All of the Marc Jacobs store photos:
Archive for the ‘The Night...’ Category
I’ve sadly never experienced my favorite part of Chicago’s Union Station. One day, though. One day.
I grabbed a copy of The Onion while we ate at Pick Me Up Cafe, and my friend Arthur’s headline — “Computer Being Stupid” — was in the issue!
Gettin’ our giggly eats on.
A chalkboard in the bathroom, so people write on that instead of the walls. Brilliant.
I kept staring at this paper towel dispenser thinking, “Wow, that looks like a Paper Towel Monster,” and then noticed someone had doodled a face onto it.
Crazy minds must think alike.
I want my entire life to be coated in these colors.
Oh, thank God, since I’ve wasted so much of my time in line at Potbelly’s!
After we took the (wrong) train to the (wrong) Damen stop, we realized our mistake and took a long, confusing and worrisome bus ride to Wicker Park in order to visit the new Marc Jacobs store.
I’ve only been to one Marc Jacobs store in New York, and it was extremely boutiquey. I was dressed nicely and the salespeople were still reluctant to help me when I was waiting at the counter. The one in Chicago is different, with super sweet salespeople and a storefront selling trinkets ranging from $1 to $30 amidst the pricey yet precious shoes, bags and clothing. I tried to see if I could wear a purse over my shoulder and subsequently got my hair stuck in the zipper, which was more embarrasing than it sounds and a clear reminder that I need a haircut.
But, they had a photo booth area that looked like a happy acid trip with plastic neon mushrooms, plants, flowers and foliage with a goofy man in a skunk costume taking silly photos with customers.
Ellen and I were two of those customers:
The saleswoman helped me attach a Marc Jacobs lanyard to my purse, and now I can swing it around my head!
It’s showtime.
My friends, my friends.
And then, there was the show.
[Review coming soon.]
[Alternate Title: Local Music Awards Party Pics.]
See the rest of the party photos by clicking on the link below!
(C’mon, don’t you wanna see who’s in them?)
Instructions for viewing this post:
1. Go to myspace.com/etjusticepourtous
2. Play a song.
3. Come back and view post in its proper context.
Now, the Justice story shall begin:
A show in Chicago = hanging at Ellen’s fabulous apartment.
See? Even the objects in her bathroom are cool.
Pre-show stretching.
(The dancing was that intense.)
Oh yeah.
Some of the people didn’t dance.
Lots did.
Others went crazy.
The show, which was as insanely good as it looks:
We found our friends! And Steve’s moustache!
One of the guys in Justice, doing the world’s classiest crowd surfing.
Our newest friend: a member of Daft Punk.
Exiting the show? A bit of a fire hazard, to say the least.
But we made it out alive, crazy outfits and all.
The End.
(AKA The Morning I Remembered I Had More NYC Photos)
The sign in the bathroom of the restaurant I brunched at with Arthur in Brooklyn.
It’s blurry, but the post is by the “NYC Department of Health and Mental Hygiene.” Hmm.
I wandered around Brooklyn until I found this. Totally worth the ride.
The loot I scored: two dresses (one with pockets!), a leather motorcycle jacket and a clutch.
Sigh.
Cran-Grapefruit.
Sounds awful, tastes badass.
The BCBG store was next door to our hotel.
I looked at this fabulous outfit every time I walked past.
Grabbing drinks, after two hours of panicking and rescheduling flights, and seeing the Harvard Sailing Team perform.
Arthur, testing out his headlines for The Onion on us
A jukebox…that takes credit cards!
My “Welcome Back” present, after traveling in a taxi, a plane, a car and a train.
The U.N., where we sleepily wandered around way too early in the morning. Their decor is so dated that it’s almost hip in a vintage kind of way.
(Isn’t it crazy that I took this photo on my phone?)
Sitting in Bryant Part in the rain, thinking of how cool the trees are and how slow of a runner Chris March is.
Anthony Bourdain would be proud.
A trip to the bakery after eating a dream meal — Gnocchi Gorgonzola and Sangria — at a tiny restaurant in Little Italy.
Quantity ain’t quality.
This cookie cost me $2.75 and was worse than those awful, dry pinwheel cookies old people love to munch on.
When I was younger, my parents used to go out every Saturday night, and I could (and would) raid the fridge. One night, they left us some cannoli, which I had never had before. I scarfed them up after eating a mix of taco salad and Merk’s cheese spread.
I threw up. I don’t like cannoli.
Clearly, Drake disagrees.
If anything can cure Gillman from being sick, it’s a brand new Marc Jacobs belt.
Oh yeah.
Blood Brothers.
By the time MSTRKRFT came onstage, it was a sweaty hipster cess pool.
It was pretty much the same as an Urbana basement dance party, only with more people and a hell of a lot more drugs.
The people in the back of the venue were too cool to dance, so they just stood there and watched.
(It was a DJ show.)
A rainy, cold Brooklyn block.
Hopefully, I’ll soon call this place home.
I’d prefer a vending machine to yield a handful of sunflowers than a Mountain Dew Code Red any day.
This is what you get when you cross a Christmas tree with a fountain.
“The Biggest Loser” socks on sale at the NBC store…because socks always fit?
Jew know I love a deli.
Everyone was shocked at how gigantic their sandwiches were.
(I finished all of mine.)
“I know, I haven’t thrown up since June 29th, 1980. Fourteen years down the drain…”
My mom just called me to ask why I haven’t updated the blog with formal pictures. You birthed me, I posted photos. Now we’re even:
I thankfully scrounged up a date in time.
The roomates and their man friends.
All aboard the school bus!
At the danz.
This is not a dress.
Yum.
Bustamove.
The short-lived Winter Wonderland yesterday evening.
Slip and slide:
Bundled.
I’d like Altgeld more if it didn’t remind me of non-english speaking TAs and Math 124.
I caught a snowflake on my tongue!
Photo grad students aren’t used to the Quad.
Hugs not drugs.
