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More so than anywhere I've lived, Portland has a ton of people with this diagnosis. I used to feel that the PNW played along pretty well: No stereotypical club scene to speak of, closing the downtown Macy's and its fragrance counter, a proclivity toward natural pheromones (or infrequent showers, hard to say). But lately I've noticed this same trend among the office-park set: Karens and Karins of a certain age jumping onto the Max about six or seven stops west of the tunnel and funking out the whole place with their body mace. That they're continuing some inane phone conversation about apparel inventory at the same time is of no consequence. And, oh, you guys in the boxy Men's Wearhouse suits coming out of the Bank of America building smelling like a bottle of Stetson you found in your dad's nightstand the last time you were home: We smell you, too. Perhaps we can pair these people off and offer them jobs at a remote office park in Wilsonville where they can share the same, overwhelmingly fragrant shuttle buses.


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