Jack Nicholson-Hot or Not?
About five years ago, during one of the Yankees’ late-October playoff runs, Jack Nicholson walked into Manhattan’s Pastis restaurant in the middle of the lunch rush. He was dressed in a Sopranos-grade tracksuit, a stiff Yankees cap, and a pair of black shades. The restaurant froze. Jack made his way through the tightly packed dining room and a table of five blonds whipped their necks around to stare. Without breaking stride, Jack cracked a grin and, in that raspy drawl, asked loud enough for more than a few tables to hear, “Ladies! How we doin’?”
It was vintage Jack—pervy enough to appreciate their attention, cocky enough to leave them hanging, and smart enough not to let them interrupt his date with a steak sandwich.
Not many of us grow up saying we want to be a heavyset divorcé who started losing his hair in his midthirties. But who wouldn’t want to be Jack? All charisma and swagger, he’s a man beyond clothes, trends, and hairdos. He’s a man, period.

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