Following the pro-Palestinian march in Brooklyn last Saturday, I took Saturday night off, spending the evening in a hotel room overlooking the 9/11 Memorial. I was reviewing my images from the pro-Palestinian march in Brooklyn earlier in the day. CNN was keeping me company. Sometime after 8:00 PM, CNN broke into their regular programming with the news that Matthew Perry, remembered best for his Friends’ role as Chandler Bing, was found dead in his Jacuzzi. Age 54.

The CNN producers had obviously grown bored with their tiresome non-stop coverage of the war between Israel and Hamas. Earlier in the week, CNN did offer us a temporary respite: non-stop coverage of the Lewiston, Maine mass shooting and the subsequent manhunt. And the head of CNN wonders why its ratings remain abysmally low.

So when news of Perry’s death crossed the wires, CNN’s producers trotted out psychologists, drug addiction experts, and those who cover celebrities for a living. Staying true to form, CNN then proceeded with non-stop coverage of Perry’s death for the next three hours. Yes, I could have changed the channel, but I was engrossed in editing, so I just let the background noise play on.

As I showered and dressed the next morning, I turned CNN on again, hoping to catch Fareed Zakaria’s weekly show—the only CNN show worth watching. More Matthew Perry. I thought I heard the anchor say that people were gathered outside of his home in the Village, but didn’t he die at his home in Los Angeles? Turns out another recurring cultural phenomenon was gathering steam—the makeshift memorial.

Chandler Bing’s fans were gathering outside of an apartment building located at the northeast corner of Grove and Bedford streets in the West Village. Many had mad the pilgrimage to this intersection long before Perry died. Proof from Instagram. Inside are the fictional apartments where the six friends resided; apartments that none of them could have afforded as they started their careers. The television news crews would arrive later in the day.

Perry couldn’t have timed his death better. As I have suggested, the news of late has been grim. In one sense, Perry’s death is also another grim story because it was unexpected, and it inevitably brought drug addiction and alcoholism to the forefront. Yet, his departure also offered everyone the opportunity to remember the delightful sit-com that propelled Perry and his five co-stars to fame and fortune.

When I left for college, I largely stopped watching network night-time programming. Yes, I remember Hill Street Blues from the early Eighties, but not much else. But in the Nineties, Thursday night became appointment TV for me—Seinfeld and Friends. As for Friends, I preferred the earlier seasons to the later ones. The storylines were far less contrived when there were six single people hanging together. Once these friends became openly entangled romantically, I kept watching, but less enthusiastically. Clandestine romantic glances are always more captivating than consummation.

Lately, I have noticed the Friends marathons on Nick at Night. If I am stuck in a hotel room or don’t want to go to bed quite yet, an episode or two offers up some mindless entertainment, much like a tenth or fifteenth viewing of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, John Wick , American Pie, or From Russia With Love.

Yesterday, I took my annual Halloween walk through the West Village to photograph the elaborate decorations that adjourn the steps of many brownstones. Being nearby, I decided to head to the corner of Grove and Bedford. Yep, the building hosing the Little Owl restaurant on the ground floor looked familiar. Forty people congregated in the street. Police barricades partially blocked the intersection, but an occasional car navigated its way around the crowd. Flower bouquets, a pumpkin, and notes circled the black lamp post. People looked up at the apartment where their fictional friends resided, while others took photos in front of the memorial, or paused for a moment of reflection.

The light was bad, so today I went back to the West Village to reshoot the holiday decorations. Yep, I returned to the corner of Grove and Bedford. The pile of flowers had grown; there was now a whiteboard where people signed their names and scribbled brief messages. Interestingly, many of the people milling about were not yet born when Friends premiered, which explains why one of the more contentious issues in the ongoing SAG strike involves residuals.

After reading the notes that fans had left, there is a strong case to be made that Matthew Perry may have been famous, but Chandler Bing was who the fans loved. Most striking were the notes that described how Bing had helped the note’s author through a period of despair or addiction. Chandler was not just a friend to Joey Tribbiani, Monica Geller, Phoebe Buffay, Rachel Green, or Ross Geller. He was a friend to people who apparently had no real friends.

And that’s the one about people who find salvation in a fictional television character. In one sense, Chandler Bing functioned like the platonic equivalent of a blow-up sex doll. In another, Perry was a lovable comedic character who provided solace to many.

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