We’ve all got that one friend who looks a little too much like Cole Sprouse. At every party, they pop out the party trick of a spot-on imitation. Who would have thought that their “fun fact” could become their ticket to fame?
If you’ve been even remotely connected to the internet in the past month, then chances are you’ve seen the plethora of celebrity look-alike competitions that have spawned around the world, with a new one popping up every day. What started as a small “meme” competition in New York City by social media influencer Anthony Po has grown into a cultural phenomenon that sees almost every city in the West, especially in North America, proclaiming a mascot; a silly, goofy guy that embodies their town.
Chicago had Jeremy Allen White. Dublin had Paul Mescal. New York, famously, had Timothee Chalamet. San Francisco had Dev Patel. London had Harry Styles. And last Sunday, Washington, D.C., decided they wanted Jack Schlossberg.
Amid disillusionment with democracy and socioeconomic stagnation, celebrity look-alike contests allow the culturally savvy and online Generation Z to “feel something.” New York Times culture critic Amanda Hess compares the new trend to the Charlie Chaplin or Shirley Temple look-alike competitions during the Great Depression, writing those competitions “handed out what amounted to consolation prizes for the nation’s miserable conditions.” In their most recent iterations, these competitions seek men who exist in the female or queer gaze, embodying a kind of nonthreatening, safe masculinity — in other words, men who are not afraid to be feminist or feminine and politically conscious while maintaining a fun and sexy demeanor.
No one embodies this in a more D.C. manner than the “People’s Princess,” John Bouvier “Jack” Kennedy Schlossberg. The 31-year-old is a Vogue political correspondent, grandson of former President John F. Kennedy and a Harvard University-educated lawyer whose online presence is baffling to anyone above the age of 40. Schlossberg’s often idiosyncratic and “silly goose” persona — in one moment decrying people who oppose vaccination and in the next telling you, the viewer, that he “needs you, wants you” — has allowed him to amass a viral online presence and become a Gen Z political icon. For the organizers, Ruchika Sharma and Georgia Parolski, picking Schlossberg is a moment of pure genius: He embodies the ethos of the metropolitan D.C. area that runs on politics.
Standing in the crowd at Meridian Hill Park that sunny Sunday morning, it was easy to feel that sense of D.C. community. Like many of those in the crowd, my friends and I had commuted after seeing the contest on Jack Schlossberg’s Instagram story, where he had promised “to see you cherubs there!!!” Sadly, the Kennedy scion did not appear — but the other Jacks were present in abundance. It seemed every run-of-the-mill white man with brown hair in the area had shown up.
There were 14 self-proclaimed Jack Schlossbergs, including a female Jack pronouncing that she was for “the girls and the gays.” Another was “just trying to make his dad proud.” All of them wore some iteration of Schlossberg’s iconic suits, except for a lone Jack who had stumbled upon this competition in the wild (on his morning run). He stood alone in a black tracksuit until contestants were asked why they should be the winner, to which he responded, “Who is Jack Schlossberg?” Another began to strip in response before donning a ’Merica eagle cap. A Jack with ample chest hair was prepared with an answer: He was from Massachusetts, worked in politics and had an uncle who opposed vaccines.
The Jacks were narrowed to seven, then five finalists based on crowd responses. It was hard to deny that the remaining five, including female Jack — who proclaimed she was “proof that Jack is a lesbian” — were able to embody a kind of Kennedy charm that has made millions fall for Schlossberg. But to be Jack, you cannot only look like him — you have to know him as well. The last round consisted of Schlossberg trivia questions: This was where the fake Jacks were ruthlessly rooted out and where our winner shone. Following a tirade of questions about Schlossberg’s zodiac sign, fraternity, parentage and media coverage, Daniel Bonomo (GRD ’26), known to the audience as “green tie,” was an undeniable favorite.
As the Jacks waited in bated breath for the judges to reveal the winner, the audience began to chant “green tie.” Someone procured a tiara for the reveal. And with all the grace of a king being crowned to reign, “green-tie” Jack accepted the crown, waving to the audience like adoring subjects. In his acceptance speech, he reiterated Schlossberg’s message that “he loves us all” and ended with an imperative to “go watch Wicked right now.”
After his crowning, Bonomo was surrounded by news reporters and fans, including myself. When he revealed that he was a 25-year-old international development graduate student at the School of Foreign Service, I knew I had to interview him.
In a follow-up interview, the new Jack Schlossberg revealed that he discovered the competition because “he’s chronically online,” convinced by his friends and girlfriend. To prepare, Bonomo put on his fanciest tie — because “Jack is a nepo baby, after all.” His morning saw him running to the park, because he was late (“I’m always late,” he said), not thinking he would win. For him, the competition was a fun time, “embodying Jack’s silliness,” but the funniest part was seeing what people said about him after winning: getting mobbed by people wanting to take photos after, being texted by friends outside of D.C. about it and people recognizing him on the street since.
And just like the immaculate vibes of the competition, his prize and preparation were a chaotic mishmash. This is the center of the celebrity look-alike competition’s appeal: It feels like an event by the people, for the people. Organized through grassroots marketing, with absurd rules and insignificant prizes, these contests have become a space for joy both online and offline in a world filled with “doomscrolling.” This is embodied by Bonomo’s message of “silliness” as the levity of the completion has been a balm to a city driven by politics in a time where no one really enjoys politics very much. Like someone in the crowd exclaimed to me, “I needed this after the election.”