an incredible manufacturing base for apparel that goes all the way from the textiles to the sewing to the postproduction,” Mr. Marx said.
Today, many Japanese labels produce most of their garments and, crucially, their textiles in Japan. When I first met Mr. Iwai years ago, I asked how he managed to create such lush colors. He answered, as if noting that the sky was blue, that he worked with the factories that developed his fabrics. As I spoke with Mr. Sato in January, he shared that Cale’s factory had been in his family for generations and also produced for other Japanese brands that I would know.
Chris Green, the owner of Ven. Space, a boutique in the Carroll Gardens neighborhood of Brooklyn that has helped to introduce a number of these labels to an American market, suggested that because Japan is a small country with a fervent fashion culture, a competitive spirit has been stoked.
“They have to be able to cut through the noise,” Mr. Green said, with brands trying to prove that their cashmere sweater can outclass their peers’, that their silks are sourced from finer factories. What’s more, he said, once these brands have nailed a design, they stick with it. That is something that is important to men, in particular, who hate when a brand abandons its favored pants after a season.
Before he opened Ven. Space in 2024, Mr. Green was an admirer of many of these labels, purchasing them during trips to Japan. As we spoke, he was wearing a pair of Comoli belted jeans that he bought five or so years ago. A similar style is still available.
Primed for What They Were Pitching
At the close of the 2010s, streetwear was running on fumes. Quiet luxury was entering at stage left. If the Row and Loro Piana were expert at subtle, fine-to-the-touch clothes, so, too, were the likes of T.T, Graphpaper and Yoko Sakamoto.
“I went from this guy that wears pear-shaped pants to just wearing, like, a denim jacket,” said Chris Maradiaga, a tech worker and freelance writer in Vancouver. His wardrobe today consists of Comoli’s black-as-night trousers and a purple-tinged coat by Ssstein. His kaleidoscopic Bode jackets gather dust.
That Ssstein clothes have landed in the closets of men on the other side of the world defies the early guidance relayed to Kiichiro Asakawa, the label’s bushy-haired designer. His “senpais,” or mentors, warned him that his reduced designs might leave Western audiences cold. “You need something powerful,” they told him.
He tried, but it wasn’t necessary. It’s the most minimal designs — his cotton gabardine zip-ups, his “easy” pleated trousers — that people are most interested in now. “It actually makes me very happy,” he said through a translator. “My instincts were right.” Mr. Asakawa won the Fashion Prize of Tokyo in 2024.
Adapting to North American Markets (and Men)
Several Japanese designers noted that they had modified their sizing to accommodate larger, American bodies.
“I’ll ask them, Can you lengthen the pants by three centimeters? Because you need that for the Western market,” Mr. Dilawri of Neighbour said, noting that the designers were receptive to those requests.
A number of labels, like Comoli and Soshiotsuki, are already oversize. That’s the look.
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Kiichiro Asakawa ran a Tokyo boutique, Carol, before starting Ssstein in 2016. It’s still there. He, too, said he found inspiration in the everyday, for example when watching an elderly couple have dinner across a restaurant.
There is also the matter of price. On the whole, these clothes are not cheap. See Auralee’s silk bomber jacket, which could be military surplus but feels stolen from a sultan’s palace. It’s roughly $1,700. Ssstein’s9 Carhartt cousin chore jacket with a cowhide collar and a factory-massaged fade? About $1,000. Anyone who has traveled recently in Japan, where the yen is tantalizingly weak, will tell you that these Japanese-made clothes, after being imported, are far pricier in North America.
Yet, as luxury fashion labels continue to price out the aspirational middle-class shopper, many of those same shoppers have convinced themselves that the Japanese labels are a better value. A cashmere coat at Prada is $10,000, and you’ll need $1,690 to own a cotton-blend cardigan from Margiela. Similar pieces from Japanese labels can be half that price, or less.
“Brands like Bottega, Balenciaga, the Row — all that stuff — are so unobtainable,” said Mr. Kirkland, whose clothing budget has shifted to A.Presse. “I will never be in that price bracket,” he added, “but I’m wealthy enough to buy a chore coat for $800.”
Of course, Mr. Kirkland and all of the fans of these labels could own a chore coat for far less — but then it wouldn’t be “Made in Japan.”
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