6 Aug


Finding content for this post was as easy as taking Bud Light from a slightly stunned 17 year old, left to fend for themselves on the harsh city streets with nothing but their neon clad brethren for company. This is Lollapalooza, a time and space where some God of which I’m not familiar lifts all laws of fashion and grace from the 300 acres of Grant Park.  And garments from the wildest crevices of one’s closet suddenly become shiny badges of pride for every 72-hour hipster.

Clockwise from top:

– jorts with a tail
– thrift shop Hawaiian shirt + Dad’s high school gym shorts circa 1973 (this guy saw me snapping this and replied “Babe if you wanted a pic, all you needed to do was ask!”
– cat tank top (I saw 3 of the exact same in one day alone)
– banana print boxer shorts, with a gold sequined fanny pack (not pictured in photo: Elmo backpack on her other arm)
– pastel high waisted shorts tight enough to bounce a quarter off her ass
– lederhosen

By day 3 I was, of course, no longer phased. My brain became a living record of the current Urban Outfitters catalog. If there had been a 4th day of Lollapalooza, I might have coughed through just enough secondhand weed to even enjoy what was happening. But as there wasn’t, I maintained the clarity to realize that by trying to look different, all these fools ended up looking the same. Such is the curse of a hipster. And the pride of THATLOOKSUGLY.


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