You know who you are. You just moved to Portland from California or some other formerly hip state and rented an Uber (pun intended) expensive apartment near a live music venue. Sure, you voted for Hillary, proudly call yourself "child-free" and undoubtedly cook vegan as you listen to NPR. Kudos to you for checking off all the PC boxes before living your Portlandia dream. But the real you, just waiting to grow into that old soulless person you've always wanted to be, can't sleep on Saturday night because a band is playing across the street at that club you forgot was in the area. So you call in some noise complaints and voila! The club stops booking bands because it doesn't want to lose its liquor license, and yet another live music venue vanishes in a town that has already lost a number to real estate developers and the well-heeled Huffington Post crowd moving here in droves. Sure, you'd never dream of friending a Trump supporter on Facebook, but now that you've killed one of the few places left where real live musicians can work, you can bask in contentment as you watch Fleetwood Mac on OPB while you sit with your toy dog and look out on the beautiful city you think would be perfect only if most of its former inhabitants just moved out to Gresham. Then, at long last, you and your gentrifying kin can finally have your dream of living in a high-rise with absolutely no artists or other noisy types around you, all the while consuming art on your surface. Don't forget to wash your bike shorts!
Let's call the cops on the club, shall we dear?
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