Oh snap! JFK, Jr isn't dead!! I just saw him on East 83rd street stooped over the menu outside an Italian restaurant. Ferreals--it was John-John. I kid you not. He had a bad haircut and a soul patch and wore a burgundy ribbed sweater that looked like he bought it in a mall and light blue jeans covered with faux "wear and tear". At his side was a pretty, plain girl with dark brown hair the same shade as his. She wore a cheap leather jacket and Aerosole boots and one of those hideous, humungous shoulder bags that women persist in carrying. She was smiling at him, and, as I passed, he looked up from the laminated pages and smiled back at her with his "coulda been president" smile. He was dead and free and ordinary and he reminded me that NYC is not just a place that people go to get famous, it is also a place where people go to disappear completely.

Which is why it's the greatest city in the world...

Too bad I didn't have a camera.


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