Walking through NYC lately, especially chaos zones like Washington Square Park or Soho, feels like stepping into someone’s FYP. In just five blocks, you might be asked what you pay for rent, give your hottest take on the subway on your commute to work, or end up on a literal ladder while someone guesses your job based on your aura.
Lookalike contests pop up with no warning, the word being spread via TikTok or flyers on lamp posts—somehow, Timothée Chalamet once lost in one and almost went unrecognised. It’s cosplay meets delusion, with a very supportive crowd. The prize? Bragging rights…and a pack of cigarettes if you won the Jeremy Allen White doppelgänger contest.
At the most recent Pedro Pascal lookalike contest held on Father’s Day (cue ‘Father Figure’ by George Michael), the winner was a lighting designer from The Daily Show, who ended up getting interviewed (and roasted) by Jon Stewart himself. His wife, the mastermind behind the look and the reason he entered, just has one condition for all the thirsty attention he’s been getting: “I’m cool with you getting all this attention, if I can meet (the real) Pedro Pascal.”
In a time when the news cycle feels like a never-ending doomscroll, there’s something genuinely uplifting about strangers coming together to cosplay a celebrity, laugh in sync.
On the surface, it looks like pure performance—strangers performing for strangers, hoping to go viral. But there’s something else bubbling underneath: a new form of social play, participation, and city-wide improv. It’s a modern twist on NYC’s legacy of public performance. Street performers, subway saxophonists, and artists in Union Square have long used the city as a stage—but now, there’s a phone filming it all. Yes, it’s chaotic and sometimes deeply unserious, but it’s also oddly connective. Strangers become co-stars, hype crew, sound engineers, and audience—all in under 30 seconds.
The line between short-form content and real life is blurrier than ever. Not because we’re addicted to screens, but because we’re craving connection, attention, and shared micro-moments. And maybe because we’re all a little nosy. The city has become a stage, and there’s pressure to have a take—any take—spinning somewhere in your brain, just in case. It’s not just about spontaneity anymore—there’s now a tiny voice in your head asking, “If someone points a mic at me right now, will I sound cool, unhinged, or unemployed?”
As someone who lives in one of these interview zones, I’ve lost the simple joy of looking ugly in peace. A trip to the deli in my do-not-perceive-me outfit is now a risk. What if I end up in the background of someone’s rent interview, looking like I just emerged from a bunker? Even a walk around the block means potentially becoming background noise, going viral for mispronouncing ‘Houston’.
Emily Page, a marketing director, had just wrapped a brutal workday when someone stopped her with a mic and a list of deep questions. “I didn’t want to answer but felt so pressured that I did—and instantly regretted it. I spent the next two weeks obsessively checking their profile, convinced I had said something awful. A friend of mine got bullied in the comments once for giving a totally normal take on dating in the city, and that was playing on my mind. Thankfully, my video never went up. Now I dodge anyone holding a mic like it’s a trap.”
NYC makes it easy to feel like you belong—but it’s also easy to get judged, memed, or cancelled in under five seconds. Self-expression could risk becoming a spectacle. Being yourself comes with a comments section. A hot take, a too-honest answer about your salary, or even the way you dress can instantly become part of someone else’s narrative.
And yet, people keep showing up. To be filmed, interviewed, or even gently roasted. Because at its best, this culture offers something rare: a chance to be seen, heard, and momentarily understood. After years of isolation and hyper-curation, there’s joy in low-stakes interaction with a stranger.
This isn’t curated perfection. There are no green screens—just natural lighting, awkward interactions, and one-take spontaneity. But they capture something real. Maybe it’s just a shared laugh, maybe it’s your roommate suddenly trending for saying she listens to Björk while speedwalking. Either way, it breaks the fourth wall of daily life.
Larissa Lampitelli, a stylist and designer, was asked what she was wearing and ran with it. “I shouted out that I make my own clothes,” she said. “If the video goes up, I’m hoping it brings some new eyes to my work.” For some, the spotlight brings dread. For some, it’s free PR.
New York has always been a place where anyone can be anyone. The TikTok-ification of its streets is just the latest version of that ethos. Want to start a fake award show? Get healed in a park by 10 Rasputin lookalikes? Host an ex-hex booth? Go for it. The city not only allows for it—it also rewards it.
Maybe this is what healing looks like for a hyper-online generation: not shutting down the feed, but bringing it to life in the most unhinged, unpredictable, and speedy way possible. The feed has spilled onto the sidewalk, and everyone’s invited.
