Franz Kafka came back to life–and all this time we thought it would be Jesus! Silly us! He did, Kafka did, he ambled around the streets with his dapper cane, his tall frame hunched and tubercular (hey, I just said he was alive, not healthy), his steely eyes gazing at Prague’s two (count ’em) TGI Friday’s in wonder. “I can’t believe Potato Skins are vegetarian!” he says, weeping with joy. “Also,” he adds, “I wish there were a wonderful new venue for figuring out what’s going on in lower Manhattan and Brooklyn–I’m heading there right now to do research on AMERIKA, THE SEQUEL: KARL ROSSMAN GOES TO SEE ‘THE LION KING’.”

Well, Kafka’s reincarnation–you’re in luck! You no longer have to be a New York City resident or visitor to read The L Magazine.

Praise Je–I mean, Praise Kafka! That’s going to take awhile to get used to, but if I had to make a choice between Kafka and a tarantula, I’d take Kafka.

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