The only noticeable remnant of Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio’s larger-than-life alter ego is his nails, which are decked out in an immaculate green manicure. He’s buried in a big black puffy coat, scrolling through his phone a single curl is braided and looped through a little plastic bead that hangs over his left eye. Estamos activa’os!” Bad Bunny tells me when I meet him and his three-person crew at a Michelin-starred restaurant in the East Village on one of the first cold nights in November.
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